The Rocchetti Queen - Bree Porter Page 0,66
to the baby. “Catherine, what have you done?”
“Used her common sense.”
I turned as my husband entered the church, his men behind him. He scanned me briefly, his expression hard as he strode down the aisle.
Alessandro stopped a few feet away from us, paralleling Dupont on the other side of us. Catherine and I stayed in the middle, beneath the watchful eyes of the Mary Madonna.
“I told you to come alone,” Catherine said to me.
I shot her a weird look. “And you thought I would?”
She made a face. “I suppose I did.”
Dupont snapped his icy blue eyes to Catherine, his expression furious. “Let’s go. Now.”
“Not so fast, Dupont,” Alessandro said. Straight to the point, my husband went on, “The FBI organized crime unit will leave Chicago today.”
“Why would we do that?” hissed Dupont.
“If you do not, your mother may find herself in a very bad way.”
Catherine flicked her gaze between her man and my husband. “Tristan, maybe it’s time.”
“Listen to your girlfriend, Dupont,” my husband said. “This city is no longer under the care of the FBI.”
“You cannot claim a city, Rocchetti,” Dupont snapped. “Your grandfather couldn’t keep us out.”
Alessandro smiled slowly. “I am not Don Piero.”
Dupont moved to step forward, unknowingly signaling the shadows.
All around us, the sounds of safeties being switched echoed, the noise vulgar in such a holy place.
The FBI agents turned, spotting the dozens of mafiosi instantly. They leaned against columns, stood on top of statues, waited beneath the windows. All of them pointed their guns toward the FBI agents, little red lights marking them.
I saw Dupont grow pale. He glanced at Catherine. A red light was trained on her, dancing over her throat.
He looked to me.
Gracefully, I stepped back from my sister and walked toward my husband. Alessandro welcomed me into the fold, tucking me beside him, baby to my chest.
“Choose your next move wisely, Dupont,” my husband said. “My men will.”
I looked up at him, cataloging the darkness of his eyes, the harshness of his expression. From his smile to his posture, it was clear my husband was in control of this situation, fulfilling his birthright, his namesake. The Godless.
I looked back to my sister. She had not moved.
“Go to New York, Catherine,” I called to her. “Chicago is not for you any longer.”
Her eyes met mine. Decades of memories and shared blood hovered between us.
I saw the blurry video of her shoving Raul away from his gun in my mind.
That was why Alessandro had agreed not to kill her. He was in her debt for saving my life, he had told me. I hoped she knew that. I hoped she figured out this was a choice he was giving them, out of gratitude and not weakness.
And he would only offer it once.
Catherine nodded slowly. “Tristan, let’s go. This church has seen enough bloodshed. A lot at our own hands.”
Dupont glanced at my sister. “They’re monsters, Catherine.”
“And we have done heinous things to punish them for this fact,” she murmured. But the church was so quiet we could hear her clearly. “Let’s go to New York, or mobless Washington. I am done here.”
Catherine leaned down, picking up the graduation photos. The red light followed her movements.
Dupont shifted on his feet, glaring scornfully at my husband. “Your kind do not deserve mercy. You hunt and kill and ruin lives,” he said. “Your reckoning will come. It may not be at my hands, or Cat’s. But it will come, and you will beg for mercy.”
Alessandro looked unbothered by Dupont’s threat. “Go and play with your USBs and bombs somewhere else, Dupont. Chicago is not the city for you.” He glanced down to me, eyes dark. “She will eat you alive.”
Very slowly, Special Agent Tristan Dupont bowed his head. “Enjoy your city, Rocchetti. Enjoy your wife and son, but keep them close.”
I sucked air through my teeth. The FBI had been so close to leaving unharmed. But threatening Dante and me?
Dupont had made a fatal error.
My husband’s expression didn’t flinch. He rose his hand, flicking a single finger.
The sound shot through the church, bullet hitting flesh. Dupont’s cry echoed through the church.
He hit the marble with a crack, blood flickering over the precious stone.
Catherine gasped, darting forward, hands going straight for the wound. Her scream could have shattered the windows.
“Don’t be stupid,” Alessandro said when the other FBI agents tried to step forward, guns at the ready. They stopped at the command in his tone, foot soldiers to a different king, but unable to ignore an order.
He held