Sean didn't drive to the Southside immediately. He took a detour to the West Side, past the train tracks and the houses with peeling paint. The air here was different—it smelled of diesel, roasted corn, and a century of bad luck.

  He pulled the Camry into the overgrown lot of Our Lady of the Forgotten River.

  It was a small, limestone Catholic church that had been abandoned since the diocese consolidated the parishes in the late nineties. It wasn't a grand cathedral; it was a shrine to lost causes. The stained glass above the main doors depicted a weeping Virgin Mary standing in a dry riverbed, her blue robes faded to a dusty grey by the Texas sun.

  Sean had "acquired" the deed three months ago in a poker game against a crooked city councilman. The politician thought he was bluffing with a pair of Queens. He wasn't. Now, it was Sean's vault. And his tomb.

  He killed the headlights. He grabbed the canvas bag. He stepped out into the humid night. The silence here wasn't peaceful; it was heavy.

  He walked to the side door—the sacristy entrance. He fished the heavy iron key he’d won from the councilman out of his pocket. It turned in the lock with a grind that felt like crushing bone. The heavy oak door groaned open.

  Sean stepped inside. The smell hit him first. Dust. Rat droppings. And the faint, stubborn scent of rose water and stale incense that had soaked into the wood for fifty years.

  He clicked on his penlight. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air like microscopic ghosts. He walked onto the altar. It was stripped bare. No linens. No candles. Just a slab of cold marble beneath a statue of the Virgin. She was looking down with plaster eyes that seemed to track the flashlight beam.

  "Perfect," Sean whispered.

  He unzipped the bag. He took out the cash. Fifty thousand. He took out the chips. Three hundred thousand.

  He separated them. He put twenty of the $5,000 chips into his jacket pocket. That was Hector’s cut. One hundred thousand dollars. Principal plus interest. The rest—$200,000 in chips and the original $50,000 cash—he prepared to shove into the hollow space beneath the altar, the reliquary where they used to keep the bones of the saints.

  Click-clack.

  The sound of a pump-action shotgun echoed through the empty church like a cannon shot.

  Sean froze. He didn't turn around. He slowly raised his hands. "I own the deed," Sean said, his voice echoing in the vast emptiness. "Check the records."

  "Paper burns," a voice rasped. It sounded like gravel grinding together. "Turn around. Slowly. Do not disrespect the Mother."

  Sean turned. Standing in the doorway of the church was a man who looked like he had been carved out of driftwood. He was old—seventy, maybe eighty. He wore a stained undershirt and baggy slacks held up by suspenders. A rosary made of cheap plastic beads was wrapped around the barrel of the Mossberg 500 he was pointing at Sean's chest.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "I know you," the old man said, squinting into the gloom. "You're the Casias boy. The one who sells lies."

  Sean recognized him then. Father Tomas. He wasn't a priest anymore—defrocked or retired, Sean didn't know—but he had refused to leave the building when the diocese locked the doors. He was the ghost of the River.

  "Father," Sean said, flashing a smile that felt tight on his face. "I didn't know you were still... keeping Her company."

  "She is never alone," Tomas spat. "Only forgotten. Get out. This is holy ground."

  "It's private property," Sean corrected. "Mine. I won it fair and square, Tomas. I could call the cops and have you evicted for trespassing."

  Tomas laughed. It was a dry, hacking sound. "Call them. By the time they get here, I'll have scrubbed your blood off the tile. The cops don't come to the West Side for anything less than a body count."

  Sean looked at the shotgun. Then he looked at the bag of money on the altar. He could try to "Shift" the gun. Make it jam. But he was tired. He was bleeding. And picking a fight with a priest in a church felt like bad karma, even for him.

  So he used the other weapon. The one that works on everyone.

  "I don't want to evict you, Tomas," Sean said, lowering his hands slowly. "I want to hire you."

  Tomas frowned, the barrel lowering a fraction of an inch. "Hire me?"

  "I need a caretaker," Sean lied. Or maybe he wasn't. "Someone to keep the rats out. Someone to make sure the copper thieves don't strip the wiring. Someone to... watch the altar."

  Sean reached into the bag. Tomas tensed, his finger tightening on the trigger. Sean pulled out a bundle of cash. Ten thousand dollars in hundreds. He tossed it onto the floor between them. Thump.

  "Ten grand," Sean said. "Cash. Tonight. Just to watch the door."

  Tomas looked at the money. He didn't lower the gun. "And what are you hiding in my church, Sean? Drugs? Guns?"

  "I'm hiding the future," Sean said. "And it's not your church, old man. It's Mine. I own the stone, I own the spirit. But right now, the spirit needs a new roof, and the stone needs a guard."

  He tossed another bundle. Thump. "Twenty thousand. Fix the roof. Buy some candles. Turn the lights back on. Just don't let anyone open that altar but me."

  Tomas looked at the money. The greed was warring with the piety in his eyes. Or maybe it was just survival. He was starving in the dark, and Sean was offering a feast.

  "You're in trouble," Tomas said softly. "I can smell the blood on you. You need a hideout, not a sanctuary."

  "Call it what you want," Sean said. "Do we have a deal?"

  Tomas looked at the money. Then he looked up at the statue of Our Lady of the Forgotten River, her face obscured by shadows. He sighed, and the sound was like the building itself exhaling. He lowered the gun. He didn't pick up the money yet. He just nodded.

  "The rectory out back has a cot," Tomas said. "If you try to sleep on the altar, I'll shoot you myself."

  "Understood," Sean said.

  "And Sean?"

  "Yeah?"

  "If you bring the devil in here," Tomas said, his eyes hard, "She will weep. And you do not want to be around when a mother weeps."

  "I'll keep that in mind," Sean said.

  He waited for the old man to shuffle back into the shadows, watching him like a gargoyle. Sean turned back to the altar. He shoved the bag of money into the cavity beneath the statue’s feet. He slid the marble slab back into place.

  Sean walked out of Our Lady of the Forgotten River, leaving twenty thousand dollars on the floor. He got back in the Camry. His hands were steady now. He had a fortress. And he had a guard dog with a rosary.

  Now he just had to survive the meeting with the cartel that wanted to kill him.

  He checked his watch. 11:15 PM. Forty-five minutes to get to the Southside.

  "Out of the church," Sean whispered, starting the engine. "And into the fire."