Chapter 9 - The Memorial in the Rain
The following afternoon, St. Michael’s Catholic Church was filled with fragrant white lilies and the soft glow of hundreds of votive candles.
Scores of dockworkers, retired captains, hospital nurses, and community leaders arrived to pay their respects to Elena Rossi.
Ethan stood beside me near the bronze casket, holding a single white rose in his small hands with his head held high.
At the very back of the sanctuary, standing near the heavy wooden doors in a drenched wool overcoat, stood Alexander Moretti.
No guards escorted him; no subordinates whispered in his ear.
He stood alone under the shadows of the choir loft, his eyes red and swollen as he watched his son place the white rose atop the flowers.
When the priest concluded the final benediction, Ethan turned around and looked down the long center aisle.
For a brief, agonizing moment, his eyes met Alexander’s across the expanse of polished marble.
There was no hatred in my son's gaze, but there was no longing either—only the cold, distant recognition one gives to a passing stranger.
Ethan reached out and took my hand, turning his back on his father and walking toward the private side entrance.
Alexander stepped forward as if to speak, but his voice failed him, catching in his throat like broken glass.
He lowered his head, sinking into the last wooden pew as the heavy rain outside beat against the stained-glass windows.
The funeral bells began to toll, deep and sorrowful, echoing across the rooftops of Lincoln Park.
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For the city of Chicago, Alexander Moretti was still a feared titan of commerce and force.
But inside the quiet church, he was nothing more than a ghost mourning a family he would never hold again.
