Dawn breaks over the labyrinth of hedges and bodies and sheds light on the faces of the Vasiles, armed with their hidden artillery. Some were capable of escaping overnight, bringing with them the limp victims of the carnage in hopes of delivering them to safety before the hourglass runs out, while others stayed behind to escort their cohorts to the exits. The Vasiles take their leave, and the rest find their ways home—or find their graves. Of course, the media operated by the Vasiles tells a different story, clearing their own consciences in the eyes of the city and pointing fingers at the O’Sheas and the Fausts. The scene strikes a chord with the FBI, and agents are en route to descend upon the city, though their eyes aren’t narrowed on only the Fausts and O’Sheas. For the time being, the families are healing and rebuilding, but tensions are higher than ever, and the families on all sides are angry.
On the other end of the screen sits the judge, clicking through channels like it’s Saturday morning cartoons. The next morning, a letter arrives at each of the families’ residences, handwritten but without giveaways that could allude to any identity. It reads:
Let every man and woman count himself immortal. Let him say not merely, “Christ is risen,” but “I shall rise.”
There’s an image attached to the letter, held in place by a meager paperclip. The photograph is gruesome with three familiar heads lined up on a table, old bloods who came before the new generation of Chicago figureheads. The first is identified as Francesco Faust, a counselor for the mafia operating out of Sicily, Italy, a red ribbon folded over his eyes. The second, Matthias O’Shea, the brother of Mason O’Shea, operating out of Dublin, Ireland, a red ribbon draped over his ears. The third, Olezka Vasile, an avtorityet operating out of St. Petersburg, Russia, a red ribbon binding his mouth.
If your stomach can do you the justice, you’ll find the figure of a woman in a scarlet dress posed in the background, her face inconspicuously shielded by her hand. Somehow, the realization hits harder than the photograph—you’ve seen this woman before, idling at the entrance of the Art Institute, roaming the lobby of the hotel during the blackout, disappearing before the hors d’oeuvres made their rounds on New Years, swerving through the crowd at the Fire and Ice Festival, watching but not indulging at Navy Pier. She’s always been there, sinking into the walls before the night descends into chaos. But how could she have done this all on her own ?
The Washington Gala: Chicago Day of Giving event is now over. Feel free to finish up your threads, but also, feel free to start fresh.
