Chapter 9 - BLOOD ON THE ALTAR
The gunshot cracked through the cathedral, drowning out the organ in an instant.
The hollow-point round caught Marco in the right shoulder, spinning him halfway around and sending his concealed submachine gun clattering against the marble floor.
Before he could reach for his sidearm with his left hand, the cathedral erupted into synchronized chaos.
Luca moved like lightning. He vaulted the marble communion rail, drew his Kimber, and put two rounds into the chest of Marco’s second gunman emerging from the choir loft. Snipers stationed behind the stained-glass rood screen opened fire, pinning Marco’s remaining four infiltration soldiers against the cold stone walls before they could even level their weapons.
Panic exploded through the civilian guests, but Luca’s men moved with terrifying precision, herding the mob through the heavy reinforced side exits.
Marco was crawling toward the altar steps, leaving a thick smear of dark crimson across the red carpet.
Luca walked down the steps slowly, his tuxedo unbuttoned, the smoking barrel of his gun pointed at the floor. He didn't look at the dead men in the pews. He didn't look at the broken glass falling from the loft.
He stopped right beside me.
I was standing in the center of the aisle, breathing heavily, the Glock still raised, the torn veil tangled around my shoulders like spiderwebs.
Luca reached out, placed his hand over mine, and gently lowered my weapon.
"Good shot," he said quietly.
"I aimed for his head," I whispered, my voice trembling as the adrenaline crashed over me like an icy wave. "My wrist shook."
"A shoulder is enough," Luca replied.
He turned toward Marco, who was slumped against the base of the marble pulpit, clutching his bleeding chest, coughing violently.
"Luca..." Marco gasped, spitting blood onto his white collar. "You... you brought a street stray to take the fall?"
"She didn't take the fall, Marco," Luca said, standing over his former brother. "She took your future."
Marco looked up, his eyes glassy with incoming shock. He let out a wet, ragged laugh. "You think... you think you won? You think Vanessa was working for me?"
Luca’s expression darkened. "Save your breath. The ambulance is outside. You'll spend the next forty years in a federal penitentiary for treason against the Syndicate and federal racketeering."
"You idiot..." Marco wheezed, his fingers clawing at the stone steps. "Vanessa didn't want your money, Luca. She didn't want the docks. She was selling your father's private journals... to the Commission in New York."
Luca froze.
The cold stillness that descended upon him was far more terrifying than the gunfire that had just ceased.
"What did you say?" Luca demanded, his voice barely above a whisper.
"The journal from 1994," Marco coughed, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips. "The one that proves your father didn't die of a heart attack. The one that proves... who really ordered his murder."
Marco tilted his head back, his eyes rolling toward the high, shadowy vault of the church ceiling.
"It wasn't the Irish, Luca. It wasn't the Feds. Look at the passenger manifest... from Don Antonio’s private plane... thirty years ago."
Marco’s head slumped to the side. His breathing stopped.
The cathedral went deathly quiet, save for the rhythmic, distant wail of police sirens approaching through the Chicago sleet.
Luca stood motionless over the body of his best friend. His face was carved from granite, but I saw the slight, almost imperceptible tremor in his clenched fists.
Slowly, he turned around and looked at me.
I was standing there in a ruined wedding dress, covered in gun smoke, holding a weapon that belonged to a mafia kingpin, bound to a war that was infinitely bigger than three million dollars or a locked linen closet.
"Claire," he said, extending his hand toward me once more.
"The deal is done, Luca," I said, my voice barely audible. "Marco is dead. You promised me a passport and a ticket to Italy."
May you like
Luca looked at the torn lace lying at my feet, then into my eyes.
"The passport is ready," he murmured. "The money is in your account. But if you leave now, Claire... you'll spend the rest of your life wondering what was written on the last page of that journal."
