Chapter 1

The seemingly unending stream of penitents had finally dwindled to nothing, and Father Nicholas O'Donnell had just finished a personal prayer for strength. He was preparing to leave the confessional booth, when he heard the door open and shut again on the other side of the screen. Sighing quietly to himself, he reclaimed his seat and waited.

Presently, he heard a warm contralto begin, "Bless me father for I have sinned. It has been two years since my last confession..."

Twenty minutes later, a much shaken Father Nicholas still sat in the booth, once again alone with his thoughts, and his God.

"How much can we trust this ... information? Are we absolutely certain that this parish priest ... Nicholas is his name? ... isn't just breaking under the strain of his duties?" queried the aging Cardinal.

"We are as sure as we can be, under the circumstances and ... he acted properly in seeking guidance before responding ... we believe that he hoped for clear instructions from Rome," the Archbishop responded.

"It appears that he will get them. How many others know of this?"

"Nicholas swears he hasn't spoken to anyone other than his Bishop. Of course, now, at least one more person at every level knows, up to and including yourself."

"Even higher up than me. The Holy Father himself has become involved. In fact, it seems he has his own sources of information. He intervened even as we attempted to insulate him from it!"

"Really? You don't suppose..."

"He didn't say. He did, however, issue some very explicit instructions, and made it clear that any who opposed them would be excommunicated!"

"May I ask what those instructions were?"

"Read them for yourself. Some of them were for you," the Cardinal said, pushing a file folder across the table.

Several minutes later, the Archbishop looked up at the Cardinal and said, "This is a complex and expensive response to what was a simple request. It has major security implications as well. There is also the consideration that some of the people involved are, technically, criminals."

The Cardinal nodded, "Yes, but you know we have no choice. God chooses his own tools. It is not ours to criticize."

Father Nicholas was afraid, but having just ended three days of constant discussion and prayer with his Bishop, it was clear that he had no choice but to proceed as directed.

On entering the rectory, he unfurled a silk banner and hung it, facing outward, in the window that looked down on the street. The banner displayed an image of the Archangel Michael, sword raised high, preparing to decapitate Satan, represented as a dragon.

This should get the message across, he said to himself, silently. We didn't have a prearranged signal, but she said they'd be watching.

It was a long day, broken only by the occasional confession of minor sins. When it was over, he was almost disappointed that the mysterious woman had failed to appear. As he walked slowly toward the rectory, wondering how long it would take to re-establish contact, he was approached by a familiar face from the neighborhood. It was a boy whom he had seen frequently, but not frequently enough, at mass.

When he reached Nicholas, the boy handed him an envelope, and said, "A man in a fancy suit told me to deliver this to you." The boy then ran off.

Curious, Nicholas opened the envelope as he continued to walk to the rectory. It was an invitation.

As he finished reading, he opened the rectory door and glanced at the clock on the mantle. It's five o'clock already! He rushed to his quarters and hurried through a "whore's bath" in order to remove the worst of the day's sweat. Throwing on a clean robe, he practically ran down the stairs, reaching the bottom just as someone began to knock on the entry door.

He opened the door to find the biggest man he'd ever seen in his life, filling the door frame. No, not filling it, rather completely occluding it, because the guy would have had to turn sideways and duck, just to get through the door. He wore an expensive Italian suit, with some suspicious lumps under the coat. As if that weren't worrisome enough, when the man spoke he did so in a deep, booming voice.

"My name is Marco. I'm here for Father Nicholas," he announced.

"Th ... that would be me," Nicholas stuttered. "You must be pleased to have been named after an author of one of the gospels," he went on, lamely.

"Yes, sir. Are you ready to go sir?"

"As ready as I'm going to get," he responded, as Marco turned to lead him toward a huge black limousine. "My, my. There was no need to go to this much expense."

"It is nothing, Father," Marco said. "The limo belongs to my boss."

Nicholas nodded his head silently. It would not be unusual for someone in Joe Fanelli's position to own or have access to such equipment.

Grinning, Marco nodded and said, "Please fasten your seat belt Father."

"Why would a Mafia Don want to do this?"

Marco shook his head and replied, "Father, I am only an employee. I don't have all of the answers you seek. I might have some of them, but I don't have the boss' permission to share them with you. Please be patient, and I'm sure that he will satisfy your curiosity."

Father Nicholas fell silent, but although the limo was appointed well beyond luxurious, the ride became ever more uncomfortable as they left his parish and entered an industrialized area. It didn't help that they drove straight into a warehouse and that the warehouse doors closed behind them.

The car stopped near the door of an office enclosure, and Marco got out speaking to two others, who were just as physically impressive, standing near that door. Returning, he assisted Father Nicholas out of the car and walked over to the office door with him.

The office had a large glass window, looking out over the warehouse floor. Nicholas could see through the glass that there was a large conference table surrounded by chairs. Odd place to hold a family dinner, he observed. As they approached the door, he could see no other entrance to the room, but oddly, there appeared to be a circle of bright, silvery metal on the floor, just inside.

Stopping just outside the door, Marco turned to him and said, "Please enter the room Father, and take a seat on the far side of the table."

Nicholas nodded and turned back to the door. As he stepped through the door frame, he stepped directly onto the center of the silver disk, and for a moment, his world spun. When his vertigo ended, he looked around to find himself in a totally different room from the one he'd been about to enter! A strong hand grasped his arm and pulled him further into the room, and it was a good thing. A heartbeat later, Marco appeared in the middle of the silver disk.

On recovering his balance, Nicholas looked up to see that the hand, which had kept him from being steamrollered by Marco, belonged to a tall aristocratic-looking gentleman, who appeared to be in his late forties.

"Good evening, and welcome to our temporary home, Father Nicholas," the man intoned in a rich baritone voice. "I am Joseph Fanelli. Please come with me."

"What just happened? Where am I? How did I get here? I was just walking into an office on the warehouse floor, and now..."

"All will become clear at dinner," Joe interrupted. "Come, sit and let us have an apéritif first. I trust you had a comfortable journey?" he queried, leading Nicholas into a nicely-appointed study.

"The limousine was very comfortable, of course," Nicholas answered stiffly, "but the trip itself was rather unsettling."

"My apologies," Joe responded, "but it was necessary for security reasons." After showing his guest to a comfortable chair, he collected two glasses from a tray on a nearby table. Delivering one of them to Nicholas, he said, "This is a very nice Vermouth." Both men began to sip.

In between sips, Father Nicholas asked, "Shouldn't we to begin discussing my reason for being here?"

"Not just now," Joe said, waving him off that topic. "Dinner will be ready soon, and such talk goes much better on a full stomach. Instead, I will tell you that I've heard many good things about you, but I want you to tell me about yourself, in your own words. Would you like some olives?"

"Ah ... no thank you. All right ... from the beginning, then, I guess ... I was born in Boston, to a family of Irish immigrants. As the youngest son in a large family, I learned early on about limited resources, and the need to make my own way in the world. I didn't have the build or the personality to be a policeman or to dream of participating in varsity or, eventually professional sports.

"My family wasn't impoverished, but we had very little extra money, and none for college. I was an average, but not exemplary student, academically, so financial assistance for education was not in the offing. I had the fortune to finish high school during a period of relative peace, for the United States, and even the armed forces were being picky about recruiting, so a military career was also unlikely.

"My family, being solidly Catholic, was very active in the Church, and I found that I enjoyed that environment. It was only natural that I gravitated to the clergy, after graduating from high school. Many people felt that I should have waited, and gained more life experience, but I haven't missed it.

"My current service as parish priest is my fifth assignment in thirty years with the Church, and I have been here for ten years now."

"Do you stay in touch with your natal family?" Joe queried.

"Not as much as I should," Nicholas answered. "In truth, my parishioners seem to be more my family, than the one into which I was born. It seems that my own most frequent confession concerns failing to adequately honor my parents."

"As it should be," Joe declared. "Family is important. On the other hand, families grow and change, sometimes evolving into something we don't always recognize. Perhaps you shouldn't beat yourself up too much. Is there anything else you wish to share?"

"I can't think of anything at the moment. No glaring misdeeds or stupendous feats of strength, bravery, or cleverness. I'm a simple parish priest, shepherding my flock, hopefully to salvation.

"That's it for me. Perhaps you would like to tell me how you became Don Giuseppe?"

Joe paused thoughtfully. He couldn't identify any purpose in withholding the requested information.

"I am not Sicilian, but my birth certificate indicates that my mother was Italian. I was told by others that my father also was Italian, but was conscripted by the military and died in action before he could do the honorable thing. That was all that anyone would ever tell me about him.

"Shortly after I was born, my mother was killed while crossing a busy street, by a drunk driver. It fell to my aging and infirm maternal grandparents to care for me, and truthfully, they were not up to the job. My father's family, whoever they were, was either ignorant of or uninterested in my existence. The upshot was, I was placed in a Catholic orphanage, in Chicago. My grandparents died shortly thereafter. This is all a matter of public record.

"The orphanage staff easily fit the stereotypical hard-faced Catholic sisters; but they also genuinely cared for the children they were charged with nurturing. It was not always appreciated, but they gave me discipline, education, motivation, spiritual guidance, and yes, even love, for all of the years lived with them. I participated in ROTC while in high school, and entered the Army the day after I turned eighteen. I continued my education while I served, and eventually received my commission. I spent twenty years in the Army, and took retirement at age 39 as a Lieutenant Colonel. While serving, I acquired a BS in Military Science, and an MBA.

"Following my retirement, I moved back to Chicago, on the promise of a job from a friend of a friend. My rank, education, and experience qualified me as a member of upper management, but jobs were scarce, so the offer of a position as a group supervisor with a medium sized mercantile company was a good one, although it was pretty far down the food chain. I fared well in competition for advancement, though, and I got my first my promotion after being there only six months.

In my new job I was permitted to have my own secretary, but the person who would have been my secretary was an older woman, who she decided that she didn't really want to break in a new boss. Since she was eligible for retirement, she decided to leave.

"Her retirement caused me some inconvenience, but when we advertised, there were numerous applicants for her job, and she agreed to stay on long enough to get her replacement up to speed. After interviewing some thirty or so candidates, and evaluating their qualifications, I selected a young lady who was very much overqualified, having recently graduated with a BA degree in Business. Her name was Maria DiCatania.

"Miss DiCatania only lasted about a year as my secretary, for two reasons: first, as I said, she was overqualified for the job, and it wasn't long before more lucrative opportunities arose for her elsewhere in the company. Secondly, she became my wife, so for obvious reasons, she could not remain my secretary.

"It was only after we married, and I learned that her father, Vincenzo, was a ranking board member and majority stockholder in the company I worked for, that I began to notice that everyone who worked there had an Italian surname.