"Noted," Lorenzo said, and his voice stayed steady despite the blood still seeping through his shirt.
"And Father Oliviera." His gaze fixed on me, and heat crawled up my neck under his scrutiny. "The Church teaches that the body is a temple. Perhaps you should consider treating it as such, rather than a playground for your baser urges."
I kept my mouth shut. What could I say? The lie had saved my life, but it had also painted me as exactly the kind of priest the Church hierarchy already suspected I might be. My face burned, and I couldn't make myself meet Rhadamanthys's gaze.
Rhadamanthys nodded to us both, then turned and walked away.
Awkward silence filled the courtyard. It took me a minute to realize Lorenzo was staring at me.
I adjusted my cassock and turned away. “If you’re expecting a thank you, you’ll be waiting until Hell freezes over.”
“He called you Father Oliviera,” Lorenzo said, and I froze. He pushed off the wall. “Show me your left arm.”
“What? No!” He reached for my arm, but I pulled away.
He grabbed it anyway and yanked my sleeve up. I let him stare at the bite mark scar for a long moment before I jerked my arm free.
“You’re him,” he said, recoiling almost as if I’d burned him. “You’re Dionysus’ son.”
"Go to hell."
He frowned. “You don’t remember me.”
“Of course I remember you,” I spat. “You bit me. But it doesn’t matter who we were. What matters now is who we are. You’re an assassin, and you’re going to pay for what you did to Azevedo.”
But Lorenzo suddenly seemed less interested in my vengeance for some reason. He looked at me like I’d slapped him. “Rafael, I…” He glanced around, fingers flexing into fists. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Not about Azevedo. He deserved it. About…” He swallowed "About what comes next.”
Then he turned, and he ran into the night as fast as his feet could carry him.
What the hell was that about? He was sorry about what comes after? After what? This?
I shook my head to clear it. Whatever he was talking about, it could wait. I needed to speak to the council about Azevedo, because if there was even a slim chance that what Lorenzo said about Azevedo trafficking children was true, I needed to make it right.
I touched my lips and still tasted blood and lies.
This isn’t over, Lorenzo. And the next time I see you, I’ll finish this.
Blood had glued myshirt to my ribs, and each breath pulled at the fabric in ways that made me regret every life choice that had led to this moment. I slammed my thumb into the intercom button outside a run-down apartment building, leaving a red smear on the plastic that someone was definitely going to have questions about later.
The intercom crackled. "Closed."
I pressed a copper Ferryman’s coin against the lens. "Not to me."
The gate buzzed open, and I shoved through into the courtyard. Each step sent fresh pain through my side, and I was leaving a trail of blood drops on ancient cobblestones that were going to be hell for someone to clean up.
The apartment door looked like every other door in the building with its peeling green paint and brass numbers worn smooth. I knocked twice, paused, then knocked once more.
An elderly man in a wrinkled shirt and reading glasses answered the door. "You look like shit."
"You really know how to make a guy feel special, Doctor Manush." I stepped past him and tried not to think about how much blood I was getting on his floor.
"Bedside manner costs extra." He gestured deeper into the apartment. "Back room. How long?"
“Ten minutes. Maybe twelve.”
I limped into what passed for a living room. Mismatched furniture and medical journals covered every surface. An old woman sat in a corner chair, needles clicking in steady rhythm, and she muttered something in Romani when she spotted my blood-soaked shirt before returning to her knitting. A teenage boy hunched over a stack of euros at the coffee table, and the bills disappeared into a wooden box the moment he registered my presence.
"Stevo, get the surgical kit," Dr. Manush said in accented English.
