Empire Streets Chapter V: Emperor

 The sun barely began its course lighting up the sky yet Sunday morning was already busy down at the plaza. Families and friends gathered as they entered the cathedral. Its massive church-bell atop the tower rang for miles, both becoming a wake-up call and alarm to the nearby residents. The children with their parents played, running around as they were scolded to behave inside the hallowed grounds of Imus Cathedral.

The soothing voice of the choir resonated with the ringing of the church-bell. Inside the cathedral, sporting an old Gothic look, the faithful began to pray as Mass was about to start. The children had behaved, some were eyes-closed deep in prayer while others sang their heart out with the choir. It was just another Sunday, it seemed.

The altar boy began waving the incense as the priest marched on the middle path. The song 'Luwalhati sa Dyos” echoed within the cathedral's walls. On the third row from the front, an old man, seemingly in his seventies, was quiet. His wrinkled face expressed a look of dis-taste and his ever-judging eyes wandered as the priest passed his crowd. He was silent.

The Mass ensued. The old man took part in their Christian tradition. He responded when he needed to, he sang when he knew the lyrics, he knelt when he felt his knees could take it. Other than that, he was silent. The priest breezed through the homily, to which the old man tried to understand. The priest went on about how holy God and his only son, Jesus Christ was and how trusting everything in them will work out just fine in the end. Somehow, they will provide. It was somehow too ironic for the old man..

The old man's companions were not as quiet as him. Behind him, a family was trying their best to stop their crying infant. The old women in front of him sang wholeheartedly, as if every single word resonated within their souls. To his right was a young and beautiful teenage girl who appeared to be with her boyfriend. They were flirting, too. The old man had decided to ignore such foolishness and disrespect. To his left, another old man was singing. His voice was coarse and wearied out. His slightly tattered white shirt was stained with old sweat. His body was thin and skin was brown, burnt by the harsh sun. somehow, it was the old man's polar opposite. He was well-fed, his skin, although wrinkled, was the same tone as the mistisa to his right. His white hair thinned down to the side and he sported a black Polo shirt and pants.

When it was time to sing 'Our Father', the crowd began to hold each others' hands as a sign of unity, or just because it was tradition. The old man offered both of his hands. The brown-skinned old man grasped his hand like a brother while the lady on her right couldn't be bothered. She was busy talking on the phone. The old man just sighed and continued to sing.

When it was time for communion, he stood in line like everybody else who wanted to receive the body of Christ. He took in the bread, went back on his seat and a silent prayer rushed on his mind. Soon after, the mass was done. The crowd stood up and gave a round of applause as if the stage had closed the curtain. The children were glad, ready to head home with their parents or get the Sunday outing started. The old man went on his merry way too, but not outside the cathedral just yet. He walked towards the far corner, where the confession boxes were located.

He walked in, knelt down and folded his fingers together. The small window that separated the old man from the priest slid open.

“Bless me father, for I have sinned, I have sinned a lot,” the old man began. “My last confession was more than thirty years ago.”

“A long time,” the priest said. “Go on, my son.”

“I am about to tell you an interesting story, father. It will all make sense in the end. A word of warning though, this may take some time.”

“God always has time for the repentant.” the priest assured the old man.

Repentant? I don't know about that. The old man thought.

“Very well, I shall start.” the old man began with his tale.

Nine years ago, the Santino family had a peaceful rule in Cavite. They liked it there, they thought it had the best of both worlds-- it had its peaceful rural areas and urban jungle settings. Small businesses thrived in that province, and the Santinos did nothing but help those who asked for it. With a little fee, of course. Money or favor, it was their way.

The Santinos were neutral about the turf war that raged in the other province and in Manila itself. No one touched the Santinos and they kept to themselves. The last war they were involved in was during the late 1980's.

But a certain family feared the neutral Santinos. Maybe they thought they were just waiting the war out, maybe they'll strike when everyone's guard was down. Their paranoia wasn't all misplaced. True, the Santino were growing. Cavite is a pretty big place. And in every district, the Santino influence became stronger.

It was the strongest family that feared them, the Gutierrez family. One by one, their rivals fell and died. Massacres, shootings and assassinations were all over the news. The reason everyone feared them is because of how they worked. Everyone was fair game. In their eyes, children, women, the elderly and the disabled had no differences when they're dead. There was no civilian. Either you're with them or you're dead.

As their influence grew, so was their reach and protection to the point they became a criminal empire. They had senators, governors, police and even priests like you inside their pocket. The media celebrated their headlines. The Gutierrez family dwelled in their infamy.

Soon enough, even the neighboring provinces bowed down to the Gutierrez family's might. Those who held their principle were shot at the back. Friends, brothers and sisters turned on each other to protect themselves. They Inspired chaos and within the confusion and fear, their power grew.

But they were not businessmen. They were savages. They did not know what to do with their power except to expand it. They were never satisfied with what they had. In the end, they went after the forbidden fruit-- the Cavite territory.

They thought they could overwhelm the Santino family because they attacked from all sides. Every neighboring province sprang out and started gunning down Santino territory. At first, they seemed to be winning. The Santinos were forced to retreat to their fortress in Imus. The Gutierrez family morale was high. The thought of making the Santinos submit or eradicated made their head spin. After such deed, they will be feared even more. Maybe the entire Luzon would fear them, hell, the whole damn country.

You know the old saying, father? How wars weren't won with weapons or sentiment, but won by soldiers? I never thought a single person could have made such difference. Matthew, my son, made to a war legend.

He was like a shadow, an assassin set out by death himself. Even I don't know how he did it, a teenager at that time, sixteen, I think, yet he had so much blood on his hands, it would make war veterans weep. If you watched the news back then, you'd know it was a hit after hit. He didn't even bother with the small fishes, he decided to crumble the Gutierrez family empire by striking at its foundations. A captain gutted like a fish, an underboss shot in the head, prominent soldiers put down like dogs. Some even decided to off themselves fearing that Matthew would get to them first.

Soon after the foundations were weakened, the soldiers of the Santino family made its move. For so long they had thought that the Gutierrez family thrived within chaos and fear, but once they were on the receiving end, they were just as lost as the rivals they put down. And once they had lost their grip of fear, the masses turned against them. The Santinos were supported, even to the point of being labeled as heroes. All because of the one who spear-headed the revolution.

Maybe my son really is a modern day hero. Honestly, I could believe that.

It became clear to me, father. The more you push us to a corner, the more vicious we get. Soon enough, there was none left of the Gutierrez family. All the fear they used, all the hatred they caused came back to bite them in the ass. A full extermination. From the Don to the lowest soldier, the Santinos cleared Luzon of the Gutierrez plague. And with no one to sit on the devastated throne of a bloddy mob war, I was forced to rule.

Yes, father. I am Alfonse Santino.

I am not a holy man, father. I have lived a sinful life. But I took care of my family, I took care of my friends. I do not regret what I had done. This is not my story, this is not my repentance I seek. My son, Matthew, I wish him spared from eternal hellfire. The wars he fought, at such a tender age, he had lost his innocence to the cruelty of this world. All those lives he took in cold blood was in the name of the family. It is his salvation I care for, not mine.

After those words, the priest heard the door open and shut. He tried to run after the confessor, but he disappeared from the crowd.

Well, I'll be damned. The priest thought. The infamous emperor of the underworld does have his fears. He was amazed on how such a feared man be so empathetic and caring.

Outside the cathedral, Alfonse was greeted by a pair of tough-looking men in shark-skin suits. They opened the door to his silver Expedition and drove off.

At the back seat, with another old man, he sat.

“How was the mass, Al?” his company asked.

“Disagreeable, Tom,” Alfonse responded. “As always.”

The Don was with his old friend and adviser, Thomas Cabrera. He was an old stout man a lot smaller than Al. He sported thick round glasses that covered his brown eyes. His voice soft and soothing.

“Fearing for your soul, old friend?” Tom laughed as Al chuckled under his breath.”

“It's not my soul I'm worried about.”

“Still worried about young Matthew?”

Al sighed. “As a father, I will always be worried.”

“Well, it was his choice to disappear,” Tom reassured him. “You supported him when he decided out. You did what any good father will do. He'll come back. He's your son, after all.”

“I even heard he changed his last name.”

“It was probably the right thing to do. Bearing your name can gather up a lot of unwanted attention.”

“You're right,” Al sighed once more. “How's Mario?” he asked. Although a bit hesitantly.

“Probably still asleep,” replied Tom. Disappointment was clear in his tone. “That's the son you should be focusing on. He's the one who'll run things when we're gone.”

“Ha, we may be old, but our time isn't up just yet,” replied Al. “I will still see my grand-kids play in the balcony. I can still the the tomatoes I planted grow into fruit.”

Tom was silent. Hesitating to answer his old friend's enthusiasm with the bitter truth of his illness. Perhaps it was his only way to cope. And accepting the realization that his own flesh and blood, his eldest son was unfit to rule may be a little too much for even a strong man.

“We'll see, old friend. We'll see.” such enigmatic answer spurted out from Tom's lips. Still, Al was content. He knew what his friend meant. Time really wasn't the luxury he had. The car was silent after that, a comfortable stillness gripped the atmosphere as they drove to Makati, where later, the Santino Charity ball will occur.

TO BE CONTINUED