Chapter 4 - The Clock Behind the Altar
Snow had begun to fall in earnest, dusting the weathered stone gargoyles of Saint Jude’s Church on 18th Street. The street was quiet, insulated by the thick white veil of the Chicago blizzard.
Gabe, flanked by Marcus and Arthur, slipped through the side entrance of the church. Nora insisted on staying glued to Arthur’s coat, clutching her cigar box like a shield. Gabe hadn't argued; out in the cold, she was a target, but under his roof, she was under his personal mantle.
The sanctuary smelled of beeswax, cold incense, and aged cedar. The massive pipe organ loomed over the choir loft like a frozen brass titan.
Behind the pedal board, Arthur whispered, pointing with a shaking hand toward the wooden paneling behind the great pipes. There is a false latch beneath the third pedal. Pull it outward, not down.
Marcus climbed the narrow wooden stairs with a heavy crowbar and a flashlight. Gabe stood beneath the crucifix, staring at the brass cufflinks on his wrists. For fourteen years, he had treated Sal Ferraro as a second father, trusting his counsel, executing his orders, and protecting the empire Sal had expanded. If Arthur's words proved true, every drop of blood Gabe had spilled in defense of the Santoro name had been spilled for the monster who destroyed it.
Got it! Marcus’s voice called down in a tight, reverent whisper.
He descended the stairs carrying a heavy, rectangular package wrapped in rotted burlap and tied with dried twine. He set it carefully on the communion rail.
Gabe approached slowly. He sliced through the brittle twine with his pocketknife, peeling back layers of moldering cloth. Beneath lay an exquisite, dark-walnut clock movement. Its brass pendulums were frozen in time; the bezel was carved with intricate ivy leaves, and across the iron crown was an inscription in Italian: La verità supera il tempo. Truth outlasts time.
Show me, Gabe said quietly.
Arthur stepped forward, his breathing labored. The cufflinks, boy. Look at the stems. They aren't solid pins. They're barrel keys with spring detents.
Gabe unfastened the cufflinks from his sleeves. For the first time in his life, he examined the underside under the bright beam of Marcus's tactical light. Arthur was right. By pressing the tiny decorative studs on the rim, the round stems extended into hollow, notched keys.
There are two keyholes disguised within the Roman numerals, Arthur explained, kneeling beside the wood. Number eight, and number four. Enzo’s wedding date: August fourth. Insert them together and turn toward the center.
Gabe knelt on the cold marble floor. His hands, usually as steady as a marksman's, trembled slightly as he aligned the small keys with the invisible seams in the clock face. Nora leaned over his shoulder, her warm breath pluming in the frosty indoor air.
You got this, mister, she whispered softly.
Gabe looked at her, finding a bizarre, grounding courage in her innocent, steady gaze. He turned the keys.
A sharp, mechanical snick echoed through the silent sanctuary, followed by the deep, heavy thud of an internal counterweight dropping. The walnut side panel clicked open three inches, revealing a hollowed chamber lined with dried wax paper.
Inside lay three micro-cassette tapes, a small black leather notebook embossed with Enzo Santoro’s initials, and a notarized original deed transferring fifty-one percent of the Chicago port operations directly to Gabriel upon his thirty-fifth birthday—an asset Sal had claimed was sold to pay off old debts.
Gabe opened the notebook. His father’s bold, angular handwriting stared back at him from the yellowed pages:
‘If Gabriel is reading this, I am already gone. Do not trust Salvatore. He has sold our shipping lanes to the Moretti family and traded my life for their backing. The boy must survive until he is old enough to reclaim what was built with honor. Salvatore holds the council with fear, but this book holds the evidence to hang him. Be wise, my son. Do not strike like a wolf; strike like an avalanche.’
Gabe closed the book. A cold, terrifying peace settled over his spirit. The boy who mourned an honorable father was gone; the Don who would exact justice had taken his place.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the church creaked.
Footsteps echoed down the center aisle. Gabe slammed the clock panel shut, drawing his weapon in a single fluid motion.
May you like
Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the streetlamps outside, was Sal Ferraro’s top enforcer, Paulie 'The Hook' Varga, accompanied by eight heavily armed soldiers.
Well, well, Paulie smiled, his gold tooth glinting in the dark. Sal told us you took a sudden interest in antiques, Gabe. He wants you to come home for dinner. All of you.
