Chapter 7 - THE SACRAMENT OF BLOOD
The cathedral stood like a skeletal giant against the bruised Chicago sky.
Its spires reached up like pleading fingers,
trying to touch a god that had long since turned his back on this neighborhood.
I killed the headlights of the SUV two blocks away,
the engine purring in the silence of the abandoned street.
Victor was in the car behind us,
his team fanning out into the shadows to provide a perimeter.
"Stay close to me,"
I whispered to Emily as we stepped out into the biting wind.
She was dressed in dark clothes,
her hair tucked under a beanie,
looking more like a thief than a nurse.
We moved through the rusted iron gates,
the hinges groaning in protest.
The smell of incense and damp stone greeted us as we slipped through a side door.
The interior of the cathedral was a cavern of shadows,
the only light coming from the faint glow of the city through the stained-glass windows.
Jesus looked down from the cross with eyes of painted glass,
seeming to weep for the two sinners walking across his floor.
"The stairs are behind the altar,"
Emily whispered,
her voice echoing in the vast space.
We moved with practiced silence,
my hand hovering near my holster.
Every creak of the floorboards felt like a thunderclap.
Every shift of the wind felt like a footstep.
We reached the altar,
a massive slab of marble that had seen a century of prayers.
Behind it,
a narrow wooden door led down into the earth.
The air grew colder as we descended,
the smell of mold and ancient dust filling my lungs.
I clicked on a small flashlight,
the beam cutting through the darkness like a knife.
The crypt was a labyrinth of stone alcoves,
each containing a coffin or an urn.
"Where?"
I asked.
Emily walked forward,
her hand brushing against the cold stone walls.
"There was a statue,"
she said.
"A blind angel.
He used to tell me she was the only one who truly saw the heart."
We found it at the very back of the crypt.
A life-sized angel with a cloth carved over its eyes,
its hands outstretched in a gesture of eternal sorrow.
"The light never reaches here,"
Emily murmured,
pointing to the base of the statue.
"The shadows are absolute."
I knelt down,
running my fingers along the seam of the marble base.
There.
A small indentation,
barely visible to the naked eye.
I pressed it,
and a small drawer slid open with a grinding sound that set my teeth on edge.
Inside was a weathered leather satchel,
sealed with wax.
"We got it,"
I said,
reaching for the bag.
"Drop it,
Callahan."
The voice came from the darkness behind us.
I didn't turn around.
I didn't have to.
I knew that voice.
Lorenzo Romano.
The man who had been my father’s right hand and his greatest betrayer.
"Lorenzo,"
I said,
slowly standing up,
keeping my hands away from my body.
"I thought you were rotting in a villa in Sicily."
"And I thought you were smarter than to follow a girl into a trap,"
he replied,
stepping into the light.
He was older now,
his hair white,
but his eyes were as cold as the graves surrounding us.
Behind him stood four men,
their guns aimed directly at Emily’s chest.
"Give me the bag,"
Lorenzo ordered.
"And maybe I'll let the girl live long enough to see the sunrise."
Emily stood beside me,
her body rigid,
but she didn't look at the guns.
She looked at me.
"Don't give it to him,
Richard,"
she said,
her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.
"He'll kill us both anyway."
"She’s right,
you know,"
I said,
a cold smile spreading across my face.
"But you made one mistake,
Lorenzo."
"And what was that?"
"You forgot that I'm not my father."
I didn't reach for my gun.
I reached for the small remote in my pocket.
The explosion from the upper floor of the cathedral shook the ground,
sending dust and debris raining down on us.
In the confusion,
I pulled Emily behind a stone pillar and drew my weapon.
"Victor!
Now!"
May you like
I roared.
The crypt erupted into a symphony of gunfire.
