Chapter 35
Chapter 35
CHRISTIAN VICIOUS‘ VOLKOV.
Click. Click. Click.
The sound of my shoes against the vinyl–tiled flooring echoes louder than the usual hubaloo of the congregation chanting Hail Marys to
ount for their sins.
Silence lurks in this holy ce but then again, it has ever been silent if my memory is not failing
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<li>me.</li>
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One. Two. Three. Four steps in and I spot the small rusty brown booth stacked away by the corner and oh so near the altar to remind every sinner that stepped in that little chamber that not only was the priest listening but the Good Lord
too.
The ominous chants from the parishioners. burning incense by the altar don’t fail to bring back old memories of Cat and I living in this ce after we left Italy.
Why?
My father might have been a cynic but like everyone in the Mafia world, the belief that a man’s soul might have departed from him but the Lord would never depart from him was pretty
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much trusted by everyone.
So at twenty with an eighteen year old girl. looking up to me for food and shelter in a foreign
country, in a foreign city, the first sanctuary I thought of was church.
Here.
The very same ce I taught Catelina how to pray, how to hold the crucifix right, how to confess her sins, how to look up to Jesus because only Sweet Baby Jesus would save her from the cruelty of this world.
Except this same church is the same one that held drugs and acted as a warehouse for every drug
lord in Chicago.
This same church is the same church I walked away from to start an empire that didn’t hide behind religion or false words.
My fingers drawl over the wood on the benches.
Same benches I sat in looking up to God for answers while uttering seven Hail Mary’s in a day.
My feet drag themselves all the way down the
hallway.
Calm, definitely not spooked by the oldckluster paintings on the windows and ceiling because this building is a mockery to the cathedrals in Italy.
I’m no holy man but if the big man upstairs is
watching and he definitely is, he will understand. He should understand what I’m about to do.
The smell of wax and herbs meant to wade off spirite draws me in like a bet to finger–licking good honey
The confession booth, my final destination lies
I open the squeaky door on the confessor’s side and blink. The smell of mold and the disgusting sour sweat of sinners crawls into my nose.
Nostalgia hits me in the chest and not in the fun ‘remember when we drank beer type of way.
My legs used to dangle on this seat but right now I’m squeezed like smi in an overcrowded fish market waiting for the real sinner to jump to his side of the booth.
It doesn’t take seconds for the padre to arrive.
I spot his holy cap, his white clothes and his meaty neck from the wire grille dividing the priest and the confessors with a crucifix hung
above it.
He clears his throat, a sign that I should start telling the man who has never sinned, a portion of my sins and wait for his encouraging words that are bound to cleanse and heal my soul.
The usual voodoo shit Father Giovanni is used to.
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I do the sign of the cross reciting, “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
His chair creaks, and I see his eyes through the wire grille trying to confirm what is too obvious.
“S–Son“, his voice squeaks, recognition being an edge to his tone, “How long has it been since yourst confession?”
“I think you are well aware, Father“, I y along to his bullshit.
I see his meaty throat throb with nervousness and I cross my legs resting a hand on my knee.
“But if you must know, I have sinned Father. About to sin anyway. I can’t help it; Father and the gods above can’t penalize me for wanting to kill a man who drew gunfire on an unarmed man.
God himself hates cowards, isn’t that written. somewhere in the holy book? That cowards are.
worse than murderers. And for this coward, well I
have a special type of punishment in mind.
Cut a limb, watch him bleed. Cut another limb,
tie it up something tight to stop the bleeding
before I yank another-.”
“You are not too far gone, son. There’s still time. to repent and start anew.”
I chuckle, knotting my fists before my facees. close to the wire grille that’s separating the both
of us.
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“Do you really want to do this, Uncle? Beat around the bush and pretend we both give a shit about confession?”
“Christian“. His bulging eyes meet mine across the chained metal<b>. </b>“We are still family.”
“Don’t give me that crap. We stopped being family the minute you wanted to sell Cat and me to the highest bidder. That was decades ago, I was a kid, I let that shit slide and we agreed, Uncle. Next time you double cross me, I’ll spill your blood and smear it on your filthy followers for them to see.”
My uncle starts shaking, his fat body squeaking against his seat, his sweat reeking all the way to where I’m sitting.
Filthy bastard.
I can see why he was banished from Italy.
Men like him don’t know when to stop when ites to money, when ites to power.
“What did he promise you? Another church? A ticket back to Italy without you winding up dead?”
“I–I never wanted to. I’d never betray family. Your war with him would leave the seat empty and as the next in line I needed help to get there-.”
“Next in line? Giovanni you are a fat lousy son of a gun who betrayed the family, whether I’m dead
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or not the Cosa Nostra seat would never fall into your hands. Not in this life it wouldn’t and certainly not by Dante Keaton’s fucking help.”
“Any more sins, I gotta hear about Father?”
“Christian, my boy. You are kinder than your father, surely you would not end me, we are family, boy“, he slips in that Italian ent that will help remind me of my roots.
I have never been one to care about my roots. Not with the kind of father, I had anyway.
Wearing my gloves, pulling out the gun from its holster, I sneak in the nozzle through the wires with a clear aim that’s straight through his brains.
If he moves, I’ll still shoot. The ce is small enough to ensure the bullets reach him.
If he begs, cries, <b>I </b>still shoot. No leeway. No way
out of this.
“Want to know the craziest thing, Uncle? If you would have shot at me, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’d be alive and kicking probably balls deep in the whores you fuck on the altar but you didn’t shoot me, Giovanni.
You shot at what’s mine and you know the code. No one fucks what’s mine except me.”
One bullet, Straight through his head.
Blood smears his side of the booth.
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I put back my silencer in its resting ce and walk out of the booth a guiltless man.
No one heard the shots.
His body will be rotting in there before anyone goes to confession.
The padre is dead. My work here is done.
Time to check up on Sunshine.
Sunshine’s hair flies with the wind and not even
the ear muffs on her head can tame that unruly hair in ce.
Her smile makes the sunset behind her look
better inparison to the rest of the days as she waves goodbye to her colleagues with the only working hand she has at the moment.
Seeing her is enough to want to turn my car around but a certain punk in scrubs has me staying put.
Boyish smile, a little taller than her with chestnut brown hair, the man whispers something in her ear and she giggles before handing him her keys.
He closes up the clinic for her.
What a gentleman, all fucking sarcasm intended.
My phone is already by my ear..
“That man you
hired <b>as </b>one of her cuts.
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What’s his name?”
“What’s this about?”
“Un–hire him.”Exclusive ? content by N(?)ve/l/Drama.Org.
“Can’t do that. The nurse likes him and Xavier
came in handy with the Demetri situation.”
A six–year–old could pick up a phone and call me
telling me Russian bad men were in a clinic.
This Xander guy wasn’t just as receable.
“Fire him, hire a woman instead.”
“I’m going to hang up now, Volkov. Want to fire him, how about starting that conversation with
your nurse?”
He hangs up.
The Xander guy is already walking the nurse. down the street with a smug smirk by the time I spot them again.