Chapter 8 - The Interrogation in the West GalleryAt 9:00 AM, the winter sun broke through the clouds over Lake Michigan in a brilliant blaze of sapphire and gold.
The blizzard had cleared, leaving the water calm and glittering beneath a crisp blue sky.
A convoy of five black armored Maybachs departed the Vance estate, gliding down Lake Shore Drive beneath the towering skyscrapers of Chicago.
Inside the master vehicle, Nora sat in the plush leather seat, wrapped in a heavy white wool coat with an arctic fox collar, her auburn hair styled in soft waves around her shoulders.
Beside her sat Julian, looking magnificent in an immaculate three-piece charcoal suit, his hand resting securely over hers.
Opposite them sat Don Carmine Falcone, the elderly capo holding his carved ash cane, looking at Nora with undisguised reverence.
“Your mother was an angel, young lady,” Falcone rasped, his weathered face creased in a warm smile. “When the South Side docks were burning in the nineties, Donna Francesca opened three free clinics and funded medical care for every dockworker's child. To see her daughter sitting in this car is the greatest blessing our family has received in eighteen years.”
“Thank you, Don Carmine,” Nora smiled softly, her hand gently resting over her rounded bump.
The convoy pulled up to the historic Holy Name Cathedral on State Street.
Hundreds of syndicate soldiers, union leaders, and prominent citizens of Chicago lined the granite steps, their heads bowed in respect as the vehicles arrived.
The heavy bronze doors of the cathedral opened.
Julian stepped out first, offering his hand to his sister.
When Nora emerged, radiant in her ivory silk gown, the gold falcon medallion gleaming proudly over her heart, a collective murmur of awe swept through the crowd.
Julian offered her his arm, guiding her up the grand stone steps with slow, measured strides.
They walked down the center aisle of the cathedral beneath soaring gothic arches illuminated by thousands of white candles.
At the front of the nave, on the high marble altar, sat a single portrait of Donna Francesca Vance, decorated with fresh white lilies and fragrant pine boughs.
Julian and Nora stopped before the altar.
Nora reached up, touching the gold medallion at her chest, her eyes shining with tears of pure, unadulterated peace.
“I’m home, Mother,” Nora whispered into the quiet cathedral.
May you like
Julian knelt beside her, crossing himself, his baritone voice echoing through the vaulted stone:
“The debt is paid, Donna Francesca. Your daughter is safe. And our bloodline will rule this city with honor forever.”
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