Chapter 8 - CHRISTMAS EVE AT ST. MICHAEL’S
We went to Christmas Mass.
I hated every second before we arrived.
Dominic hated it more.
He changed his mind seven times.
No exaggeration.
At 8:00 a.m.:
“We're canceling.”
At ten:
“We go with police.”
At noon:
“No.”
At three:
“Ethan is right.”
At five:
“Ethan is fourteen and stupid.”
Ethan heard.
“Love you too.”
At six:
“We attend.”
At 6:10:
“No.”
Finally Detective Torres said:
“If Lorenzo’s schedule is genuine, canceling may cause him to change location.”
“We currently have the advantage of knowing where he expected you.”
“Controlled environment.”
“Plainclothes officers.”
“Screened entry.”
Dominic stared.
“You're using my family as bait.”
“No.”
Torres’s voice hardened.
“Your family insists on attending.”
“I am using police work to reduce risk created by stubborn rich people.”
I liked her more every day.
St. Michael’s was an old Catholic church in Westchester.
Isabella had loved Christmas Eve there.
Ethan wanted to go partly because of that.
Lily wanted candles.
Noah and Rachel stayed at the estate under protection.
Marco coordinated with police.
Every entrance covered.
No visible army.
Important.
Normal families entered.
Older couples.
Children in red sweaters.
A baby crying near the nativity display.
Ordinary.
Dominic stood beside Ethan.
I stood with Lily.
For one moment, I understood Isabella’s dream.
A public church.
No one lowering voices because Dominic entered.
No gunmen visible.
A boy allowed to be a boy before being a Moretti.
Then Lily whispered:
“That man is staring.”
My heart stopped.
“Where?”
“Don't turn fast.”
I looked at her.
She raised an eyebrow.
“I watch movies.”
Nine.
Unbearable.
“Where?”
“Back.”
“Left side.”
I shifted slowly.
Older man.
Dark coat.
Hat.
Not Lorenzo.
I knew him.
Peter Salvi.
Former Moretti accountant.
Retired three years ago.
He had attended staff Christmas dinners.
Why was he staring at us?
I touched my phone.
Marco received the signal.
Plainclothes officer moved.
Salvi noticed.
He stood.
Too quickly.
Then walked toward the side exit.
Police intercepted.
No scene.
No gun.
No attack.
He carried one thing.
A phone.
On it:
Live messages from Lorenzo.
HE’S THERE?
YES.
BOY?
YES.
GIRL?
YES.
WAIT FOR CANDLELIGHT.
My stomach turned.
Salvi cooperated almost immediately.
Fear again.
Lorenzo had threatened his adult son over old gambling debt.
Same method.
Leverage.
Family.
Always family.
But Salvi insisted he was only observing.
No weapon.
No planned attack inside church.
“What happens at candlelight?”
Torres asked.
Salvi shook.
“I don't know.”
“Lorenzo said send a picture of Dominic kneeling.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
Dominic’s face hardened.
He looked toward the altar.
Kneeling.
Public.
Vulnerable.
Then Marco’s phone buzzed.
Estate alarm.
My blood went cold.
Lily.
Ethan.
Noah.
Rachel.
The church was distraction.
Dominic understood at the same time.
“Estate.”
Marco already moving.
Security called.
Power interruption.
North gate breach.
One vehicle entered using an old emergency credential.
Credential belonging to—
“Lorenzo.”
Dominic whispered.
Noah and Rachel were there.
We ran.
Not cinematic.
Not through pews screaming.
Police moved us through a side exit.
Cars.
Sirens finally.
No secrecy now.
I called Rachel.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
My stomach dropped.
Then Noah answered.
Whispering.
“Anna.”
“Where are you?”
“Cold room.”
“What cold room?”
“Kitchen.”
The pastry cold room.
The same place Lily had once seen Vale contaminate Ethan’s cake.
History circling.
“Where is your mom?”
“With me.”
“Is she okay?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you hiding?”
Noah’s voice shook.
“Mr. Lorenzo is in the house.”
Dominic heard through speaker.
His entire face changed.
I grabbed his sleeve.
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Do not become your father.”
His mother’s words.
He stopped.
One second.
Then nodded.
Police reached the estate first.
We waited outside perimeter.
Dominic looked like restraint was physically tearing him apart.
Ethan paced.
Lily held my hand.
Then Rachel whispered through phone:
“He's downstairs.”
Noah had hidden the phone under a shelf.
“Did he see you?”
“No.”
“What does he want?”
Rachel swallowed.
“He keeps yelling for Dominic.”
Lorenzo believed church would pull security away.
It had.
Not enough.
But enough to get through one old service access point using credentials no one realized remained active in a legacy emergency system.
Another lesson.
Old access.
Old loyalty.
Old danger.
Police entered.
Minutes stretched.
Then gunshot.
One.
My body froze.
Dominic moved.
Torres blocked him.
“No.”
“Move.”
“No.”
“MY SON—”
“Your son is beside you.”
Dominic stopped.
Ethan stood there.
The sentence shocked him back.
This was about Noah and Rachel.
Not his rage.
Another gunshot.
Then silence.
Radio traffic.
Finally:
“Suspect contained.”
“Hostages secure.”
I nearly collapsed.
Noah and Rachel came out first.
Noah ran toward Lily.
Rachel toward me.
She was shaking.
“Lorenzo?”
Torres asked an officer.
“Alive.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“Condition?”
“Shoulder wound.”
“Officer fired after he raised weapon.”
Dominic closed his eyes.
Alive.
That mattered.
Because dead men became myths.
Living men went to court.
Lorenzo came out on a stretcher.
White hair.
Blood on one shoulder.
Handcuffed.
He saw Dominic.
For the first time in my life, Lorenzo Moretti looked old rather than powerful.
“Dominic.”
Dominic did not approach.
Lorenzo laughed weakly.
“Your wife made you soft.”
Ethan went still.
Dominic looked at him.
Then Lorenzo.
“No.”
His voice calm.
“She tried to make me human.”
Lorenzo smiled bitterly.
“Same thing.”
Dominic shook his head.
“No.”
Then:
“You killed her.”
Lorenzo’s face changed.
Not confession.
Enough.
“You can't prove that.”
Torres, standing nearby, said:
“Interesting choice of sentence.”
I almost smiled.
Lorenzo looked toward Ethan.
“My boy.”
Ethan’s face hardened.
“I’m not yours.”
Silence.
Lorenzo smiled.
“You're a Moretti.”
Ethan looked at his father.
Then back.
“That is a name.”
Dominic’s eyes filled.
Ethan continued:
“My mom wanted me to be a boy first.”
Lorenzo looked confused.
He would never understand.
Police moved him.
As the ambulance doors closed, Lily whispered:
“Is Christmas ruined?”
I looked at her.
Noah started laughing.
Then Ethan.
Then even Dominic.
Not because anything was funny.
Because children could cut through horror with one practical question.
Dominic wiped his face.
“No.”
Lily frowned.
“We missed candles.”
Ethan said:
“We have candles at home.”
“Cake too?”
Everyone froze.
The cake.
Of course.
Dominic looked at me.
I looked at him.
Then we both laughed.
“No poison jokes,” I said.
Ethan lifted both hands.
“I said nothing.”
We went inside after police cleared the house.
No elegant Christmas dinner.
No formal table.
Kitchen.
Pasta.
Store-bought cookies.
Candles from a drawer.
Rachel.
Noah.
Ethan.
Lily.
Marco.
Dominic.
Me.
At midnight, Dominic lit one candle for Isabella.
Ethan held it.
No speech.
No legacy.
May you like
Just her name.
And for the first Christmas since Isabella died, the truth sat at the table with us instead of being buried beneath it.
