Chapter 4 - The Ashes of St. Maren’s
The sanctuary of St. Maren’s Parish looked completely different on a Monday morning.
Without the veil of white carnations, without the organ music and the false promises, the old church felt raw, exposed, and achingly quiet. The police had finally cleared out after questioning Father Nolan and seizing Peter’s laptop from the rectory office.
Peter wasn't in Buffalo anymore. By Sunday night, Adrian’s men had ensured that Peter’s corporate sponsors cut all ties, his bank accounts were frozen under federal investigation for wire fraud and extortion, and he had packed his bags in a blind panic, fleeing the state before the indictments dropped.
I stood in the center of the community kitchen, wearing my favorite oversized flannel shirt and jeans, holding a lukewarm mug of black coffee.
The left burner of the stove was hissing quietly—the exact same sound I had complained about two winters ago. The sound Adrian had remembered.
"Still leaking, I see," a deep, familiar voice echoed from the doorway.
I turned around to see Adrian walking into the kitchen. He had shed his formal jacket, his white dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing strong, lightly tanned forearms. He didn't look like a feared underworld figure right now; he looked like a man who belonged here, amidst the stainless steel counters and the smell of roasting garlic.
"It has character," I said with a faint, tired smile. "A stubborn character. Kind of like me."
Adrian chuckled, walking over to stand beside me. He didn't touch me, but the heat radiating from his body was undeniable. "Character is good. Stubbornness is better."
"The parish council met this morning," I said, looking down into my coffee cup. "They voted unanimously to reject the Henderson Group's buyout offer."
"Of course they did," Adrian replied smoothly. "The Henderson Group no longer exists. Their primary investors pulled out after receiving some... very persuasive legal documents last night."
I looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. "I bet your version of 'persuasive legal documents' involves men in black suits standing in dark alleyways."
Adrian offered a slow, wicked smirk. "Let's just say corporate negotiations in Buffalo have recently become much more efficient."
Suddenly, the heavy metal back doors of the kitchen flew open.
My mother marched in, looking flustered, carrying a massive cardboard box filled with leftover wedding favors—mostly tiny jars of honey and personalized napkins that we would never use. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Adrian standing next to me.
Her eyes darted between the two of us, a mixture of terror, confusion, and reluctant gratitude washing over her face.
"Mr... Mr. Vescari," my mother stammered, smoothing down her skirt. "I... I just wanted to say thank you. For what you did at the church. Even if... even if half the things people say about you are terrifying."
Adrian inclined his head politely. "Mrs. Hart. You raised an extraordinary daughter. She deserved better than a coward like Peter."
My mother blinked, clearly not used to the most feared man in Buffalo speaking to her with such genuine respect. She set the box down on the prep table, cleared her throat, and looked at me. "Well. The caterer called. They said we can return the leftover champagne, but the deposit on the hall is non-refundable."
"Let them keep it," Adrian said casually. "Consider it a donation to the kitchen upgrade fund."
My mother’s jaw dropped. "The... the upgrade fund? Do you have any idea how much it costs to replace a commercial ventilation system?"
"I do," Adrian replied, pulling a sleek black business card from his pocket and placing it neatly beside my coffee mug. "Call the number on this card tomorrow morning. Tell them Vescari sent you. They'll have a crew here by Monday to rip out this entire kitchen and rebuild it from the ground up."
May you like
Before my mother could even process the magnitude of the offer, Adrian turned to me, his dark eyes softening. "Come outside with me, Molly. There's something I want to show you."
***
