It's a stage, set and ready for one act only.
The altar is lit by six votive candles and the pale slant of winter sun.
Five men sit in the front three pews, spread for coverage, each wearing a suit that cost more than my father's house.
The fabric is too dark, too crisp, the kind of navy and black that only looks right on a corpse or an undertaker.
Their shoes are pointed, their cuffs visible, their hands folded but never relaxed.
Each man is younger thanhe should be, but old enough to have seen what happens when you fall asleep in this city.
At the foot of the altar, Luca Moretti waits.
He is not the oldest of them.
Not even the tallest. But the others orbit him, arranging their gazes to follow his cues.
He leans against the marble rail with one foot up, the casual pose of a man who expects to be obeyed.
In his right hand is a glass of whiskey, not wine, and the way he holds it—stem between two fingers, never touching the bowl—tells me he has never taken a drink he didn't expect to finish.
He smiles when I enter, not wide, just a little upturn at the corners.
"Thank you for coming, Mrs. Crowley," he says.
The accent is Italian, but not the singsong kind.
Naples, I'd bet.
A city with as many vendettas per capita as Dublin, maybe more.
"It's time for new blood," he continues.
"You know that. We all do."
I glance at the men behind him.
None of them move.
I count two bulges—shoulder and hip—but nothing on the ankles.
All are right-handed.
The closest has a wedding ring, the rest have only knuckle bruises for jewelry.
I walk up the aisle, never speeding, never slowing.
I unbutton the top two buttons of my coat as I go but keep the rest cinched.
My gloves are lambskin, black, lined with cashmere.
I remove them one finger at a time, the way my mother taught me, and lay them on the altar rail beside Luca like a peace offering or a challenge, depending on which way you read it.
Lena stays at the back, one row deep, and I can feel the tension in her stance like a string drawn taut.
Luca doesn't look at the gloves.
He lifts his glass and takes a sip, then gestures to the open space in front of the altar.
