Chapter 7 - The Altar of Deceit
The estate chapel was a cold, cavernous stone sanctuary built into the eastern slope of the private ridge.
Generations of Rossi ancestors lay buried beneath its granite flags, surrounded by stained-glass saints depicting martyrs and conquerors.
The winter wind screamed through the stone crevices, rattling the heavy wrought-iron lanterns hanging from the arched ceiling.
I walked beside Gabriel down the center aisle, the hem of my long wool coat brushing against the mahogany pews.
In my right hand, I carried a heavy crowbar retrieved from the boiler room; in his, Gabriel held a tactical flashlight.
Leo was safely asleep in the master suite under the watch of two armed Sicilians who had guarded Gabriel since his childhood.
We reached the small alcove at the rear of the altar where the marble effigy of Saint Jude stood weeping stone tears.
Gabriel knelt upon the freezing flagstones, running his bare fingers along the mortar seam at the saint’s pedestal.
“The mortar is fresh,” he observed, pointing the narrow beam of light at a faint gray line.
“Julian had this re-grouted three weeks ago, right after Leo’s birthday.”
I wedged the flat edge of the crowbar into the seam, using the leverage of my entire body to pry the stone loose.
A sharp pang of agony tore through my healing ribs, forcing a muffled gasp from my lips as the stone shifted.
Gabriel immediately caught my hands, gently pulling the steel tool from my grip.
“Stop,” he commanded softly, his thumbs brushing over my knuckles to ease their white-knuckle tension.
“You gave three pints of blood for this family; you do not break your bones on my church floor.”
He set his broad shoulders against the crowbar, throwing his weight into the lever with effortless, contained power.
With a dry, grinding shriek, the heavy marble slab popped free, revealing a dark, recessed chamber cut into the foundation.
Gabriel reached inside, his fingers emerging with a velvet-lined lead box designed to shield electronics from moisture and sweeps.
He flipped the brass clasps open.
Inside lay a matte-black military-grade solid-state drive, wrapped in a handwritten list of bank routing numbers.
Beside the drive lay a single, yellowed newspaper clipping from the winter of 2014.
The headline was bold, black, and burned into my memory since the darkest night of my adolescence.
“STATE PROSECUTOR INVESTIGATING DOCK CORRUPTION MISSING NEAR STATEN ISLAND.”
Beneath the headline was a black-and-white photograph of my father, smiling beside his worn leather briefcase.
And scribbled across his face in bright red fountain pen ink were two brutal, chilling words: “Problem Resolved.”
My knees buckled on the cold stone flags, the air vanishing from my lungs as if I had been shot all over again.
Ten years of agony, ten years of sleepless nights wondering if my father had suffered, crystallized into that single slip of paper.
Julian Rossi had not only murdered Thomas Vance; he had kept the evidence of his kill as a triumphant trophy beneath an altar of God.
Before my knees could strike the granite, Gabriel caught me by the waist, pulling me firmly against his solid chest.
His arms wrapped around me with unyielding strength, sheltering me from the biting subterranean chill of the chapel.
I buried my face into the wool of his lapel, my hands clutching his coat as silent, burning tears soaked into his fabric.
I didn't want to weep in front of the Don; I didn't want to appear fragile or broken before a man who traded in power.
Yet Gabriel did not pull away, nor did he offer empty platitudes or hollow comforts.
He simply held me tighter, resting his chin against the crown of my head, his deep breathing steadying my racing pulse.
“I am going to make him pay for every second of this, Elena,” Gabriel whispered against my hair.
His voice was not loud, but it carried the terrifying finality of a death sentence handed down from heaven itself.
“He will look you in the eyes, and he will beg for the mercy he never gave your father.”
I drew back slowly, wiping the dampness from my cheeks, meeting his gaze with a hardened resolve.
“I don't want his apologies, Gabriel,” I said, my voice steadying into a razor-sharp whisper.
“I want his ruin.”
“I want his name stripped from every account, his freedom stolen, and his empire dismantled piece by piece.”
“Then we will give you his ruin,” Gabriel replied, his gray eyes burning with lethal admiration.
He took the yellowed clipping, folded it with solemn reverence, and placed it securely inside the breast pocket of my coat.
“This stays with you until tomorrow night.”
“When Julian sits at the head table believing he has won the city, you will deliver the check yourself.”
We climbed out of the chapel vault, leaving the stone tomb open to the howling Hudson wind.
As we stepped back into the warmth of the main manor house, the eastern horizon was beginning to fracture into pale winter dawn.
Dr. Bennett was waiting in the great hall, his medical bag resting on an antique side table.
“Don Gabriel,” the physician reported quietly, bowing his head respectfully toward both of us.
“Marco is secured in the wine cellars under heavy sedation.”
“His mobile device has been cloned and routed through our private servers.”
“Julian sent three messages thirty minutes ago, confirming the yacht club rendezvous for eight o'clock tonight.”
“He believes the conservatory attack is still classified as an external hit by the authorities.”
“He has no idea the leak has been plugged.”
Gabriel nodded once, shedding his overcoat and handing it to the waiting steward.
“Let him dress in his finest tuxedo,” Gabriel said, turning toward the grand staircase.
May you like
“Let him drink our vintage champagne.”
“The higher a snake climbs into the canopy, the farther it has to fall when the branch snaps.”
