Chapter 5 - Shadows in Saint Michael’s
Midnight at Saint Michael’s Cathedral felt like stepping into an ancient tomb. The stained-glass windows cast long, blood-red shadows across the empty wooden pews, while the smell of old incense and melting wax hung heavy in the air.
Lorenzo walked down the center aisle, his hand resting on his hidden sidearm. Two of his most trusted men, Marco and Luca, stayed near the heavy oak entrance doors to watch the street.
I followed close behind Lorenzo, holding a small flashlight and the silver key Amelia had worn beneath her dress for over a decade.
"Down here," Lorenzo whispered, pushing open a small iron door behind the altar that led to the stone basement.
We descended a spiral stone staircase into the damp air of the church crypt. Rows of stone tombs lined the walls, dating back to the late nineteenth century. At the far end, behind a carved marble statue of Saint Michael, was a heavy iron vault door set directly into the stone foundation.
"This was my father's private sanctuary," Lorenzo said, using his shoulder to clear away thick spiderwebs.
I stepped forward, inserting the silver key into the tarnished lock. It turned with a heavy, satisfying CLICK.
The iron door creaked open, revealing a small wall safe. Inside lay a thick, leather-bound red ledger covered in a light layer of dust, alongside a stack of original property deeds and an old silver pocket watch that had stopped at 3:14 AM—the exact time of the warehouse fire.
Lorenzo reached in, his fingers brushing the red leather with profound reverence. "Fourteen years..."
"Open it," I whispered.
He laid the ledger on a flat stone tomb. We opened the thick cover. The pages were filled with tight, cramped handwriting—partially in English, partially in coded Italian, and heavily annotated in the same Calabrian dialect Amelia spoke.
I shined my flashlight on the first column of dates. "These aren't just shipping logs, Lorenzo. These are dates of payments made directly to a bank account in the Cayman Islands under the name V. Moretti."
"Proof of embezzlement," Lorenzo said, his voice cold. "He was stealing from my father for years before the murder."
"And here," I pointed to a red-ink note written in the margin near the date of Matteo’s death. "Vittorio mentiu a marina. L'incendio e spisa da iddu."
I looked up at Lorenzo. "It says: Vittorio lied about the marina. The fire was paid for by him."
"That's enough to convict him of first-degree murder," Lorenzo said, pulling out a secure camera to photograph every single page.
Suddenly, a metallic clatter echoed from the top of the stone stairs.
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"Lorenzo!" Marco’s voice screamed from above, cut short by the muffled pop of a suppressed firearm.
Lorenzo slammed the ledger shut, grabbing me by the waist and shoving me behind the marble statue just as a tear-gas canister bounced down the stone stairs, filling the crypt with thick, blinding white smoke.
