Chapter 102 Beneath Saint Patrick's

• The old church stood like a guardian of stories untold, its gothic spires piercing Chicago's twilight sky. Saint Patrick's wasn't just another landmark—it was a confessional booth for the city's most dangerous souls. Mason Rivers knew this better than anyone.
• He'd arrived early, selecting a corner table that gave him full visibility of every entrance and exit. His contractor's days had him wired that way, even when he was playing the role of Leo King. The worn leather jacket he wore today wasn't designer—it was street armor, a stark contrast to the tailored suits he'd been flashing around lately.
• Mason absently traced the rim of his coffee cup, the steam curling up like the memories that haunted him. Each twitch of his fingers, every measured breath every micro-movement—survival instincts hardwired into his DNA. In this game, stillness wasn't weakness. Stillness was a weapon.