"Do you accept this charge, Father Oliveira? To hunt Lorenzo Vasquez wherever he flees? To ensure that Cardinal Azevedo's killer faces justice?"
I should refuse. Should tell him to send someone else. My lips parted. "There must be another way. A trial. Due process."
"For a man who murdered a Cardinal in the Vatican itself?" Constantine's voice remained pleasant. "What do you imagine a trial would accomplish, Father Oliveira? Lorenzo Vasquez would use it as a stage. He would spread lies about Cardinal Azevedo's holy work. He would turn his crimes into propaganda." His grip tightened slightly on my hand. "Is that what you want? Your mentor's name dragged through the mud? His life's work questioned?"
"No, but—"
"Then what alternative do you propose?" He waited, and the silence stretched. "I thought not."
My mouth went dry. There was no way out. There never had been.
"I would not recommend continued refusal." Constantine's voice remained perfectly pleasant. "We have precious few men with your particular qualifications. It would be unfortunate to discover you lacked the strength to serve. That you were... unsuitable for the work God has called you to do."
I swallowed and said the only thing I could. "I accept."
"Excellent." Constantine positioned the nail's point against my left palm. "This will hurt."
He drove the nail through.
The pain was indescribable. It was hot and throbbing and burning all at once. I bit down on my tongue and the bitter taste of iron flooded my mouth.
Constantine held my hand steady throughout, driving the nail through with three solid strikes. When it was done, he yanked the nail back out and I wasn’t sure what hurt worse, the way it went in or how it came out.
"Very good," he murmured and gestured for me to present my right hand.
My hand trembled as I placed it on the altar.
This time I did scream. I couldn't stop it. The pain was beyond anything I'd prepared for, beyond anything I thought I could endure. My vision blurred and I had to close my eyes and turn away to keep from vomiting.
But somehow, I made it through.
"There we are," Constantine said gently. "All finished. The worst is over."
He helped me sit back on my heels, both hands now pierced and bleeding. The wounds throbbed in time with my heartbeat.
"I have such faith in you." He patted my shoulder. "Stand. Let me help you dress. Your hands will be difficult to use for a few days."
I stood on shaking legs. Blood dripped from my fingers as Constantine helped me back into my cassock.
"There." He adjusted the collar. "Now, you are ready.”
He pulled open the door to the chamber. The passage beyond stretched into darkness. Torretti stood waiting where Constantine must have told him to wait, a shadow among shadows.
I stumbled into the passage, cradling my bleeding hands. Behind me, the door closed. The lock clicked into place.
The nail wounds burned. But all I could think about was the crescent scar on my forearm, twenty years old, and how Lorenzo's teeth had broken skin the first time we met. He'd marked me then just as Constantine had marked me now.
Was I hunting Lorenzo for justice? For Azevedo? Or was I just desperate for an excuse to see him again, to understand why he’d killed the only good person I had in my life?
The next time I saw him, I’dhave my answers.
The private dining roomat Ossario was smaller than I remembered. I'd been sitting here for twenty minutes, on my third café com leite, when Luka arrived. God, he was a sight for sore eyes, even if he’d traded his jeans and t-shirts for a director’s suit. He crossed the dining room and paused in front of me, taking in my torn jacket, the dried blood, the dark circles under my eyes.
"You look like shit,” he said before pulling out the chair and plopping down.
“Thanks. You’re charming as always.”
Luka signaled the bartender. "Vodka and gummy worms. Sour if you have them."
