The air in Rometasted like espresso and sin.
Tourists in their sensible shoes shuffled past me, photographing monuments while pickpockets worked the crowds. I'd parked three blocks from Vatican City because riding straight up to the Pope's front door seemed tactless, even for me.
The Brunello Cucinelli suit earned approving nods from locals who knew quality when they saw it. Good. Nobody questioned a man in two thousand euros' worth of tailored wool carrying a leather portfolio. Blending in was about looking so right that nobody thought to look twice.
The portfolio held everything I needed: Cardinal Azevedo's schedule, blueprints of his private study, a knife that would do the job without screaming "murder" to the forensics team.
I’d spent three days tracking Azevedo from Rio to Rome, which was a pity. If he’d stayed in Rio, I could’ve caught up with Dionysus.
Focus, Lorenzo. One job at a time. Kill the cardinal, get the information about the facilities, get out.The job seemed simple, but nothing involving the Catholic Church was ever simple. They'd been complicating things since someone nailed a guy to some wood and called it salvation.
The service corridors were quiet this time of day, all echoing stone and the ghost-smell of incense. I'd timed it perfectly: staff rotation, shift change, that magic fifteen minutes when the hallways belonged to ghosts and assassins and nobody else. The lock on Azevedo's private study took me thirty seconds to pick, and then I was inside.
Cardinal Azevedo sat behind his mahogany desk, reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviewed documents. He didn't look up when I entered.
"You're late," he said, still focused on his papers. "I expected you ten minutes ago."
"Traffic," I said, closing the door behind me.
That got his attention. His eyes flicked to the lock, then to me, and he slowly slipped off his glasses. "Ah, so it's finally come to this."
He reached inside his scarlet robes, and I crossed the distance between us in three strides. My hand closed around his wrist before he could draw whatever he'd been reaching for.
"I wouldn't," I said quietly.
The knife was already in my other hand. Had been since I walked through the door. Azevedo gasped as steel slid between his ribs, his body going rigid with the shock of it.
"Smart of you to avoid the heart entirely," he wheezed, fingers twitching toward the weapon like he might pull it out himself. Blood seeped around the steel, dark and wet and very final. "Who sent you?"
"Does it matter?" I asked. “You’re dead either way, which means the Icarus Program in South America dies with you.”
His private study reeked of expensive incense and old leather, the kind of smell that said power and secrets in equal measure. Give it a few minutes and we'd add eau de corpse to the mix.
He laughed, blood flecking his lips like obscene lipstick. "Tell me, Lorenzo, do you believe in divine justice?"
“I believe in what I can see, hear, and feel,” I replied. “I’m not exactly the religious sort.”
Azevedo withdrew a velvet pouch from his robes with trembling fingers, setting it on the desk between us. A single coin rolled out onto the desk. It was silver, ancient, and completely unlike any I’d ever seen before, but I still knew exactly what I was looking at.
Every Ferryman had heard a legend or two about the Judas Coins. I’d chalked them up to exactly that: a myth. I’d certainly never seen one in person.
Until now.
"You absolute bastard."
He smirked. “God works in mysterious ways. I might be dead, but at least I know I won’t be burning in Hell alone.” He closed his eyes. The cardinal’s chest rose and fell one final time before going still.
Footsteps approached in the corridor along with multiple voices speaking Italian. Shit.
I scooped up the coin and moved toward the service door, but voices echoed from that direction too. The main door's handle turned.
I dropped behind the massive oak desk as the door opened, pressing myself against the carved wood. Through the gap beneath, I watched polished black shoes enter the study.
"Padre?" A male voice called softly, and something about it made my skin prickle. "I brought the files you requested."
The shoes moved closer to Azevedo's chair. Then stopped dead.
"Oh, God."
