I stand for a second with the rosary in my pocket and the card in my hand. Twenty rosaries. All five decades. Joyful. The word feels like a dare.
I slip into the side aisle of St. Brigid’s the way a diver slips into water he already knows is cold. The sanctuary is empty. No sexton. No cameras. No Nico. Just the hush of old wood and old air and candlelight too stubborn to go out at noon.
I slide into the second pew from the front—never the first, because I was taught humility; never the third, because I refuse to sit behind anybody when it’s my life. I kneel. The card goes on the bench. The rosary comes out of my pocket and settles across my fingers like it belongs there.
I don’t press the third-decade bead. I don’t need to. This isn’t a trap. It’s a spine made of twenty small decisions.
“Hail Mary,” I begin, and the words fit the shape of my mouth the way breathing does. “Full of grace.”
I pause. Close my eyes. See a mesh pattern on my palm. Hear a man sayI’ll waitand mean it.
“Sanctuary,” I whisper into my hands, just once, for me. Then I start counting.
Outside, the city sharpens its knives and polishes its silver. Inside, I let the beads move under my thumb, one by one by one, and everypray for ussounds a little less like an apology and a little more like a promise I’m making to myself.
A reminder that I’ll never be perfect, so why am I bothering to try.
8
CAYCE
The restaurant isthe kind of quiet that costs money—linen heavy as conscience, lamps low enough to soften edges without hiding them. A painting of a ship pretends this room is old money and not rented peace.
It’s neutral ground, the kind you have to pay to keep neutral.
Rafferty is already seated when I arrive. Don Marco Moretti sits opposite, that calm-cold thing men learn when they’ve buried enough bodies. His consigliere stays a chair back, silent by training. Roisin takes the chair to my right, hands folded like she’s praying for patience; Tiernan posts behind me, a respectful ghost. The chair to Don Marco’s left is empty. Waiting.
“Mr. Shannon,” Don Marco says. The corners of his mouth move in what might be a smile if you were too far away to see it for what it really is. Poorly concealed hostility. “I appreciate punctuality.”
I ease into my chair. “I don’t want to waste anyone’s time. Good evening.”
Rafferty gives me the look that reminds me—steady hands. I set both palms on the linen for one breath, ground myself tofabric and wood until my bones remember this table isn’t a barn door in Colorado.
“Before we begin,” Don Marco adds, eyes cutting to the empty chair, “I thought I’d have my daughter join us for the first course. As a courtesy to the families.”
A test. A gift. A knife tied with a ribbon.
“We’d be honored,” I say—and I mean it.
He lifts his hand, and she appears as though she’d just been waiting on his signal.
I take her in hungrily, careful to keep my expression neutral. Black dress to the knee—fitted without being inviting, sleeves to the wrist; a squared neckline leaving her throat bare on purpose. Hair pinned neatly back, a few rebel strands curling around her face like she shook her head at a mirror and let them win.
Everything about her is prim, careful, and unassuming. What you see is what you get—the good girl, the church girl, Daddy’s girl. And yet her eyes hold secrets. They’re a ledger no one has clearance to read.
Except me, on Halloween night. Satisfaction curls inside me the way a cat curls in around your legs, begging for pets.
She takes the chair without asking and without looking my way a single time.
“Miss Moretti,” Rafferty says, his father-uncle-voice polished and polite. “Thank you for joining us.”
“Certainly, but only for the first course, I’m afraid,” she answers mildly. “I have class in the morning.” The smile she offers him makes me want to take a knife to my uncle’s throat. I only want her to smile at me.
Don Marco doesn’t blink at the saccharine sweetness that rolls off his daughter’s tongue. Roisin almost smiles into her water but she holds back. If all their women are this demure and meek, no wonder Caterina needed a night to escape the expectations they had of her.
The waiter performs the ritual expected of him—menus, specials, bread no one will touch. He fades away after taking a drink order. The silence settles around us in what should be a comforting way.
Don Marco tips his chin my way. “We’ll allow you to get back to campus soon, bambina. I wanted the immediate families to meet, as we’ll be doing some business together. ”
