"Fine. Four hours. Don't be late."
I hung up and pocketed the coin. I had a feeling that this wasn’t going toend so well.
I lifted my cassockto my nose and inhaled. Beneath Azevedo’s blood, the assassin’s scent clung to me. He smelled of espresso and burnt sugar, too good for someone so blood soaked.
The way he’d moved… I’d fought dozens of opponents in the boxing ring, in training, and on missions for the Order of St. Michael, but I’d never fought anyone quite like him. He was good. Better than good. Better than me.
So why did he leave me alive?
Three sharp raps came at the bathroom door and Father Torretti’s voice came through. “Father Oliviera, I have news.”
I pulled open the door but didn’t exit. Torretti was thirty years my senior, and one of the elders of the order, but he held as much love for me as I did for him. That was to say none at all. He’d always resented the way Azevedo had taken me under his wing.
Torretti adjusted his glasses. "The Swiss Guard and Sacra Custodia have searched the entire city. Your assassin is gone."
“Of course he is,” I muttered looking away. “He’s too smart to let us catch him that easily.”
Torretti narrowed his eyes. “You sound almost as if you respect him.”
I glared at him. “I want him caught as much as you do.”
“Well, then, you’ll be pleased to know that you’ve been summoned by his excellency. Prince and Grandmaster Constantine has asked to speak to you directly.”
My stomach dropped. Constantine was the head of the Knights of Malta and one of the few people outside the Vatican staff to have regular, unfettered access to His Holiness the Pope. I was a low-level operative for the Order of Saint Michael. Being summoned by someone with such power and authority was practically unheard of.
I turned back to the sink and washed my hands a sixth time. “Did he say what he wanted?”
“Does it matter? You can’t refuse an audience. It’d be career suicide.”
Dammit, as much as I hated to admit it, Torretti was right.
"When?" I asked drying my hands.
"I’m to escort you there now. And Father..." Torretti's weathered face grew solemn. "Be prepared to answer questions about what you saw."
I followed Torretti through corridors tourists never saw. My heart hammered against my ribs with each step deeper into the Vatican's hidden bones. The maze beneath St. Peter's swallowed us, and our footsteps echoed off stones worn smooth by centuries of secrets.
Six levels down, a heavy door waited. Iron-banded wood that looked older than the stone around it. Torretti unlocked it, the sound echoing through the passage.
"He's waiting inside," Torretti said. "God be with you."
The way he said it sounded like a farewell.
I stepped through.
The room beyond had been hewn from ancient volcanic rock centuries ago, perhaps while Christ himself still walked among us. Five alcoves were carved into the circular chamber's walls, each hiddenbehind heavy curtains of midnight velvet. At the center, an altar of black marble bore our seal: St. Michael's sword piercing a serpent's skull, wreathed in flames that promised purification.
Prince and Grandmaster Constantine stood beside the alter. He was a tall man, perhaps sixty, with silver-white hair swept back from aristocratic features that belonged on Renaissance portraiture. He wore a bright red suit jacket with golden buttons and ridiculous looking golden shoulder pads. The head of the Knights of Malta looked like he’d dressed for a parade, not some meeting in the bowels of the Vatican.
I dropped to one knee, bowing my head. "Your Eminence."
"Oh, that's not necessary,” he said in a thick Austrian accent. "Please, stand. We're going to be here for some time, and I prefer to look a man in the eye when we speak."
I rose slowly. He smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made my skin crawl because it seemed genuinely warm.
"You must be Father Rafael Oliveira." He moved closer slowly. "I've heard quite a bit about you in the last few hours. They tell me you fought Azevedo’s assassin. Is that true?"
"Yes, Your Eminence."
