Gangster Discovers Faith

The rain fell in sheets as Marco sped down the empty street, his tires squealing around corners. In the passenger seat, Tony gripped the armrest, eyes wide.

"Slow down, man! You want to get us killed?"

Marco grinned and pressed the gas harder. The thrill of the chase coursed through him, erasing all thought of danger. Up ahead, red and blue lights flashed behind their target's car.

"They ain't catching us now," Marco said.

He took a sharp left turn into an alley, cutting the other vehicle off. It swerved and crashed against a dumpster with a crunch of metal. Marco slammed on the brakes, bringing their car skidding to a halt.

"Let's go."

They jumped out into the rain. The driver of the other car stumbled out, dazed. Marco grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wreck.

"Where's the money, huh? Think you can rip us off?"

The man blubbered, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead. Marco drew his pistol and pressed it under his chin.

"Talk, or you're dead."

"P-please! It's in the trunk."

Marco nodded to Tony. As his partner went to retrieve the cash, Marco leaned close to the man.

"If you ever try to cross us again, next time I won't be so nice."

He pistol-whipped him, sending him crumpling to the ground. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. Tony returned clutching a duffel bag stuffed with bills. They jumped back in the car and sped away before the police arrived, lost in the downpour.

Another successful collection. Marco grinned, adrenaline surging through him as he drove. This is what he lived for—the rush of power and making punks like that. No one messed with the Lucchese crime family without consequences. He was their top enforcer, feared on the streets.

Pulling up outside the clubhouse, Marco cut the engine. Inside, music pulsed, and men laughed, drinking away the night's profits. At the bar, Boss Lucchese raised a glass in greeting.

"Good work, boys. Have a drink on me."

Marco poured whiskey for himself and Tony. They clinked glasses, settling onto stools. Around them, associates dealt drugs or gambled, and loose women draped over their laps. This place was all Marco knew—violence, crime, chasing the next high without care for consequences. It filled the void inside him, or so he told himself.

Yet lately, something nags at the back of his mind. Was this all there was to life? As the years blurred by in a haze of booze and bullets, Marco found himself wondering if this lifestyle would destroy him before long. Shaking away such doubts, he downed his drink and reached for another. There was no other way; he tried to convince himself once more.

The next morning, Marco woke up with a pounding headache. He dragged himself from his apartment, pulling up his collar against the rain that still fell. Down the street, the towering spires of the Anglican Cathedral rose above the grimy buildings. An old habit from his childhood had him making the sign of the cross as he passed.

Inside, the church was empty except for a lone priest lighting candles at the altar. Marco lingered in the shadows of a pew, watching the flickering flames. Finally, the priest turned. He was young, with kind eyes and a gentle smile.

"Good morning. Can I help you with something?"

Marco almost left, but something held him there. "Just looking for some peace, I guess."

The priest nodded understandingly. "You'll find it here. My name is Father Gabriel."