Chapter 3 - The Chapel of Broken Saints
The midnight air on 18th Street was bitter cold, carrying the damp, metallic stench of the nearby Chicago River. Rain had begun to fall, a steady, freezing drizzle that slicked the cracked asphalt of the industrial district.
The armored Black Cadillac Escalade pulled up onto the overgrown grass behind the ruined structure of St. Chrysanthos Chapel. The building was a hollow shell of rusted steel and charred brick, its roof long since caved in by a structural fire thirty years ago. Jagged spires of stone pointed toward the dark, overcast sky like broken fingers.
Inside the vehicle, the air was warm and smelled of leather. Emma sat in the back seat between Eric and Dominick. Her hands were tucked inside an oversized cashmere coat that Eric had tossed to her before they left the restaurant. It felt impossibly soft against her worn skin, but she couldn't enjoy the warmth. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Stay inside the vehicle," Eric ordered, pulling a dark matte-black pistol from a hidden holster under his shoulder and checking the clip with a crisp, practiced click.
"No," Emma blurted out.
Eric paused, turning his head slowly to look at her. "No?"
"The script said under the black stone sleeps the ledger," Emma said, her voice growing stronger despite her fear. "Saint Chrysanthos had three different altars made of black limestone from Southern Italy. My grandfather helped restore the masonry in the crypt back in the seventies before the fire. You won't know which stone it is without me."
Dominick snorted from the front seat. "She’s got guts, I’ll give her that. Or she’s stupid."
"She’s neither," Eric said, studying her face in the dim amber light of the dashboard. "She’s smart enough to realize that her safety depends on finishing this tonight." He reached over, picked up a small, sleek radio from the console, and handed it to her. "Press this button to talk. If anything moves out here that isn't us, you press it and you tell Frank to drive through the wall if he has to."
"Understood," Emma whispered.
Eric opened his door, the cold wind whipping into the cabin for a fraction of a second before he slid out, followed silently by Dominick and two other heavily armed men who had been trailing them in a secondary sedan.
Emma watched through the tinted, bulletproof glass as the dark figures moved into the mouth of the ruined chapel. The gloom swallowed them almost instantly.
Minutes stretched into agonizing eternity. The digital clock on the Escalade's dashboard ticked forward silently: 1:12 AM... 1:15 AM... 1:18 AM. The freezing rain tapped against the glass like tiny, relentless fingers.
Frank, the massive driver in the front seat, kept his eyes fixed on the side mirrors, his hands resting near his waist. "Don't worry, kid," he said without looking back. "Boss hasn't lost a fight since he took over the territory when he was twenty-two. He’s smarter than his uncle was."
"What happened to his uncle?" Emma asked softly.
"Old school," Frank grunted. "Thought honor meant something. Thought family meant you couldn't be stabbed in the back. Eric knows better. He trusts nobody."
Except he brought me here, Emma thought to herself.
Suddenly, a dull THUD echoed through the rain, followed by the muffled, sharp sound of double gunshots—PAK! PAK!
Frank’s hand immediately went to his holster. "Stay down!" he barked.
Inside the chapel, shadows shifted wildly. Muzzle flashes illuminated the broken stained-glass windows in strobe-like bursts of yellow and red. Screams echoed—not of pain, but of surprise.
Before Emma could even process the sound, the rear door of the Escalade yanked open. Rain splashed into the footwell.
"Out! Now!" Eric’s voice barked. He was holding his arm at an awkward angle, blood staining the dark fabric of his sleeve near the shoulder, but his expression was as cold and sharp as cracked ice.
"Eric!" Emma gasped. "You're hit!"
"Grazed," he hissed, grabbing her wrist with his good hand and pulling her out into the freezing mud. "They were waiting. Greco didn't just leak the location—he had a team posted inside the lower crypt since noon. They knew about the letter before we even left the restaurant."
"Who?" Dominick yelled as he backed out of the chapel, firing three controlled shots into the darkness behind them. "Who knew?"
"The Bishop!" Eric spat. He pulled Emma toward the side entrance of the cellar steps—a narrow stairwell descending into the black earth beneath the church. "The main vehicle is compromised. Dom, hold the doorway! Emma, down the stairs!"
They tumbled down the wet, slimy stone steps as bullets chipped the masonry above them, showering their heads with concrete dust. The heavy steel door at the top of the cellar stairs slammed shut behind them, followed by the heavy sound of Dominick throwing a rusted iron deadbolt into place.
Pitch darkness enveloped them instantly.
The air was heavy, smelling of damp earth, centuries-old mold, and the unmistakable metallic tang of fresh blood.
"Eric?" Emma whispered, reaching out in the pitch black.
"I'm here," his voice came from right beside her. His breath was ragged now. "Right here."
A small beam of white light cut through the dark as Eric clicked on a tactical pen-flashlight. The narrow beam revealed a subterranean vault—arched brick ceilings supported by rotting wooden beams. Dust motes danced in the light.
Eric leaned heavily against a stone pillar, his face pale under the harsh LED light. He reached up, pressing his blood-soaked sleeve. "The ledger... it’s here somewhere. We have maybe five minutes before they blow that steel door off its hinges."
Emma didn't hesitate. She took the pen-flashlight from his shaking fingers. "Hold your arm. Keep pressure on it."
She swept the beam across the floor. Broken crates, forgotten pews, shattered plaster statues of saints. And then, near the far wall, she saw it—a floor paved entirely with red clay bricks, except for a single, rectangular slab of dark, unpolished slate sitting directly beneath a niche where a headless statue of St. Chrysanthos stood.
Suta a petra nevura. Under the black stone.
Emma ran to the slab. It was heavy, four feet long and two feet wide, embedded into the damp soil. "Eric, help me!"
Eric staggered over, using his good hand to insert the blade of a heavy tactical knife into the seam between the stone and the floor. Together, pulling with every ounce of strength they had, the slate shifted with a sickening grinding sound.
Beneath it lay a shallow brick recess.
Inside was not a gold bar, nor a bag of cash.
It was a small, leather-bound journal wrapped in oilskin, alongside an old, yellowed photograph from 1992.
May you like
Emma snatched the journal, but her eyes locked onto the photograph. It showed three men standing outside a restaurant in Little Italy. One was Eric’s uncle. The second was Anthony Greco.
And the third man, standing in the shadows with a young child in his arms, was Emma’s grandfather, Giuseppe Aiello.
