Chapter 23 - The Shadow on the Altar
The subterranean catacombs were like an echoing ribcage beneath the cathedral. Water dripped in rhythmic, torturous intervals from the vaulted ceiling. We moved in total silence, our boots barely kissing the flagstones.
Above us, the faint, resonant creak of heavy oak doors echoed down through the air vents.
Luca had entered the nave.
"Move up," Dominic hissed through his throat mic, gesturing toward the spiral iron staircase that led to the crypt behind the high altar.
I kept close behind him, my heart pounding so hard I felt it in my teeth. Every instinct screamed that we were running out of time. As we crested the top of the iron stairs and peered through the pierced marble screen that separated the choir stalls from the altar, the scene before us froze my blood.
The vast cathedral was bathed in the pale, eerie light filtering through towering stained-glass windows of saints and martyrs. Hundreds of unlit votive candles lined the aisles, but at the center of the sanctuary, right before the great marble crucifix, sat an antique wooden chair.
Tied to the chair, his head slumped forward and a bloodied cloth gag in his mouth, was my father.
Beside him stood a man in an immaculate charcoal-gray trench coat, holding a gold-plated revolver casually aimed at Arthur's temple. Surrounding them in the shadows of the nave's towering pillars were six heavily armed mercenaries, their assault rifles raised toward the center aisle.
Walking down that aisle, solitary and towering, was Luca Moretti.
His footsteps echoed with cold, deliberate cadence across the polished marble. In his left hand was the briefcase; over his right shoulder rested the faded green Army jacket.
"You're late, Don Moretti," the man in the trench coat called out, his voice echoing under the high arches. The electronic disguise was gone; now, the voice was smooth, cultured, and accented with a sharp European cadence.
Luca stopped ten yards from the altar steps. His face was a mask of carved granite, devoid of fear, devoid of mercy.
"Julian Vance," Luca said smoothly, his voice carrying effortlessly through the sanctuary. "I thought my father put you in a pine box in Palermo twenty years ago."
Julian laughed softly, the barrel of his gun pressing into Arthur’s graying hair, causing my father to groan in muffled agony. "Vito was arrogant. He thought burning my ship was enough to kill me. But here I am, and here is your father's legacy, about to crumble beneath your feet."
"You have Arthur," Luca said, gesturing toward the battered old man. "You asked for the briefcase and the Silver Star. They’re here. Let him walk."
"The briefcase first," Julian demanded. "Slide it across the marble."
Behind the marble screen, Dominic tapped his earpiece twice. The signal. His men were fanning out behind the high altar, lining up their shots through the decorative stonework. But Julian was positioned too cleverly; Arthur’s body blocked any clear kill shot from our angle. If Dominic fired, Arthur would take the bullet—or Julian’s reflex would pull the trigger instantly.
May you like
I looked at the layout. Above Julian’s head hung the massive iron chandelier of the sanctuary, suspended by an ancient counterweight pulley that my father had retrofitted into the eastern wall.
And the release lever was three feet from where I was standing.
