Chapter 3 - SEVEN O’CLOCK AT ST. AGNES
The old St. Agnes Church had been abandoned for thirteen years.
It sat between a closed elementary school and a row of warehouses on Chicago’s southwest side, its red-brick walls blackened by decades of winter, exhaust, and neglect.
At 6:48 p.m., rain hammered against the windshield of Dante’s armored SUV.
Emily sat beside him.
She had changed nothing about her appearance.
Same gray skirt.
Same cream blouse.
Same sensible shoes.
Dante had offered her a bulletproof vest.
Emily had accepted it only after learning it could be worn under her coat.
“I look ridiculous.”
“You look alive.”
“It makes me look square.”
Dante stared at her.
“You’re worried about your silhouette?”
“I’m trying not to think about my brother being kidnapped by organized criminals.”
“You work for organized criminals.”
“Exactly. It’s supposed to come with professional boundaries.”
Dante looked toward the church.
Despite himself, something warmed in his chest.
Emily saw it.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“You’re doing the almost-smile again.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You absolutely do.”
Nine years of silence, and now she was monitoring his facial expressions.
Dante should have been irritated.
Instead, he realized he had spent the entire drive listening for her voice.
That frightened him more than the men waiting inside the church.
Four SUVs surrounded St. Agnes.
Dante had brought twelve men.
Only two would enter with him.
Emily had insisted she was going inside.
Dante had insisted she was not.
Emily had then reminded him that Owen trusted her voice more than anyone’s during stressful episodes.
Dante had stopped arguing.
Before leaving the vehicle, Emily reached for the door.
Dante caught her wrist.
She looked at him.
“If anything happens, stay behind me.”
“That sounds very cinematic.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. You’re six-foot-two. I was planning to use you as cover.”
His mouth twitched.
Emily’s expression softened.
“Dante.”
It was the first time she had used his first name.
He noticed.
So did she.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Emily said quietly, “Bring him home.”
Dante looked into her eyes.
“I will.”
They entered St. Agnes at 6:57.
The inside smelled of wet stone and dust.
Broken pews lined the nave.
A statue of the Virgin Mary stood beneath a shattered stained-glass window.
Three candles burned near the altar.
Not religious candles.
Signals.
Dante recognized the arrangement immediately.
One left.
Two right.
Old Marino code for a controlled meeting.
Vincent had chosen the church because Dante’s father had once used it for negotiations.
It was theater.
Emily hated theater.
“Owen?” she called.
Her voice echoed.
No response.
A speaker hidden somewhere above them crackled.
Then Vincent’s voice filled the church.
“You brought her.”
Dante looked upward.
“You wanted me.”
“I did.”
“Release the boy.”
“Soon.”
Emily stepped forward.
“Vincent.”
Dante reached for her arm.
She ignored him.
“You forged my signature.”
“Yes.”
“You frightened a patient who has done nothing to you.”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to reimburse the facility for the transport security review.”
Silence.
Dante slowly turned his head toward her.
Emily continued.
“And I want the van professionally cleaned before it goes back because Owen gets carsick when he’s anxious.”
The speaker remained silent.
Emily stared into the darkness.
“Are we clear?”
A laugh came through the speaker.
Vincent.
“You really are extraordinary.”
“No. I’m tired.”
“Dante likes you.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
Emily said, “That is irrelevant.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Vincent chuckled.
“Clara used to say the same thing when she was afraid.”
Dante stepped forward.
“Do not speak about her.”
“Why? She’s the reason we’re here.”
A side door opened.
Owen appeared.
Emily’s breath caught.
He was thirty years old, tall and thin, wearing a blue Havenbrook jacket. His hands were held in front of him.
Not tied.
A man walked behind him.
Emily immediately noticed Owen’s eyes scanning the room too quickly.
Overstimulated.
“Em?”
She moved.
Dante caught her.
“Wait.”
Owen looked toward the armed men.
“Too many people.”
Emily’s voice softened.
“Owen, look at me.”
He did.
“Only me.”
His breathing slowed slightly.
“You’re doing great.”
“They lied.”
“I know.”
“They said you were sick.”
“I know.”
“I knew the signature wasn’t yours.”
Emily swallowed.
“How?”
“You put the dot over the i too close to the stem when you sign fast.”
Dante looked at her.
Emily whispered, “He notices things.”
Owen’s gaze shifted toward the rafters.
“And the man’s shoes squeak.”
Emily frowned.
“What man?”
“The one upstairs.”
Dante moved his eyes.
A balcony wrapped around the rear of the church.
Dark.
Owen continued.
“He has been walking back and forth.”
Dante’s security team shifted positions.
The speaker clicked.
Vincent’s voice sharpened.
“That’s enough.”
Owen flinched.
Emily’s anger ignited.
“Don’t raise your voice at him.”
“Emily.”
“No. You wanted Dante here. He’s here. Stop using my brother.”
A door above the altar opened.
Vincent stepped onto the balcony.
He held no gun.
Two men stood behind him.
Vincent looked older than he had that morning.
Or perhaps merely less disguised.
“Release Owen,” Dante said.
Vincent spread his hands.
“You still think this is about leverage.”
“You kidnapped him.”
“I borrowed him.”
Emily stared upward.
“You should never say that sentence again.”
Vincent ignored her.
“Dante, Clara found something before she died.”
“So Sal said.”
“She discovered your father had been moving money without telling me.”
“My father was dead by then.”
“Yes.”
Vincent’s gaze hardened.
“But his accounts weren’t.”
Dante frowned.
Vincent continued.
“Giuseppe Marino left a contingency fund. Fifty million dollars divided across offshore accounts.”
“Why?”
“To buy the family out of the life.”
Dante said nothing.
Vincent laughed without humor.
“Your father wanted legitimacy at the end. Imagine that.”
Emily looked toward Dante.
He appeared stunned.
“He planned to sell the routes, close the bookmaking operations, liquidate everything, and move Clara and you out of Chicago.”
“You’re lying.”
“Clara discovered the accounts after Giuseppe died. She supported the plan.”
Dante’s voice lowered.
“She never told me.”
“She tried.”
Vincent leaned against the railing.
“You were twenty-nine, angry, ambitious, convinced you could control the world. Clara feared that if she told you, you would see it as betrayal.”
Dante’s breathing changed.
“Then why was she killed?”
Vincent looked almost sad.
“Because someone else found out.”
Dante’s eyes hardened.
“You.”
Vincent shook his head.
“No.”
A sound echoed behind them.
Metal scraping stone.
Dante turned.
One of his guards collapsed.
A second man came through the side aisle.
Then another.
Not Vincent’s men.
Different weapons.
Different clothing.
Vincent’s expression changed.
Real alarm.
“No.”
Dante looked up.
“What?”
“I didn’t bring them.”
Gunfire erupted.
Dante shoved Emily behind a stone column.
The church exploded into noise.
Owen dropped to the floor, covering his ears.
Emily screamed his name.
Vincent’s men fired from the balcony.
Dante’s security returned fire.
Wood shattered.
Dust filled the nave.
Dante pulled Emily lower.
“Stay here.”
“Owen is out there!”
“I see him.”
A stranger moved toward Owen.
Emily grabbed the nearest object on the floor.
A broken wooden hymn board.
Dante caught her coat.
“Absolutely not.”
The stranger reached Owen.
Then Owen did something unexpected.
He pointed behind the man.
“Your shoelace.”
The attacker looked down instinctively.
Owen kicked him in the knee and rolled away.
Emily stared.
Dante almost looked impressed.
“Your brother is resourceful.”
“He hates untied shoes.”
Dante moved.
He crossed the aisle under cover fire, grabbed Owen, and dragged him behind the column.
Emily wrapped both arms around her brother.
“Owen.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re okay.”
“The vest makes you look square.”
Dante stared at him.
Emily closed her eyes.
“Thank you, Owen.”
A bullet struck stone inches above them.
The speaker system screamed with feedback.
Vincent shouted from the balcony.
“Dante! These are Novak’s men!”
Dante looked upward.
Victor Novak.
A rival long believed responsible for the bomb that killed Clara.
The man Dante had spent nine years trying to destroy.
Dante shouted, “Novak is dead.”
Vincent stared down.
“No.”
A figure appeared behind him.
Older.
Scarred.
Very much alive.
Victor Novak pressed a handgun against Vincent’s neck.
Dante froze.
Emily looked up.
Novak smiled.
“Hello, Dante.”
Nine years of hatred stood twenty feet above them.
Dante’s face emptied.
“You.”
Victor laughed.
“You really believed I ordered the bomb?”
Dante’s hand tightened around his weapon.
“I watched your organization celebrate afterward.”
“You watched what Vincent wanted you to watch.”
Vincent went pale.
Victor pressed the gun harder beneath his jaw.
“I didn’t kill Clara Marino.”
Dante stared.
Victor’s next words changed everything.
“I tried to warn her.”
Silence swallowed the gunfire as quickly as it had begun.
Victor looked down toward Emily.
“Your secretary found the money trail, didn’t she?”
Emily felt Dante turn toward her.
Victor smiled.
“Good.”
Then his eyes returned to Dante.
May you like
“Because Clara’s real killer is still working in your building.”
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