The Last Supper
1184 Words
The table was set for eight, but only seven sat down.
They ate in the back room of Trattoria Nonna, a narrow brick joint wedged between a pawn shop and a shuttered video store in the Old Quarter. The sign out front still read *Closed for Renovation*, but the kitchen glowed warm and the air carried garlic, oregano, and the faint bite of fear. Nonna herself—eighty-three, four-foot-eleven, hands like twisted olive roots—had cooked for three hours without a word. She knew the rules: no questions, no leftovers, no survivors if the night went sideways.
Sonny sat at the head, the signet ring catching the candlelight every time he reached for the wine. To his right: Luca, jaw tight, eyes on the door. To his left: Lia, tablet dark for once, fork pushing clams around her plate like she was reading entrails. Across from them: Vinny Russo, tie loosened, mustache drooping; Elena Marini, scalpel-clean in a black turtleneck; Rocco DeMarco, sleeves rolled to show the faded Virgin Mary tattoo on his forearm; and Sister Concetta, rosary coiled beside her bread plate like a sleeping snake.
The eighth chair stayed empty. A plate of untouched braciole cooled in front of it. A silent accusation.
Nonna shuffled in with a bowl of ziti, steam curling. She set it down, crossed herself, and vanished.
Son47 hours until Corrigan’s raid.
They all knew it. No one said it.
Vinny broke the silence. “My guys at the port are ready. Cranes go down at 0400. Cops’ll be chasing ghosts for hours.”
Elena sipped her wine. “I’ve got the ambulance prepped. Blood bags, defibrillator, the works. If anyone asks, we’re transporting a heart attack victim.”
Rocco tore a piece of bread, dipped it in oil. “South wall’s wired. One flip of the switch, the whole block loses power. Feds’ll be blind.”
Sister Concetta murmured a Latin phrase under her breath. *“Requiem aeternam…”*
Luca finally spoke. “And the Albanians?”
“Paid,” Lia said. “Double. They’ll hold the south pier. But they want a sit-down after. Proof we’re not weak.”
Sonny set his glass down. The clink was too loud. “We give them Paolo’s head. And the ledger pages that damn him. They’ll stay loyal.”
Vinny frowned. “And if they don’t?”
“Then we burn the pier,” Sonny said. “With them on it.”
The room went still. Even the candles seemed to lean in.
Elena smiled, small and sharp. “Efficient.”
Rocco raised his glass. “To efficiency.”
They drank. The wine tasted like rust.
Sonny looked at the empty chair. “Tommy’s seat.”
Luca’s knuckles whitened around his fork. “Kid was family.”
“Kid was a rat,” Vinny said. “Family don’t sell family.”
Sister Concetta’s voice was soft. “Judas was one of the Twelve.”
Lia leaned forward. “We’re all Judas tonight. Question is—who’s holding the silver?”
The accusation hung. Eyes flicked. Hands moved closer to laps—where guns lived.
Sonny stood. “Enough. We finish this meal. Then we finish this war. Together.”
He raised his glass. “To Papa. To the family. To the ones who didn’t make it.”
They drank again. This time, the silence was heavier.
*
After the plates were cleared, Nonna brought espresso and a plate of sfogliatelle. The pastry shells cracked like bones under forks. No one spoke. Outside, a siren wailed and faded.
Sonny broke the quiet. “One last thing. Corrigan offered me a deal. Turn on all of you. Walk away.”
Luca’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “And?”
“I told him to go to hell.”
Vinny chuckled. “That’s why you’re Don.”
Elena’s eyes narrowed. “He’ll come harder now.”
“Let him,” Sonny said. “We’ve got twelve hours to make him regret it.”
He laid out the final play:
- **0400:** Vinny’s port strike.
- **0430:** Rocco blacks out the grid.
- **0500:** Elena’s ambulance blocks the federal staging area.
- **0530:** Lia leaks doctored ledger pages—implicating Corrigan in a Moretti payoff.
- **0600:** Sonny and Luca hit the federal safe house where the raid’s being planned. Take Corrigan alive. Force a confession. End the case.
Rocco whistled. “Suicide.”
“Redemption,” Sister Concetta corrected.
Luca met Sonny’s eyes. “You and me. Like the old days.”
“Like the old days,” Sonny echoed.
*
They left separately. Vinny first, then Elena, then Rocco. Sister Concetta lingered, pressing a small silver crucifix into Sonny’s hand. “For the child,” she whispered. “When the time comes.”
Lia stayed to help Nonna with the dishes. Luca waited on the curb, smoking.
Sonny joined him. The night was thick, humid. Somewhere, a dog barked itself hoarse.
“You trust them?” Luca asked.
“No,” Sonny said. “But I trust the plan.”
Luca offered the cigarette. Sonny took it. They smoked in silence, watching the street.
“You ever think,” Luca said, “we could’ve been different? You and me. Normal. Insurance salesmen. Little league coaches.”
Sonny exhaled smoke. “Every day.”
“But we’re not.”
“No.”
Luca flicked the butt into the gutter. “Then let’s finish it.”
*
Back at the fishing shack, Isabella was asleep on the cot, one hand on her belly. Vittorio sat beside her, oxygen hissing, eyes open.
“You ate,” the old man rasped.
“We ate.”
“Good.” Vittorio beckoned. “Closer.”
Sonny knelt. The old man’s hand was cold, paper-thin.
“I lied,” Vittorio whispered. “There’s no together. Not for you two. One throne. One king.”
Sonny’s throat tightened. “Papa—”
“Listen. When I’m gone, Luca will challenge you. Not with words. With blood. You’ll have to kill him. Or he’ll kill you.”
Sonny shook his head. “We’re past that.”
“You’re past nothing.” Vittorio’s grip tightened. “Promise me. You’ll do what must be done.”
Sonny couldn’t speak. The crucifix burned in his pocket.
Vittorio’s eyes closed. “Go. The war waits for no one.”
*
0300. The city was asleep. Or pretending to be.
Sonny stood on the dock, watching the water. Luca joined him, carrying two duffels—heavy with guns, cash, and a single photograph: the brothers at ten, arms around each other, grinning under the lemon tree.
“For luck,” Luca said.
Sonny took it. The paper was soft, edges worn.
They climbed into the boat. The engine coughed to life. Behind them, the shack lights winked out.
As they cut through the black water, Sonny felt the weight of the ring, the crucifix, the photograph. Three talismans. One future.
The last supper was over.
The final counterattack had begun.
And somewhere in the dark, Agent Corrigan was loading his gun.
- Writer
