Chapter 12 - The Vault of Holy Name
The interior of Holy Name Cathedral was a masterpiece of Gothic architecture, its soaring limestone pillars fading into the dim shadows of the vaulted ceiling sixty feet above.
The scent of frankincense and damp autumn stone hung thick in the air.
Five hundred of the most dangerous men and women in the Midwest sat in absolute silence as the bridal procession began its slow march down the red velvet runner.
Capo Santoro sat near the front of the southern transept, his gray herringbone overcoat buttoned tightly despite the warmth of the crowded room.
Two rows behind him sat three men with square jaws and cold, watchful eyes—the enforcement squad sent by the New York commission to ensure the takeover went according to plan.
They didn't look at the altar; their eyes were fixed on the heavy brass exit doors at the rear of the nave, calculating escape routes and choke points.
Up in the private stone balcony box overlooking the choir loft, Dr. Patrick Vance sat quietly beside me, holding a black tactical monitor that displayed live feeds from twenty hidden cameras across the cathedral.
"Heart rate is elevated, Claire," Dr. Vance whispered, keeping his eyes on the biometric readout connected to my earpiece.
"Focus on your breathing."
"I'm fine, Doctor," I whispered back, my hand resting against the platinum pendant on my chest.
Down on the marble floor, Luca and Vanessa reached the base of the altar steps where Father Thomas stood waiting in his ceremonial golden vestments.
Father Thomas’s hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold the illuminated missal.
He had received an uninvited visit from Mateo Rossi at five o'clock that morning, along with a firm reminder of what happened to priests who accepted bribes from New York syndicates.
"Dearly beloved," Father Thomas began, his voice echoing hollowly against the stone walls.
"We are gathered here today in the sight of God and these witnesses to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony..."
Vanessa stared straight ahead at the golden crucifix above the altar, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps beneath her bridal veil.
Luca stood beside her, his expression as unyielding as a slab of granite, his dark eyes scanning the rows of pews with predatory calm.
At the third row, Capo Santoro slowly reached into the pocket of his gray overcoat.
His thumb brushed against the steel toggle of a heavy remote detonator designed to drop the iron deadbolts on the cathedral's main exit doors simultaneously.
"He's reaching for the switch," Mateo's voice crackled instantly into my earpiece.
"All sniper units, lock onto targets in the third and fourth pews."
"Wait for the word," Luca's voice suddenly cut across the secure frequency, deep and commanding.
"Let them touch the brass."
Down in the nave, Santoro pulled the small black box from his pocket.
He exchanged a brief, triumphant glance with the New York hitman sitting across the aisle.
Santoro pressed his thumb down hard on the transmission button.
A heavy, mechanical clank echoed through the back of the nave as the massive iron deadbolts slid into place across the cathedral's oak exit doors, sealing five hundred people inside a tomb of stone and stained glass.
Instantly, the murmur of shock rippled through the congregation.
Several wealthy socialites stood up in panic, only to find their path blocked by armed men stepping out from the shadows of the side chapels.
Capo Santoro stood up in his pew, turning to face the terrified crowd with a cruel, triumphant grin.
"Nobody leaves!" Santoro bellowed, drawing a polished nickel-plated Beretta from his shoulder holster.
"The Moretti era in Chicago is officially over!"
"By order of the New York commission, this city belongs to the five families!"
The cathedral erupted into absolute chaos.
Screams bounced off the limestone pillars as guests dove beneath the wooden pews, scrambling for cover.
The three New York hitmen in the second row stood up simultaneously, reaching inside their coats for their automatic shotguns.
Up in the balcony box, my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I looked down at the altar, waiting for the signal.
Luca Moretti did not flinch.
He slowly turned his head upward, locking his dark eyes directly onto the stone balcony where I stood.
He gave a single, imperceptible nod.
I raised my hand to the platinum pendant on my chest, pressed the tiny transmitter button twice, and spoke the code into my earpiece with absolute clarity.
May you like
"Code Crimson," I said.
"Execute."
