Chapter 4 - THE ROSARY AND THE FRONT ROW
gripped the steering wheel, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Father Thomas. The gentle, soft-spoken priest who had baptized Emily, who had eaten Sunday dinners at our table for twenty years.
He was sitting in an unmarked car outside my house holding a Glock 19.
I didn't drive away. I rolled down my window.
He looked at me, his face obscured by the shadows of the streetlamp, then deliberately placed the weapon on the passenger seat and held up his hands. In his right hand, a simple wooden rosary dangled between his fingers.
He gestured for me to pull over.
My instincts told me to run, but twenty-nine years married to the Chicago underworld had taught me that ignoring a message was more dangerous than receiving it. I pulled my car alongside his.
“Marianne,” he said quietly, his voice carrying the familiar warmth of his Sunday sermons, but layered with a grit I had never heard.
“Thomas,” I replied, staring at the gun on his seat. “Should I be calling the police, or the Archbishop?”
He offered a grim, sad smile. “Neither would be much help right now. Get in. We need to talk before tomorrow.”
I hesitated, then killed my engine and slipped into the passenger seat of his sedan. The car smelled of stale coffee and incense.
“Why are you sitting outside my house with a weapon?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
Father Thomas thumbed the beads of his rosary. “Anthony called me two hours ago. He told me you were having a mental breakdown. He asked me to ensure you didn’t cause a disturbance at the church tomorrow.”
I let out a harsh breath. “So he sent a priest with a gun to babysit me?”
“The gun isn't for you, Marianne,” Thomas said softly. He looked toward the lit windows of my house. “It’s for the men Anthony hired to keep you out of the church tomorrow.”
I stared at him. “Anthony hired security to keep me away from my own daughter’s wedding?”
“Six men,” Thomas confirmed. “Off-duty cops on his payroll. They have photos of you. Their orders are to quietly escort you off the premises if you try to enter the sanctuary.”
A cold wave of nausea washed over me. The man I had loved, the father of my child, was treating me like a threat to his new life. He was ensuring Brianna got her perfect, undisputed moment in the front row.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked. “You’ve been Anthony’s friend for decades.”
Thomas turned to me, his eyes filled with a deep, sorrowful regret. “Because twenty years ago, when the Rizzo family threatened to burn down my parish, Anthony protected it. I owed him. I’ve looked the other way on many things, Marianne. The gambling, the extortion, the violence. I told myself I was saving a soul.”
He paused, the wooden beads clacking softly in the quiet car.
“But stealing a mother’s place at her daughter’s wedding… that isn't a sin I can bless. And there’s something else.”
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small, folded receipt. He handed it to me.
I turned on the overhead reading light. It was a wire transfer receipt from a bank in the Cayman Islands.
Two million dollars.
Transferred from Anthony’s private account to an account named B.V. Holdings.
“B.V.,” I whispered. “Brianna Vane.”
“Look at the date,” Thomas said.
August 12th.
Three days ago.
“Anthony is bleeding the family accounts,” Thomas explained softly. “The trust amendment Emily found? That’s just the legal cover. Brianna’s brother owes a massive debt to the Lupertazzi cartel in New York. If it’s not paid by Monday, they’ll kill him. Brianna isn't just Anthony’s mistress, Marianne. She’s using him as an ATM to save her family.”
I stared at the receipt, my mind racing. Anthony thought he was in love. He thought he was starting a new life with a younger woman. He had no idea he was being extorted by proxy.
Or did he?
“Wait,” I said, looking up at Thomas. “Anthony doesn’t get played. He’s too smart.”
“Love makes fools of smart men,” Thomas said. “He believes she’s pregnant.”
The air left my lungs.
Pregnant.
That was why he was so desperate. That was why he was rushing the trust amendments and freezing me out. He was protecting a new child.
I looked down at my hands. For twenty-seven years, I had built a fortress around my family to protect it from Anthony’s world. Now, his world was tearing us apart from the inside.
“What do I do, Thomas?” I whispered, the fight suddenly draining out of me. “If I show up tomorrow, his men will drag me away. It will ruin Emily’s wedding.”
Thomas gripped the steering wheel. “You will show up, Marianne. You will walk through those doors. Because I am the one officiating the wedding. And I dictate who sits in my church.”
He picked up the gun and slid it into the glove compartment, then handed me the wooden rosary.
“Keep this,” he said. “When you arrive at the church tomorrow, hold it in your left hand. My ushers will know you are under my protection. Anthony’s men won’t touch you.”
I wrapped the smooth beads around my fingers. “And Anthony? What happens when he sees me?”
Thomas’s eyes hardened. “We let him make his choice in front of God.”
I stepped out of his car and drove to a nearby hotel. I didn't sleep. I sat by the window, watching the sun rise over the Chicago skyline, holding the rosary.
At 10:00 AM, I put on my mother-of-the-bride dress.
It was a deep, elegant navy blue. I did my makeup carefully, hiding the dark circles under my eyes. I didn't look like a discarded wife. I looked like a queen preparing for battle.
At 1:00 PM, I arrived at St. Jude’s Cathedral.
The stone steps were crowded with guests. Off to the side, wearing sharp suits and earpieces, were Anthony’s hired men.
As I approached the grand oak doors, the largest of the men stepped in front of me, blocking my path.
“Excuse me, ma'am,” he said, his voice flat. “Mr. DeLuca requested that you—”
I didn't stop. I raised my left hand, the wooden rosary dangling from my fingers in the sunlight.
From the shadows of the vestibule, two massive men in dark suits stepped forward. They weren't Anthony’s. They were Father Thomas’s.
“Step aside, Jimmy,” one of Thomas’s men grunted to the guard. “The lady is a guest of the parish.”
The guard hesitated, then stepped back.
I walked down the aisle.
The church was magnificent, filled with white roses and sunlight. The pews were packed with our friends, our family, and Anthony’s associates.
In the very front row, on the left side, sat Brianna.
She was wearing the red dress. She was wearing my grandmother’s sapphire.
And as I walked toward her, the entire cathedral went dead silent.
Anthony, standing near the altar with Michael, turned around.
His face went pale.
I stopped at the front pew and looked down at Brianna.
“You’re in my seat,” I said softly.
Brianna smirked, crossing her legs. “Anthony said I could sit here.”
I looked up at Anthony. The entire congregation was watching.
But before Anthony could speak, a voice rang out from the back of the church.
“Mom?”
I turned.
Emily stood at the end of the aisle in her wedding gown, looking like an angel. But she wasn't looking at Anthony. She wasn't looking at Michael.
May you like
She was staring directly at Brianna’s neck.
“Where,” Emily asked, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings, “did you get that necklace?”
