Chapter 6 - The Funeral at St. Jude’s
The rain over Chicago was relentless on Thursday morning, turning the gray stone walls of St. Jude's Cathedral into slick black slate.
The funeral was the largest the city had seen in twenty years.
Black town cars lined the avenue for six blocks. Dozens of men in black suits, heavy coats, and dark sunglasses filled the high-arched pews of the cathedral, whispering in quiet, hushed tones as they looked toward the mahogany casket sitting at the altar.
Dante Costa sat in the front row, his right arm bound in a crisp white sling under his custom black coat. He looked pale, grieving, and stoic—a tragic picture of a younger brother stepping up to take his fallen brother’s crown.
Beside him sat Victor Valenti—a broad, silver-haired boss with cold blue eyes, leaning on a silver-topped cane, smiling faintly behind his black handkerchief.
I sat in the organ loft high above the altar, dressed in a long black lace dress Gabriel had bought for me, a heavy black veil covering my face.
Beside me sat Gabriel, dressed in a sleek charcoal suit, wearing an identical black coat and a leather brimmed hat that shadowed his pale features.
Through the wooden slats of the loft balcony, we looked down at the entire underworld gathered below us.
"Look at them," Gabriel whispered in my ear, his breath warm against my cheek. "They're already dividing the dock accounts in their heads."
"Dante looks confident," I whispered back, my fingers clutching the brass railing.
"Dante is an idiot," Gabriel growled softly. "He thinks he's a king because he holds the key to an empty throne."
Down below, the archbishop finished the final prayer.
Dante stood up, turning to face the three hundred mafia captains, lieutenants, and soldiers filling the nave. He walked slowly up the altar steps, clearing his throat, raising his left hand to demand silence.
"Friends," Dante’s voice echoed loudly through the high stone arches. "Brothers. Today we lay to rest Gabriel Costa. A man of honor. A man who built this city. As his brother... as the last remaining Costa... I take up his mantle. The territory will remain united under my command."
Victor Valenti stood up in the front row, clapping his hands slowly, a loud, artificial sound that echoed off the stained glass windows.
"A toast to the new Don!" Victor called out, raising a silver flask toward the altar.
"Not so fast, Victor," a deep, thunderous voice boomed from the organ loft.
The entire cathedral went dead silent.
Three hundred heads snapped upward toward the balcony.
Gabriel stepped out from the shadows into the bright beam of light filtering through the stained glass. He reached up with his right hand and slowly lifted his hat, revealing his dark, hollow eyes and sharp jawline to the crowd below.
Gasps erupted through the pews. Two men in the third row dropped their prayer books onto the marble floor with a loud thud.
Dante’s face drained of every drop of color. He staggered backward against the wooden pulpit, his left hand scrambling frantically inside his jacket.
"Gabriel..." Dante choked out, his voice cracking with pure, unadulterated terror. "You... you're dead!"
"I was," Gabriel called down, his voice carrying the terrifying weight of a resurrected ghost. "Until a maid showed me what you put in my tea."
Gabriel raised his right hand, waving his fingers once.
May you like
The massive heavy oak doors at the back of the cathedral burst open.
Fifty heavy tactical guards dressed in black vests—Gabriel's personal strike team—poured into the nave, their automatic weapons trained directly on Dante Costa and Victor Valenti.
