Chapter 2 - The Cleared Cathedral
The roar echoed off the vaulted ceilings, shattering the ceremonial quiet like a dropped glass.
Two hundred mobsters, city aldermen, judges, and high-dollar fixers froze in their pews. Dominic Castiglione did not yell. He whispered execution orders across white linen dinner tables; he gave nods that sent men to the bottom of Lake Michigan. He did not lose control in a sanctuary.
Dominic stood up from his knees. He didn’t look at the congregation. His eyes remained locked on the ragged blue silk knot biting into Clara’s swollen skin.
“Clear the church,” Dominic said.
His voice wasn’t loud anymore, but it cut through the damp air with lethal velocity.
Vincent Corvo hurried down the aisle, his designer oxfords clicking frantically on the marble. “Dominic, look around. We got the Moretti family sitting in the fourth row. We got three precinct captains. You kick them out now, the street’s gonna say you went soft over a cripple—”
Dominic moved so fast Vincent didn't have time to flinch. Dominic’s left hand shot out, wrapping like an iron vise around Vincent’s throat, shoving him backward until Vincent’s spine slammed into a carved oak pew. The wood groaned under the impact.
“Clear. The. Church,” Dominic whispered into Vincent’s ear. “Or I will paint the altar with your marrow.”
Vincent swallowed hard, his eyes bulging against the constriction around his windpipe. He held up two trembling hands. “Okay. Okay. Out! Everybody the hell out! The boss says the mass is postponed! Move!”
A chaotic scramble erupted behind them. Pew doors swung wide. Whispers escalated into frantic murmurs as armed men ushered startled wives and corrupted politicians out into the lashing Chicago rain. Heavy oak doors slammed shut one after another, until the thud of the final deadbolt sealed the cavernous space.
Only four people remained: Dominic, Clara, Vincent, and Tommy Higgins, who was cowering near the vestibule, clutching a crumpled linen handkerchief to his dripping forehead.
Dominic turned back to Clara. She had sunk onto the front-row pew, her breathing shallow, her face as white as the silk cascading around her knees. The pain was etched into every line around her hazel eyes, but she hadn’t shed a single tear.
“Tommy,” Dominic called out without looking back.
Tommy practically crawled down the aisle, his knees shaking violently inside his cheap rented tuxedo. “Dominic—Mr. Castiglione, swear to God, I didn’t know her leg was messed up like that! She told me she slipped on the ice behind the motel, I swear on our mother’s grave—”
Dominic drew his customized Kimber .45 from beneath his tailored tuxedo jacket with fluid, effortless precision. He didn't aim at Tommy’s chest. He aimed at Tommy’s right knee.
*BANG.*
The gunshot inside the enclosed stone sanctuary sounded like an artillery shell. Smoke curled toward the high ceilings.
Tommy shrieked, collapsing instantly, clutching his shattered kneecap as blood pooled on the gray marble.
“Dominic, don't!” Clara cried out, her voice cracked, trying to pull herself forward on her ruined leg. “He doesn't know anything! He’s an idiot, but he doesn't know!”
Dominic lowered the smoking barrel, his gaze never leaving her. “Then who gave you the silk, Clara?”
Clara leaned back against the pew, gasping for air as sweat soaked through her hairline. Her chest rose and fell in ragged heaves. “If I tell you... you’ll kill him.”
“Kill who?”
“The boy,” she whispered.
Dominic went dead still. The gun in his hand dropped an inch. His breath stopped in his throat, a sharp, icy spike piercing his chest.
“What boy?” Dominic asked, his voice shaking with a tremor no man in the five boroughs had ever heard from him.
Clara swallowed dryly, meeting his piercing dark eyes with absolute, unyielding sorrow.
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“Mateo,” she said. “Your nephew. He’s alive, Dominic. But if your men find out where I hid him... they won't let him see tomorrow morning.”
***
