Chapter 2 - The Shadows of St. Augustine
The hum of whispered conversations inside St. Augustine Cathedral swelled like the rising tide against a stone sea-wall. Franco Rinaldi stood beside me, his tailored wool coat fitting heavily across shoulders that had clearly carried more than just executive security duties for the Donatelli syndicate. His gray eyes were steady, devoid of the theatrical grief that saturated the front pews, but they held a calculating curiosity.
“She talked about you more than you might think, Miss Cooper,” Franco murmured, his voice pitched just low enough to remain beneath the cathedral’s vaulted acoustics. “Mostly on the nights when Mr. Donatelli was away on business in Detroit or Baltimore. She missed the Northwest. She missed rain that didn't taste like sulfur and concrete.”
My hands tightened inside the pockets of my black trench coat. My fingers brushed the cool metal of the pocketknife I had carried since stepping off the Greyhound bus from Seattle—a habit instilled by parents who believed that safety was an illusion bought only with perpetual vigilance.
“She chose to stay here,” I said quietly, keeping my gaze fixed on the mahogany casket thirty feet away. White lilies spilled over the polished wood, their heavy, sweet scent masking the metallic tang of fear and stale air.
“People rarely choose their cages, Miss Cooper,” Franco replied, his gaze drifting toward Gabriel, who sat motionless in the front pew, staring straight ahead as though daring the crucifix behind the altar to challenge him. “Sometimes they just walk into them because the door is warm.”
“Natalie wasn't naive.”
“No,” Franco agreed, a faint, humorless smile touching the corner of his mouth. “She was worse. She was loyal. And in our world, loyalty is a currency spent by people who don't know the exchange rate.”
Before I could answer, the priest finally recovered his composure, stepping forward to clear the air with a heavy, trembling voice that began the liturgy of the dead.
The service dragged on like an endless winter. Every time I blinked, my reflection in the polished glass of a nearby stained-glass window superimposed Natalie’s face over my own. For three years, I had convinced myself that distance was a shield—that by staying in Seattle, working late hours in municipal financial audits, and letting our phone calls wither into voicemails, I was punishing her for choosing a life built on blood money.
Now, the finality of a bronze plaque in a cemetery was the only thing standing between us.
When the final blessing was spoken, the congregation began to file out with solemn, measured steps, though every movement among Gabriel Donatelli’s men was crisp and military. They didn't mourn; they secured perimeters.
Gabriel did not join the procession. He remained seated until the aisle had emptied, then stood and walked back toward me with slow, measured steps. Franco fell back six paces, leaving a clear zone of authority around his boss.
“The repass is at the residence on Lake Shore Drive,” Gabriel said. His voice was an unyielding baritone, stripped of the raw panic he had shown when I first walked down the aisle. “You will come.”
“I came for a funeral, Mr. Donatelli, not a house party,” I said, lifting my chin.
“It is not a party,” he replied, his brown eyes narrowing as they searched my face, looking for the ghost he had buried. “And you are not leaving Chicago until I know why my dead fiancée has an identical twin who vanishes for three years.”
“My life in Seattle is none of your business.”
“Everything Natalie touched became my business the day she wore my ring.” He stepped closer, the sheer physical weight of his presence imposing enough to make the air feel thin. “You can get into my car willingly, or Franco can carry you. The result will be the same, but one option preserves your dignity.”
May you like
I looked at Franco. The older man gave an almost imperceptible nod—not a threat, but a pragmatic acknowledgment of reality.
“Fine,” I said, my jaw tight. “Lead the way.”
