Chapter 8 - Fire Under the SaintCaleb moved before fear had time to become panic.
“Tomas, west door. Marco, lights out. Marisol, take Emma behind the altar.”
The chapel went dark.
Emma clutched Rosie’s torn body against her chest. The doll felt wrong now, lighter and wounded, as if someone had stolen not just its stuffing but its innocence.
Marisol dragged her behind the altar.
“Stay down,” she whispered.
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“Is Mr. Romano coming?”
Marisol did not answer.
Outside, a car rolled slowly over gravel.
Then another.
Headlights swept across stained glass, throwing red and blue shards over the chapel walls like warning signs.
Caleb stood near the front door with his gun lowered but ready.
The men outside did not rush.
That frightened him more.
Amateurs rushed. Professionals waited.
A voice called from beyond the doors.
“Mr. Ward.”
Caleb’s eyes narrowed.
He knew that voice.
“Been a long time,” the man outside said.
Caleb looked toward Tomas, then signaled.
No one answered.
The voice laughed.
“Still loyal. That’s sweet. Romano men always die loyal.”
Marisol pressed Emma’s face against her shoulder.
The chapel door shook once.
Not from a kick.
From a battering ram.
Wood splintered.
Caleb fired through the door.
A body hit the steps outside.
Then the windows shattered.
Men came through the side.
The chapel erupted.
Gunfire cracked under the old rafters. Dust rained from the ceiling. Emma screamed into Marisol’s coat, but the sound vanished beneath the violence.
Caleb took one man down near the aisle.
Tomas tackled another through a pew.
A third man came around the altar.
Marisol saw him first.
He wore black gloves and a gray scarf. His face was covered, but his eyes found Emma immediately.
“There she is,” he said.
Marisol grabbed the nearest thing she could reach.
A brass candleholder.
She swung with all the strength terror gave her.
It caught him across the jaw.
He stumbled.
Marisol swung again.
This time he fell.
Emma stared at her mother as if seeing a stranger.
“Mama?”
Marisol grabbed her hand. “Run.”
They ran through the sacristy.
Behind them, Caleb shouted their names.
The back door opened onto a cemetery swallowed by weeds. Night had fallen hard. The air smelled of wet leaves and smoke.
They made it six steps before a figure stepped from behind a stone angel.
Mr. Gray.
Tall. Late fifties. Scar through his eyebrow.
Southern voice worn smooth by cruelty.
“Well,” he said. “The little bird can fly.”
Marisol shoved Emma behind her.
Mr. Gray lifted a gun.
“Don’t make this ugly.”
Marisol’s voice shook, but she held her ground.
“She’s a child.”
“She’s evidence.”
A black SUV tore through the cemetery gate.
Headlights slammed into Mr. Gray.
He turned.
The SUV did not slow.
Mr. Gray dove aside as it smashed into the stone angel, sending marble wings exploding across the grass.
The driver’s door opened.
Allessandro stepped out.
No jacket. White shirt. Blood on one sleeve.
His face was calm in a way that made even Mr. Gray hesitate.
“You came personally,” Mr. Gray said.
Allessandro walked toward him.
“For her, yes.”
Something flickered across Marisol’s face.
Mr. Gray laughed. “That’s new.”
Allessandro stopped ten feet away.
“Dominic sent you?”
“Dominic sends regards.”
“Tell him to come himself next time.”
“He will.” Mr. Gray smiled. “Sooner than you think.”
Mr. Gray raised his gun toward Emma.
Allessandro fired first.
One shot.
Mr. Gray dropped.
Not dead.
Screaming.
The gun flew from his hand into the wet grass.
Allessandro walked closer and kicked it away.
Caleb emerged from the chapel, bleeding from the temple but alive.
“Clear,” he called. “Two ran.”
Allessandro kept his eyes on Mr. Gray.
“Let them.”
Caleb looked surprised. “Sir?”
“They’ll lead us somewhere.”
Mr. Gray groaned, clutching his wounded shoulder.
Allessandro crouched beside him.
“You entered a chapel to kill a child,” he said quietly. “There are men worse than me, Mr. Gray. Tonight, you became one.”
Mr. Gray spat blood and smiled.
“You think this is about a child?”
Allessandro’s eyes narrowed.
Mr. Gray laughed, breathless.
“This is about your father’s grave.”
For the first time, Allessandro’s calm cracked.
“What did you say?”
Mr. Gray’s smile widened.
“He didn’t die the way you think.”
Caleb went still.
Allessandro leaned closer.
“Talk.”
Mr. Gray closed his mouth.
Then bit hard.
Caleb lunged, but too late.
Foam gathered at the corner of Mr. Gray’s lips.
Within seconds, his body convulsed.
Then stilled.
Marisol turned Emma away.
Allessandro remained crouched beside the dead man.
In the wet grass, beneath the ruined stone angel, the past opened like a grave.
His father had died ten years earlier from heart failure.
May you like
At breakfast.
With buttered bread on his plate.
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