They fan out with math-level precision—Fiachra straight up the aisle, Killian drifting left, the two in robes peeling off to bracket the pews from either side.
For a half second, I see the panic calculation on the face of the nearest Italian, a tic at the corner of the jaw as his hand moves for his jacket.
Too slow.
The first flash of action is Lena's.
She steps forward, almost daintily, then snaps her booted foot against the riser of the nearest pew.
A communion knife—thin, curved, designed for slicing the holy out of the everyday—slides into her palm, the blade still flecked with old silver polish.
She moves behind the Italian at the aisle end and draws the edge across his throat with such efficiency that there's no sound at all, not even a gurgle.
He stays upright for a moment, then folds sideways, the blood jetting in a perfect parabola onto the lapels of the man next to him.
At the same time, Killian produces a compact subgun from under his fake cassock, the suppressor no longer thanmy ring finger.
The muzzle pops twice, two coughs in the dead air.
The man he's aiming at takes both in the chest—white shirt blooming, not red but a deep, impossible purple—before he falls backward into the pew, shoes skidding on the polished stone.
The next Italian is on his feet, gun halfway out, but Fiachra is already on him.
No bullets.
Just a straight-arm shiv, the blade driving up under the ribcage, then a twist that pulls the man's gun hand out and away, useless.
Fiachra's free hand catches the Italian by the hair, slams his face down on the pew back, then lets go.
The body lands with a dull thud and a flutter of rosary beads.
Through all this, Moretti stands still.
He holds the whiskey, now trembling just a bit, and watches the world disassemble itself around him.
His men are dying in increments, but he does not reach for a weapon.
He just stares, as if the outcome has already been written and he's stuck playing out the scene for form's sake.
Lena moves next to the altar, her hands covered now, the knife tucked back into her boot.
She looks at me, a little nod, as if to say—Your turn.
I look at Moretti.
He tips the glass at me, then drains it.
"Well played," he says in a voice as dry as salt.
He tries to smile, but Fiachra doesn't wait for the full performance.
He raises his own gun—a stubby, battered thing—and puts two rounds through Moretti's spine, one through the ribs.
The shots are muffled but not silent.
Moretti's legs fold.
He drops the glass, catches himself on the altar, then slumps down, blood pooling at the hem of my coat.
