The Pale Altar
Chapter One "You’re holding it wrong, Pietro. The weight is in the wrist, not the elbow." My mentor, Signor Vito, did not look up from the ledger he was balancing on the shared kitchen table, the linoleum beneath his chair peeling in long, curling strips that smelled of old adhesive and damp. We were in the basement of the building on sixty-three of NineElm Crossing, a space that smelled of wet...
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