The Church of St. Jude had been abandoned for twenty years, ever since the neighborhood around it curdled into a hazardous waste zone of industrial runoff and gang violence. The roof had partially collapsed, allowing the rain to weep down the peeling frescoes of the saints. The pews were rotted, the altar stripped of gold, the air thick with the smell of wet plaster and pigeon droppings.
It was a hollowed out shell of faith, standing in the middle of a war zone.
John Corvini walked in alone.
He carried no weapon. He wore no wire. He held a black umbrella, shaking the water off it before leaning it against a crumbling stone pillar. The sound of the rain outside was a dull, constant roar, muting the city, creating a cone of silence around this meeting.
He walked down the center aisle, his footsteps crunching softly on the debrisstrewn floor.
Marco Reyes was waiting at the altar.
The Spaniard looked like a ghost haunting the ruins. He sat on the steps of the chancel, his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. He wasn't wearing the bloodsoaked shirt anymore; he was dressed in black, simple and unadorned. He looked smaller than he had at the Summit. The kinetic, arrogant energy of the "Matador" was gone, burned away by the grief, leaving only a hard, dense core of exhaustion.
He didn't look up when John approached.
"You came alone," Marco said. His voice was rough, scraping against the acoustics of the empty church.
"I did," John replied. He stopped ten feet away, maintaining a respectful distance. "The protocol of a parley demands trust, even if it is manufactured."
Marco laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. "Trust. You talk about trust to a man whose house you broke into."
"I did not break into your house, Marco," John said quietly. "My son did."
Marco finally looked up. His eyes were dark hollows, bruised with sleeplessness. "Is there a difference? He bears your name. He breathes your air. The bullet that killed my son... did you cast it, John? Did you pay for it?"
John didn't flinch. He didn't offer a platitude. He absorbed the accusation because it was true. In the ledger of the Corvini family, Kevin's debt was John's debt.
"I cannot return what was taken," John said. He looked at the ruined altar, at the space where a cross used to hang. "There is no negotiation that brings back the dead. I know this. You know this."
John took a step closer, his movement slow, nonthreatening.
"But I also know the state of the city. Your communications are down. Your supply lines are blinded. My recruits... they are clumsy, but they are effective. They have paused your tsunami."
Marco nodded slowly. "They broke the dish. Clever. My Russians are running messages on motorcycles like it's 1940. It slows us down. It doesn't stop us."
"No," John agreed. "It doesn't stop you. But it gives us this moment. This breath."
John gestured to the decaying church, to the water dripping from the ceiling into a puddle near the confessional.
"This war, Marco... it has no victor," John said, his voice heavy with a profound, bonedeep weariness. He sounded old. He sounded like a man who had spent a lifetime building sandcastles just to watch the tide come in. "We can burn the docks. You can burn the labs. We can kill your soldiers, you can kill mine. But in a month? In a year? It ends with two kings standing on a graveyard of their own making."
The words hung in the damp air.
Marco stood up. He walked down the altar steps, stopping in front of John. He was close enough to strike. Close enough to kill.
"My graveyard was made by your family first, John," Marco whispered, the bitterness thick and toxic.
"I know," John said softly. "And for that, there is no price I can pay that settles the account."
John looked Marco in the eye. He didn't use his King gaze. He didn't use the terrifying blankness of the Summit. He looked at him man to man, father to father.
"But the graveyard is full, Marco. Do we need to add Vargo? Do we need to add Volkov? Do we need to add every soldier who works for a paycheck?"
John sighed, adjusting his cuffs, a nervous tic that betrayed his composure.
"If we continue, we invite the true enemy. The Feds. The National Guard. The city cannot sustain this level of entropy. If we burn it down, there is nothing left to rule. We become kings of ash."
Marco looked at John. He searched the Corvini Don's face for a lie, for a trap, for the ghost of James. But he saw only exhaustion. He saw a man who had lost control of his son and was trying to save the wreckage of his family.
Marco felt the rage in his chest, the hot, screaming need to kill Kevin Corvini. But he also felt the weight of the last week. The sleepless nights. The funeral arrangements. The endless logistics of a war he didn't care about anymore.
He was tired. He just wanted to mourn.
"Kevin," Marco said. The name was a curse.
"He is contained," John said quickly. "He has been removed from command. He is... broken, Marco. He is not a threat to you anymore."
"I want him," Marco said.
"You can't have him," John replied instantly. The softness vanished, replaced by the iron of the patriarch. "He is my son. I cannot trade his blood. If that is the term, then we walk out of here and we finish burning the city."
They stood locked in a stare, the immovable object against the unstoppable force.
Marco took a breath. He looked at the rain falling outside the broken doors. He thought about Sofia's tea party. He thought about Mateo's cape.
Killing Kevin wouldn't bring them back. Burning the city wouldn't bring them back.
"A truce," Marco said, the word tasting like bile. "Not a peace. A truce. We pull back to the 5th Street line. You open the port to my shipments without tax. You pay reparations for the house."
"Done," John said. "And the coalition stands down."
"The coalition stands down," Marco agreed. "For now."
Marco stepped back. He looked at John with a strange, jagged pity.
"You kept the chair empty for James because you respected him," Marco said quietly. "You should keep a chair empty for Kevin, John. Not out of respect. But to remind yourself that a weak son can destroy an empire faster than a strong enemy."
John took the blow. He nodded, accepting the insult because it was the truth.
"We have an accord," John said.
He held out his hand.
Marco looked at the hand. It was clean. Manicured. It was the hand that signed the orders, the hand that held the leash.
Marco shook it. His grip was loose, cold.
"Go home, John," Marco said, turning back to the altar, back to his grief. "Before I change my mind."
John Corvini picked up his umbrella. He didn't look back. He walked out of the ruined church, stepping into the rain, carrying the heavy, fragile weight of peace. The war was paused. The bleeding had stopped.
But as he walked toward his car, John knew that Marco was right. The graveyard was already built. They were just arguing over who had to be the caretaker.