Page 39 of Venomous Throne

I didn’t take the squat man as ambitious. I thought it was just his friendship that kept him close to Marco.

It raised a valuable question, one I considered often: What would I do with the others when the last Moretti brother died? It wasn’t as though all the capos would follow me. In the face of this victory, I knew that the battle might have been won, the immediate problem solved, but the war felt like it was only just beginning.

I took the glass of water and studied Marco one last time. I would light a candle for him on my way home.

And then forget his face.

Chapter 16 – Isabella

“It was a pleasant surprise to see you join us for prayer this evening, signora,” Father Donelli murmured as we walked along the broken sidewalk. “If I may ask, for whom did you light the candle?”

Behind us, the bells of the church began to chime, marking the hour. I listened to their somber tones, letting the noise fill me.

“For those walking in sin,” I said absently.

The priest faltered.

I shot him a look, and when he met my eye, I smiled.

“We can all use a little prayer in our court, father,” I added.

Rumpled, he tutted under his breath. “You always did have a peculiar way with words, Signora Moretti.”

That was an understatement.

We continued in silence, our footsteps crunching over scattered gravel and discarded cigarette butts. The buildings around us wore their age like badges of neglect—peeling paint, boarded windows, fire escapes rusted into dangerous sculptures. Graffiti marked territory in bright, defiant strokes.

As we walked, the transformation was gradual, then sudden. The cracked pavement gave way to even sidewalks. Potholes disappeared. Chain-link fences were replaced by wrought iron and carefully trimmed hedges. Flower boxes appeared in windows, splashing color against freshly painted facades.

With a little love, and some hard work, this could spread into the crappier streets. Easily. I shifted my shoulders. Unease trickled through me. The interview with the Morettis, sitting in their shiny, seven-figure home, and then walking their streets…I was pissed.

“Amazing how quickly things change in just a few blocks,” Father Donelli observed, his posture straightening as we passed a small park where children played under the watchful eyes of nannies.

“I want to do something about that,” I said with force.

“I know, signora, you speak of it often.” There was resignation in the man of God’s voice. He opened the door of the bistro, allowing me to pass in front of him.

“This time, I have the means, Father.” I stopped to say, looking him dead in the eye.

He didn’t catch my drift.

While he knew damn well who patronized the church, he kept his mouth shut, pretending not to know more than half his congregation was involved in illegal activities.

Sighing in frustration, I went to our usual table, one with a window view of the bustling commerce on this street.

The waiter came to take our order with a smile on his plump, youthful face.

“I’ll have a bottle of chianti and the cheese board,” I said with conviction.

The priest’s eyes widened.

“And for you?” the waiter prompted.

“A gin and tonic. And a muffaletta.” The priest gulped.

“The chips okay with that, or do you want fries?”

The priest blinked hard, not hearing. “Yes, yes, fine.”