Chapter 16 - The Belly of the Beast
The Boston skyline rose against the dusk like jagged teeth of glass and black iron.
We didn't take the highway bridges. Victor brought the box truck through the industrial service tunnels beneath the mystic river docks, switching vehicles twice until we were packed into a dented, rust-streaked plumbing van bearing the logo of an HVAC contractor that had gone out of business in 2018.
Rain was pouring over the North End—a relentless, greasy city rain that smelled of bus exhaust, fried garlic, and wet trash.
I looked out the passenger window at the narrow brick alleys I had spent my childhood avoiding. This was Romano territory. Every bakery, every espresso bar, every municipal parking garage paid tribute to the name Dominic now wielded like a club.
"The church is St. Jude’s," Alessandro said, checking the spare magazines tucked into his combat vest beneath a heavy woolen pea coat. "My grandfather laid the cornerstone in 1952. Beneath the altar floorboards, there is an old wine cellar that was used during Prohibition. That’s where the family archives were kept before Marco tried to digitize everything."
"Father Thomas is still the rector?" Victor asked, keeping his hands loose on the wheel as we turned down Prince Street.
"Father Thomas died three years ago," Alessandro answered. "A younger priest runs it now. Father Mateo. He was on Dominic’s payroll when he was just an altar boy."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "So the church is compromised."
"Everything is compromised, Clara," Alessandro said, his slate eyes catching mine in the dim dashboard light. "The question isn't whether it’s a trap. The question is who springs it first."
We parked in a narrow delivery bay behind an Italian bakery two doors down from the church. The air was thick with the smell of sweet anise and hot lard, clashing violently with the metallic tang of fear in my mouth.
"Victor stays with the van," Alessandro instructed. "Engine running. If we aren't out in twelve minutes, drive to the federal building in South Boston and give Ruiz the flash drive in my glovebox. It won't clear me, but it will keep Clara out of prison."
"Alessandro—" I started, anger flaring in my chest.
He didn't let me finish. He pulled me toward him, his hand firm on the back of my neck, and pressed his mouth to mine.
The kiss was brief, fierce, and tasted of salt and rain. It wasn't gentle. It was the kiss of a man who knew he might not see tomorrow's sunrise, anchoring himself to the only clean thing left in his world.
"Stay behind me," he whispered against my lips. "When the shooting starts, you aim for the center of mass. Don't look at their eyes. Just pull the trigger until the slide locks back."
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat, and clicked off the safety of the Glock inside my coat pocket.
We slipped through the delivery alley and entered the side vestry door of St. Jude’s through a rusted iron latch Alessandro bypassed with a flat steel shim.
Inside, the church was cavernous, smelling of beeswax candles, damp stone, and centuries of incense. Votive candles flickered in red glass cups along the perimeter, casting long, bleeding shadows against the marble statues of saints.
At the foot of the altar, kneeling on a crimson velvet prayer cushion, sat Dominic Romano.
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He was thirty-six, wearing a tailored midnight-blue overcoat, his dark hair slicked back with pomade. In his hands, he held a rosary made of black onyx beads, clicking them rhythmically through his fingers.
"You're late, Alessandro," Dominic said, his voice echoing off the high vaulted ceilings without him even turning around. "I expected you before the nine o'clock bells."
