He knows the lads will be here tonight just as well as he knows his own name. It is what he would do if he were in their shoes. He is literally in the bushes as Yakavetta scurries out to his waiting car. He can smell the fear rolling off him in waves. 'He will reap his in the end,' he thinks to himself.

In the Don's urgency to escape, he mistakenly forgets to lock the front door. Il Duce lets himself in. As he cautiously saunters through the opulent house, he is careful to remain silent. He finds one clueless fool having a kip in a parlor chair guarding a hallway. He makes short work of him by garroting him with a stout length of silken rope lifted from the elaborate draperies.

As he turns to make his way down the deserted hallway, he hears the almost imperceptible report of a silenced gun and the sound of a dead man falling ignobly to the tiled floor. He quickly ducks to shield himself behind an open door when he spies a woman dressed all in black come from around the corner holding a gun. He has no other recourse but to come upon her from behind and knock her into unconsciousness with a well aimed elbow to the back of the head.

With a quick glance at his surroundings, he continues on his own down the hallway when it dead ends into a small sitting room with only one doorway. He slowly opens the ornately carved wooden door, which reveals a dimly lit passageway. He follows it until he finds an open door on his left hand side. He carefully turns the corner and peers into the room.

He sees the package boy seated lifeless on a metal chair, bloodied head thrown back, pristine copper pennies resting on his closed eyelids. His once white t-shirt is stained scarlet from an obviously mortal gunshot wound to his chest.

The two lads, once again identically kitted out in denims and black turtlenecks, sink to their knees in front of their fallen friend, bow their heads and begin to pray.

"As Shepards we shall be, for Thee, my Lord, for Thee.

Power hath descended forth from Thy hand…"

As he hears these familiar words, a keening wail erupts in his head. Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, these braw laddies are his very own. Under his standard they have raised their weapons and embraced his quest.

Pride such as he has never known rises within his breast. He goes to holster his gun at his side and while doing so, purposefully engages the safety. Instinctively, he knows his boyo's will not be careless. With only the slightest of glances into each other's eyes, they turn and draw their guns in unison. They hold their fire. Such magnificent men.

Bloody, beaten and proud, unashamed of their grief, they look to him. Closing the distance between them, he begins to pray again where they left off.

"…that our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command.

So we shall flow a river forth unto Thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be.

In Nomine Patris, Et Filii, Et Spiritus Sancti."

As he stands looking down upon his sons, stoic faces revealing none of their astonishment, he lifts his hands to lie upon their cheeks. One by one he raises their faces to his eyes.

Connor: hair the same shade as his beloved Annabelle and looking just as he did at that age.

Murphy: hair as black as his own once was with eyes as blue as the river Liffey. The same shade as Sibeal's own.

It is at this moment that he realizes his God is truly a just and loving God, and all is proceeding according to his plan.

Never shall innocent blood be shed, yet the blood of the wicked shall flow like a river.

The three shall spread their blackened wings and be

the vengeful striking Hammer of God.