Chapter 3 - The Smashed Altar of Saint JudeThe air inside the subterranean cathedral underpass was freezing, reeking of pulverized limestone, stale holy water, and burnt kerosene.
Marco walked ahead, his high-powered tactical lantern slicing through the gloom of the vaulted stone corridor.
At the end of the aisle, the heavy oak doors of the private Moretti crypt hung askew, the wrought-iron latch sheared clean by an industrial hydraulic spreader.
Inside, the sight turned my blood to glacial runoff.
The century-old marble altar of Saint Jude—carved from Carrara stone by my great-grandfather in 1912—had been split in half. The consecrated marble top had been levered off its pillars with steel crowbars, shattering the carved relief of the patron saint across the flagstones.
Behind the broken altar, the lead-lined tomb of Donna Isabella Moretti lay unsealed. The mortared limestone face had been smashed open, leaving fragments of plaster and stone dust scattered across the steps like dirty snow.
I stood over the wreckage.
My jaw clenched until the bone felt ready to crack through my skin.
They had brought sledgehammers into the sanctuary of the woman who had sheltered half the orphans of South Chicago during the great strikes. They had dragged pry-bars across her resting place to steal numbers off a piece of metal.
“The crowbars were wiped with industrial acetone, Don Dante,” Marco reported, shining his beam over two discarded steel bars near the sarcophagus. “Julian Sterling’s signature toolset. He used a battery-powered jack to lift the slab.”
“The jack is still in the boiler shaft,” Clara’s quiet voice echoed from the doorway.
I turned.
Clara had followed us down the stone steps, wrapped in a heavy charcoal overcoat Marco had retrieved from the foyer, her hands clutching a brass lantern.
“You know where he hid the tools, Clara?” I asked.
“Julian Sterling threw the canvas bag behind the secondary flue when the alarm tripped,” Clara said, pointing her lantern toward the iron vents behind the altar. “He told Miss Genevieve he would return for the rest of the gold plate after the banquet concluded.”
I walked to the iron vent, pulled the rusted grate free, and hauled out a heavy green duffel bag.
Inside lay three heavy chisels, a sledgehammer coated in Carrara dust, and four antique silver chalices looted from Donna Isabella’s personal reliquary.
I turned to look at Clara.
“You risked your life following them down here, Clara. When you saw an armed man breaking through an iron gate, why didn't you slip out through the street exit?”
Clara looked straight at the desecrated tomb, her voice dropping into a solemn, unwavering register.
“Because your grandmother paid for my sister’s bone marrow treatment ten years ago, Don Dante. She came to the ward herself and held my mother’s hand when the doctors gave up. I was not going to let a thief steal the cross off her chest while I had breath to stand in the way.”
A profound, immovable stillness settled over my chest.
“In this world, Clara,” I whispered, “loyalty like yours cannot be measured in wages. It is answered with an empire.”
I turned to Marco.
“Is Henri Dupont waiting in the grand salon?”
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“Surrounded by thirty capos, boss. He believes Genevieve is upstairs securing the alliance contracts.”
“Bring the duffel bag,” I commanded, stepping over the broken marble. “Let us introduce the Duponts to the true cost of their ambition.”
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