Chapter 13 - Under the Cold Rain of Saint Patrick’s
The Commission’s verdict had been delivered, but the reckoning was not yet complete.
By 8:45 AM, the crypt had emptied of the twelve bosses. They slipped into the Manhattan rain like shadows, eager to purge their own ranks of anyone associated with Julian’s failed coup.
Only Luca, Marco, two trusted family soldiers, and the four of us remained in the subterranean chapel.
Julian Mela had been hoisted onto his knees before the stone altar. Above him, a marble statue of Christ on the cross looked down with blind, unmoving eyes. The red wine on Julian’s face had dried into a grotesque, sticky mask, mixing with the tears and snot leaking from his nose.
“Luca...” Julian whispered, his voice cracking into a dry rattle. “Don’t do this in a church. Your mother... your mother used to bring you here every Sunday. She lit candles for you at this altar.”
Luca walked over to the rack of votive candles near the base of the altar.
He pulled a wooden match from his pocket, struck it against the stone, and carefully touched the flame to three fresh wicks.
“One for my father,” Luca murmured, watching the small yellow flames dance in the gloom. “One for my mother.”
He lit a fourth candle.
“And one for the maid you tried to murder in her bed.”
Luca blew out the match and tossed it at Julian’s feet.
“My mother taught me to forgive those who trespass against us, Julian,” Luca said, turning to face him. “But my father taught me that treason is not a trespass. It is an unpaid debt.”
Julian began to thrash against his bonds, his eyes wide with hysterical terror. “Marco! Don’t let him do this! We grew up together in Bensonhurst! Marco!”
Marco did not blink. He stepped forward, placed a thick black burlap hood over Julian’s head, and tied it securely around his neck.
“Where are you taking him?” I asked, stepping forward, keeping Mia tucked behind my skirts.
Luca looked at me, his eyes dark with the heavy burden of his crown.
“He wanted Pier 42,” Luca said softly. “He wanted the deep water off the harbor. Let him have what he negotiated for.”
Luca signaled the two soldiers. Without a word, they hoisted Julian by his arms and dragged the thrashing, screaming traitor out through the rear crypt exit leading to the subterranean service tunnels.
The heavy iron door closed behind them, cutting off Julian’s muffled cries forever.
Silence returned to the cathedral.
Mia peeked out from behind my dress, holding up her bear. “Don Luca? Is Uncle Julian gone to his long trip now?”
Luca walked over to us. He knelt down upon the cold stone floor of the church, completely ignoring the dust and the holy water pooled on the marble. He reached out and took Mia’s small hands into his own.
“Yes, little sparrow,” Luca said softly. “He’s gone. And he’s never coming back.”
Mia smiled, leaning forward to pat his cheek with her small palm. “Good. He smelled like old cigarettes anyway.”
For the first time in twenty-four hours, the heavy, suffocating tension that had gripped my chest shattered. A breathless laugh escaped my lips, followed by a rush of warm tears.
Luca looked up at me from his knees. The Don of New York, the man who had just brought the entire American underworld to heel, looked up at a penniless maid with eyes full of desperate, unvarnished devotion.
“It’s over, Elena,” he whispered.
“Is it?” I asked, wiping my tears with the sleeve of my black dress. “Can a man like you ever truly be safe?”
May you like
Luca stood up, towering over us once more. He reached out and pulled me into his arms, wrapping his heavy wool overcoat around my shoulders to shield me from the crypt’s chill.
“A man alone is never safe,” Luca said, his voice deep and vibrating against my ear. “That’s why I’m never letting you or Mia out of my sight again.”
