Chapter 6 - Holy Name Cathedral
The bells of Holy Name Cathedral began their solemn, rhythmic tolling at ten-thirty.
The gray stone spires reached into the low Chicago clouds, surrounded by a perimeter of black limousines, city police cruisers with their lights flashing in polite deference, and hundreds of curious onlookers held behind velvet ropes on North State Street.
The interior of the cathedral was breathtaking. Thousands of white roses and Casablanca lilies arched over the gothic pews, their perfume mingling with the sweet, ancient scent of burning frankincense. Two hundred guests—judges, state senators, union bosses, and the heads of every criminal family in Illinois—sat in their finest attire, murmuring in excited anticipation beneath the vaulted ceiling.
I sat in the fourteenth row on the bridegroom’s side.
I was no longer wearing the green velvet dress. Gabriel had dressed me in an elegant, conservative navy silk suit with a wide-brimmed felt hat that cast a deep shadow across my face. In my lap, I held a modest leather clutch that concealed a high-frequency radio jammer and the Glock 43 Dominic had given me at the docks.
Beside me sat two of Gabriel’s men, disguised as Pierce family cousins, their tailored jackets bulging slightly beneath the left armpit.
At eleven-forty, the organ burst into the majestic opening chords of Bach’s Passacaglia.
Dominic Pierce stepped into the sanctuary from the side sacristy, accompanied by Marcus Vance as his best man.
Dominic looked magnificent. His carriage was upright, his stride measured and commanding, his jaw set in an expression of quiet, aristocratic gravity. Marcus walked beside him, his silver hair catching the light of the stained-glass windows, smiling warmly at the guests in the pews, playing the doting patriarch to perfection.
As Dominic reached the foot of the high altar, his dark eyes swept across the congregation. For a fraction of a second, his gaze locked onto mine beneath the brim of my hat.
There was no greeting in his eyes. Only the cold, unyielding countdown of a general awaiting the signal to fire.
At eleven-fifty, the heavy oak doors at the back of the cathedral swung wide.
Vivienne Beaumont appeared on the arm of her father, Julian Beaumont. She was a vision of ethereal, heartbreaking beauty. The cathedral fell into an awe-struck hush as the congregation rose. The lace veil cascaded down her back like frozen mist, her emerald eyes fixed on Dominic with an expression of adoring, tender submission that would have fooled an archangel.
She walked down the center aisle, her hand trembling delicately on her father’s arm.
Beneath my silk jacket, the radio receiver in my ear clicked twice.
“Caterer’s van is in position at the sacristy gate,” Gabriel’s voice whispered through the encrypted channel. “Four shooters confirmed inside the vehicle. The secondary team in the choir loft has taken their seats behind the organ pipes.”
I reached into my bag, my thumb resting against the toggle switch of the radio jammer.
Vivienne reached the altar. Julian Beaumont placed his daughter’s hand into Dominic’s open palm. Dominic took it, his fingers closing around her delicate lace glove with the gentle firmness of a devoted husband.
The bishop stepped forward, his golden vestments shimmering in the candlelight.
“Dearly beloved,” the bishop began, his rich voice echoing through the vaulted stone arches, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony...”
I looked up toward the shadows of the choir loft. Between two towering brass organ pipes, the glint of a polished telescopic sight caught the light of a chandelier.
The clock on the cathedral transept clicked toward twelve-fourteen.
“...into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined,” the bishop intoned. “Therefore, if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.”
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating, pregnant with murder.
Vivienne smiled up at Dominic through her veil.
Dominic did not smile back.
He raised his left hand, turning his wrist slightly so the light hit the face of his watch.
May you like
Twelve-fifteen.
The cathedral’s massive crystal chandeliers flickered once, twice—and died.
