St. Ann's Church bells sang into the cold morning air, their mournful tolling drifting through the streets like a lament for a soul gone too soon. Two blocks away, the echo still rang — soft, steady, sorrowful. Mourners filled the narrow lanes, cloaked in black, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of loss, eyes hollow from nights of weeping.
That morning marked the funeral mass of Father Andrew. Inside, the church seemed to grieve as well — the walls heavy with silence, the stained glass dimmed by sorrow, as though even heaven bowed its head. Hymns rose slow and solemn, weaving through the pews, vibrating against the high vaults. At the altar, a white casket lay adorned with lilies and wild roses. Framed photographs surrounded it — Father Andrew as a young seminarian, as a parish priest, as the man whose kindness had once filled this sacred place.
But no one expected what came next — the arrival of the man who had been named his killer.
A black Maybach rolled to a slow stop at the church gates.
Vincent Moretti stepped out first. Then came his mother, Elena, followed by Carlos — and finally Jennifer, pale against the morning light.
Gasps rippled through the crowd like the snap of cold wind. The sight of Elena Moretti — elegant, ghostlike, and absent from the world's eyes for more than two decades — was enough to turn heads. But the man beside her drew sharper stares, crueler whispers. People recoiled, their gaze slicing through him like knives — murderer, monster, sinner.
Vincent felt each one land.
And yet, he did not waver.
He was here because Jennifer had said she would come — and if she could face this storm, then so would he. Not even the weight of the world's scorn could keep him away from her side.
They were ushered quietly into the third pew, the air thick with murmurs.
Elena, untouched by the grief that hung in the church, looked around with distant eyes. Her black gown and gloves set against her pale skin made her resemble something carved from winter marble. The heavy shades on her face hid any trace of emotion — or perhaps, revealed the lack of it.
"Mother." Vincent's voice was low, threaded with warning. "I'd appreciate it if you behaved yourself."
She didn't answer, only tilted her head, her red lips curving faintly — a ghost of amusement, or mockery.
The woman beside him was not the mother he remembered — not the soft-spoken woman who once hummed lullabies between prayers. This one was all edges and ice.
Carlos leaned close. "I still don't think this is a good idea."
Vincent's eyes remained on the altar. "I've had worse ideas, Carlos. Trust me, this one doesn't make the list."
But guilt had been gnawing at him like a beast. He hadn't slept — not truly. Every time he closed his eyes, the same nightmare replayed: his voice, cold and commanding, ordering Michael to pay off the killers. When he woke, the sound still echoed in his head, blurring the line between memory and madness.
The hymns swelled as the procession began.
Four priests, a deacon, and two seminarians moved toward the altar in solemn rhythm, led by two pale altar boys with faces like untouched snow. Watching them, Vincent tried to remember the last time he had set foot in a church. Maybe twenty years ago — before his mother left, before faith had turned to ash.
Back then, he believed in God because his mother did.
Now, he believed in nothing but consequence.
The priest lifted his arms.
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."
The congregation murmured in unison, "Amen."
The voice of the officiant wove through the silence, measured and calm:
"Brothers and sisters in Christ, we have come together to pray for the repose of the soul of our brother, Father Andrew Calder, who served faithfully at the altar of God — preaching the Word and bringing Christ's mercy to His people.
Today, we commend him to the Lord he loved and served, trusting in the promise of resurrection and eternal life.
Let us now pause in silence and call to mind our sins, that we may worthily celebrate these sacred mysteries."
As the priest's hands spread in blessing, a low murmur stirred from the back pews — faint at first, then sharp as glass.
"Murderer."
Vincent froze.
The air thickened.
"You murderer! The heavens will judge you!" The voice cracked — a woman's, frail and trembling, heavy with grief. Her finger pointed straight at him, shaking. "You killed a man of God!"
The mass stuttered into silence. Gasps filled the air like falling glass. The priest signaled discreetly, and two ushers approached, guiding the woman out as she wept and cursed his name.
Vincent closed his eyes.
The words burned.
He didn't speak. He didn't defend himself.
He simply sat — every muscle locked, every breath a quiet punishment.
Beside him, Jennifer's hands clenched in her lap. She could feel the weight of every eye upon him, the venom in their whispers. And her heart ached — not for herself, but for him.
He was here because of her.
Because she had asked him to be.
And now he was bleeding for her in a room that pretended to pray for peace.
She wished, for a moment, that the world could see him as she did — not the man painted in blood and rumor, but the one who stood by her when everyone else turned away. The man who carried his guilt like a cross, who still showed up when it mattered, no matter how sharp the stones thrown his way.
The choir began again, but the hymn sounded distant, blurred by the sting behind her eyes.
Jennifer bowed her head and whispered a prayer — not for Father Andrew, not for redemption, but for the man beside her.
"Lord," she breathed, "if mercy still exists, let it find him first."
And for the first time that morning, Vincent turned his head — as though he'd heard her without words. Their eyes met between the shadows and the candlelight, and something in that gaze — weary, wordless, and human — felt holier than anything the church had sung all day.
***
Marcus Hale hated waiting. He hated the way the city hummed like an open wound — engines growling, horns blaring, voices slashing through the dusk. He leaned one shoulder into a streetlamp and let the glow burn down his face. Cigarette smoke curled up like restless ghosts.
He had seen enough secrets to know they were never buried deep — just waiting for someone desperate enough to dig them up.
A cold wind rolled down the avenue, tugging at his coat. He was about to curse the delay when a black Lexus glided to the curb, the headlights dying like a sigh.
Dempsey stepped out — silver tie, grey suit, the picture of unbothered charm. He threw a grin at two joggers passing by. Hale hissed.
"You bloody lawyers," he said.
Dempsey smirked. "Oh come on. Don't tell me if you were a woman you wouldn't look twice at a man who can afford a five-thousand-dollar suit."
"You've got too much time on your hands," Hale grumbled, slapping a thick yellow file against his chest. "I don't."
Dempsey caught it, the smirk fading when he saw the red seal on the corner. He flipped it open under the lamplight. "What's this?"
"Confession," Hale said. "From a woman who used to be a nun. Says Father Andrew told her something before he died — something about Jennifer's parents."
Dempsey's brow creased. "What about them?"
"They were murdered," Hale said simply. "By Grim Voss."
The night stilled. For a long moment, the noise of the street vanished beneath the weight of those words.
"She's certain?" Dempsey asked quietly.
"She's terrified. Told me Andrew came to her, said he couldn't keep silent anymore. He knew who killed the girl's parents and why. Said Voss wanted the slate wiped clean before his next contract went through. And now Andrew's dead." Hale flicked his cigarette into the gutter. "That's not coincidence. That's cleanup."
Dempsey snapped the file shut. "If that's true, Vincent's being played like a pawn."
Hale nodded. "Voss needed a body to hang the collar on. Vincent's perfect — wrong place, wrong loyalties. Voss frames him, wipes Andrew off the map, and walks away clean."
"Jesus," Dempsey muttered. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaustion bleeding through his composure. "And this witness — she wants to stay anonymous?"
"Swore me to it," Hale said. "If her name gets out, she's as good as dead."
Dempsey paced a few steps, mind churning. "I can't bring anonymous testimony into court. The DA will tear it apart. Hearsay won't hold."
"Then find a way around it," Hale said. "Use her words without her name. Introduce the confession through context, through pattern, through Voss's own damn history. You're the clever one, remember?"
Dempsey stopped pacing and looked at him — the gears in his head spinning.
"There might be a way," he murmured. "If I can prove Voss's connection to the Salvatore transfers, and use her statement as corroborative evidence instead of direct testimony... the judge might allow it in as circumstantial. Not enough to convict, but enough to crack the DA's certainty."
Hale raised a brow. "And how do you plan to do that?"
Dempsey's mouth twitched. "By cornering Marcus Lee into introducing it for me."
Hale's eyes glinted with curiosity. "You're going to bait the DA?"
"I'm going to let him think he's unraveling my defense," Dempsey said. "And when he does, he'll open the very door I need."
He pocketed the file and turned toward his car. "Get me everything you can on Voss — accounts, contacts, offshore wires. If he's half as careful as you say, he'll have left something. A whisper, a crack, anything."
Hale took a drag from his cigarette, watching him. "You're walking into fire, Dempsey."
"Maybe," Dempsey said, opening the car door. "But I'm not the one who lit it."
He paused, half-turned, the nightlight drawing sharp lines on his face. "If this works, Voss goes down. If it doesn't…" He smiled faintly. "At least we'll make him sweat before the end."
Hale watched the Lexus pull away, taillights bleeding red into the fog. He took another long drag and muttered into the dark,
"Careful, counselor. You're about to cross a man who doesn't leave witnesses."
Then he dropped the cigarette, crushed it under his boot, and vanished into the night.