Chapter 5 - Confrontation in the Nave
The heavy oak doors of the chapel burst open from within as Gabriel, Julian, and Evelyn descended the tower stairs and strode directly into the grand nave.
The sight that greeted the assembly was nothing short of apocalyptic.
Twenty-three of Chicago’s most feared underworld bosses sat paralyzed in their velvet pews, staring in sheer horror down the central aisle. At the front of the chapel, resting atop a draped mahogany catafalque, was an open bronze casket containing a cleverly constructed wax decoy designed to mimic Gabriel’s face.
Standing beside the casket, microphone in hand, was Margaret Ashford.
Her face drained of all color, her meticulously styled silver hair seeming to stand on end as she locked eyes with her living, breathing nephew walking down the aisle, flanked by his battered twin brother and the estate maid.
"What... what is the meaning of this?" Margaret stammered, her voice cracking over the chapel’s sound system. "Guards! Shoot them! It's an impostor!"
None of the guards moved. They were too busy staring at Julian, who was very clearly alive, bruised, and standing beside the man they had supposedly buried an hour ago.
Gabriel stopped five paces from the altar, his dark eyes fixed entirely on his aunt. The silence in the chapel was absolute, broken only by the patter of rain against the high windows and the distant rumble of thunder.
"The funeral is adjourned, Aunt Margaret," Gabriel said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the cavernous room.
One of the syndicate captains—an aging veteran named Salvatore—slowly stood up from his pew, leaning heavily on a silver-headed cane. He looked from Gabriel to the wax decoy in the casket, and finally settled his stern gaze on Margaret.
"Margaret," Salvatore rasped, his voice dripping with lethal menace. "You told us Gabriel was assassinated by the Delaneys. You told us Julian fled with our money. You asked us to sign a war charter based on blood that wasn't even spilled."
"It's a trick!" Margaret shrieked, her aristocratic composure entirely shattering as she backed away from the altar, reaching into her handbag. "They're ghosts! Lies!"
Before Margaret could pull the small silver revolver from her purse, Julian stepped forward, holding up a heavy, waterproof data drive he had pulled from his pocket in the vault.
"Not lies, Auntie," Julian said coldly. "Every financial transfer from the union pension funds to your private offshore accounts. Every communication with the Delaney lieutenants. It's all right here. Stored safely where even your hired cleaners couldn't reach it."
Margaret froze. The silver revolver slipped from her shaking fingers, clattering loudly against the marble floor.
The twenty-three captains rose from their pews in unison. The collective weight of their gaze shifted entirely away from the empty casket and landed with terrifying intensity upon Margaret Ashford. In the underworld, betrayal of the family was the only crime punishable by absolute erasure.
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Gabriel didn't raise his voice, nor did he draw his weapon. He simply looked at Marco, the head of security, who had just rushed into the chapel behind them.
"Escort my aunt to the lower vault," Gabriel ordered quietly. "Let her contemplate the acoustics down there. It seems she has a lot of time to think about stone floors and rising water."
