"You think that's what I want?"
He shrugs.
"Everyone wants something. Even you."
I put my hand on the edge of the altar, cold stone under my palm.
"You know why I'm here?"
He lifts the glass.
"To negotiate."
I look him in the eye, and for a second it's just the two of us, the world balanced on the pivot of a single, sharp moment.
I say, "No. I'm here because I want you to see what the future looks like."
He glances at my belly, then at my hand on the stone.
He gets it, then.
Not all at once, but in increments—the empty parking lot, the absence of Crowley muscle, the fact that I brought only Lena and no one else, the slow, deliberate reveal.
For the first time, I see doubt.
Not much, but enough.
He sets down the glass.
His hands are empty now.
I lean in, voice so low it barely carries.
"You said it yourself. It's time for new blood."
He waits.
"That's exactly why I'm here," I say.
And then I smile, and in the stone and the silence, the echo is sharper than a gunshot.
The silence in the cathedral doesn't last.
The first thing I notice is the sound of the door—a whisper, not a bang, but it's enough.
Every muscle in my back tightens on cue, and I see the way the Italians' headsswivel, four in near-perfect unison, eyes narrowing to slits as if they could outstare the oncoming storm.
Only Moretti keeps his gaze on me, his chin dipping half a centimeter in recognition of the move about to come down.
Crowley men flow in through the narthex.
Not stomping, not rushing—just the smooth, sure cadence of men who have nothing left to learn about how to enter a room.
Fiachra is at the tip, the architecture of his body promising violence and delivering certainty.
Killian's behind him, then two others—faces I know but don't name—draped in borrowed clergy robes, the hems still wet from wherever they fished them out of.
The disguise is theatrical, but sometimes theatre is all it takes to get a man within striking distance.
