Chapter 7 - THE CHURCH OF FALSE SAINTS
The church in Brooklyn had no cross on its roof anymore. Its windows were boarded, the stone steps were cracked, and graffiti covered the side wall where parish notices had once hung. At four in the morning, it looked forgotten enough to be safe. That meant nothing to me anymore.
Travis stayed in the car with Vincent and my mother while Adrian and I went inside. His wounded arm had been wrapped with a strip torn from Vincent’s shirt. The injury was not life-threatening, but pain had finally stripped away the last of Travis’s arrogance. He did not argue when Adrian told him to remain behind.
Inside, moonlight pushed through gaps in the boards. Dust floated over old pews. The altar had been removed years ago, leaving a pale rectangle on the floor where stone had once protected it from dirt. I knelt and ran my fingers across the wood until I found a small metal plate shaped like a flower.
“My grandmother liked roses,” I said. Adrian crouched beside me. “Your family hid evidence under hotels, churches, and probably every restaurant in Manhattan.” “We were sentimental criminals.” He gave me a look. “You joke when you’re terrified.”
“I file documents when I’m terrified. Jokes are an improvement.” The flower plate opened when I pressed its center. Beneath it was a keyhole. The silver key turned smoothly. A section of floor released with a heavy click.
Underneath was a narrow steel compartment containing one leather ledger, a stack of photographs, and a sealed envelope marked FOR EVANGELINE ONLY. I took the ledger first. Its pages were filled with names, dates, bank codes, and handwritten notes. Rourke’s name appeared again and again beside transfers from Victor Vale-controlled accounts.
Then I found the entry dated three days before the fire. TARRYTOWN. REMOVE MATTEO. SECURE ARCHIVE. NO SURVIVORS. Below it were Victor Vale’s initials and Rourke’s signature. Adrian read the line over my shoulder. His face went blank in the way people’s faces do when emotion becomes too large to show.
“My father ordered children killed.” I said nothing. He turned several pages. There were more operations. Witnesses intimidated. Judges bribed. Men disappeared. Some of the dates matched stories I had heard whispered at Vale Holdings, but many happened before Adrian had control.
Then we reached a section from six years earlier—the year Victor died. The handwriting changed. Rourke had continued payments after Victor’s death using accounts that appeared to be authorized by Adrian Vale.
Adrian stared. “I never signed these.” “They’re electronic authorization codes.” “My father’s old codes were retired.” “Someone restored them.” He turned pale as another possibility surfaced. “Travis had access to legacy systems when he joined the company.”
I shook my head. “Rourke said Travis was useful, not trusted. He may have used Travis’s access without him knowing.” A floorboard creaked behind us. Adrian spun, gun raised. A young woman stood near the back pews with both hands lifted. She wore a dark coat and carried a camera bag.
“Please don’t shoot,” she said. “My name is Lena Ortiz. I’m a federal prosecutor.” Neither of us lowered our guard. She reached slowly into her coat and placed an identification wallet on the pew. “I’ve been investigating Rourke for eighteen months. Vincent Caruso contacted my office two weeks ago using an old protected channel. He said the Winter Benefit might force hidden records into the open.”
I stared at her. “Vincent knew I would be invited?” “No. He knew someone inside Vale Holdings was searching for the Hawthorne Trust. He suspected Travis. He hoped pressure would make Rourke move.”
Adrian’s voice turned dangerous. “So everyone decided to use Evelyn as bait?” Ortiz looked at me, not him. “I didn’t know you were alive until tonight.” The answer sounded true, but truth had become expensive.
I opened the envelope marked for me. Inside was a letter from my grandmother Lucia, written years before her death. The paper smelled faintly of cedar from the compartment. Evangeline, our family taught its children that power means being feared. That is how families become prisons. If this trust ever becomes yours, do not preserve the Moretti name simply because men died for it. Preserve what is worth saving. Burn the rest in daylight where everyone can see.
I read the lines twice. Adrian did not ask to see them. Outside, tires screamed. Ortiz reached for her radio. Static answered. “Signal jammer,” Adrian said. A spotlight flooded through the broken windows.
Rourke’s voice boomed from a speaker outside. “You have something that belongs to me.” I closed the ledger. “No,” I said softly. “We have something that belongs to the public.”
Adrian looked at me. “There’s a side exit behind the vestry.” Ortiz shook her head. “Two vehicles already covered it.” “What about underground?” I asked. She frowned. I looked toward the old baptismal font. My grandmother had bought the block for a reason. Families like mine did not hide one escape route when they could build three.
We pushed the font aside and found an iron ring set into the floor. Adrian almost laughed. “Sentimental criminals.” The hatch opened onto a brick tunnel. We descended just as the church doors exploded inward.
The tunnel smelled of damp earth and rust. Ortiz led with a flashlight. Adrian followed behind me, carrying the ledger beneath his shirt. The passage sloped toward what sounded like running water.
Behind us, footsteps entered the tunnel. Rourke had found the hatch. We ran. At the far end, the tunnel opened into an old storm channel beneath the street. My phone suddenly regained signal and began vibrating with dozens of notifications.
One message came from Marcus. EVELYN — DO NOT RETURN TO THE CAR. THEY TOOK ISABELLA AND VINCENT. TRAVIS IS DOWN. My stomach dropped. A second message arrived from an unknown number.
May you like
It contained a live video feed. My mother sat in a chair under bright industrial lights. Vincent was tied beside her. Travis lay on the concrete floor, conscious but barely moving.
Then Charles Rourke stepped into frame. “Bring the ledger to Tarrytown,” he said into the camera. “You have until sunrise.” The feed ended. Adrian read the message. This time, he did not tell me I was not going. He only checked his weapon and said, “We finish it where it started.”
