Sal Perrino sat in the pew at St. Dominic’s and prayed for a quick death. They’d found his brother floating face down in the swimming pool, while his sister was dropped from a twenty-floor high-rise in downtown Phoenix, five miles away.
He leaned forward and placed his knees on the padded kneeler. It was 9:30 Tuesday morning and the church was completely empty. He stared up at the statue behind the altar. Jesus was on the cross, His head tilted toward Sal in pity.
“Please,” Sal said. “Don’t make me wait.”
The stained-glass windows allowed the winter sun to filter in, reflecting off the gold chalices on the altar. Sal took it as a sign. He lowered his head to confess his transgressions. He was born into a Sicilian family who raised him to be loyal. Loyal to his mother and father, but more importantly, loyal to his syndicate family. The real people who would forge his destiny.
When he was twenty-seven, he became the boss, taking over for his ailing father who handed the throne to his firstborn son. That was back in Baltimore, forty years ago. Back when the syndicate ran the labor unions and the sanitation department. Back when the families banded together for protection. Before they became targets of the government. Long before they moved to Arizona to lower their profile and try to go straight.
Now, Sal prayed for forgiveness. He’d been dropped into the middle of a jungle at an early age and there were times he had to fire bullets into the back of someone’s head. Kill or be killed. He had no choice. But now he was speaking to a higher authority and thought he should take some responsibility.
“Forgive me, Father,” he said, his head down, his eyes shut. “I’ve made some bad choices in my life.”
His only hope was that his daughter would be spared. The boys could take care of themselves, but Cara was a journalist for the Los Angeles Times and vulnerable to his enemies. Somehow, she had inherited his gift for writing. A talent that Sal kept hidden from his friends and associates. The written word was not met with great enthusiasm among the families. Written words were considered evidence and even though Sal wrote mostly short stories, he never advertised his literary accomplishments.
Cara was back in Baltimore for a college reunion, and Sal had left strict instructions for her to remain on the east coast and avoid the tyrants who were about to end his life. He didn’t want her rushing out to avenge his death. He’d deserved his penance and it was time to move on.
Sal rested his elbows over the back of the pew in front of him and silently spewed out his regrets. The time he’d spent away from his family, working, entertaining, sometimes all at once. He regretted the way he’d put his siblings in harm’s way. They were part of the family, sure, but they didn’t deserve their sentence. His decisions had sealed their fate. He alone got them killed.
Behind him, the front door creaked open and a momentary wave of cold air rushed into the vestibule.
Sal didn’t turn around. A drop of sweat trickled down the side of his face, while his entire body began to shiver.
His only thought now was Cara. He prayed to St. Christopher, the Patron Saint of Protection, as footsteps crept up behind him. A war had begun, and Sal hadn’t been prepared. His adversaries were strong and reckless and didn’t follow any Sicilian rules. At least within the families there was a code of ethics, but these monsters knew nothing about morals.
Sal’s kneeler shimmied as the man plopped down in the pew behind him.
“I will allow you to finish your prayer,” the man said.
Sal scrunched forward, his hands clasped tight to his chest. He prayed hard for a solid minute. About as long as he felt he would be permitted. He prayed that Cara would know what to do with the gift he’d left behind. When he was comfortable with his confession, he made the sign of the cross, then sat back and waited. He didn’t want to see it coming.
And then it came.