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Making my way down the hallway, I pass the contemporary art that’s hanging on the wall and the large Victorian-style mirror. It has metal claws on all four corners, which wrap around the edges like the sharp nails of a woman. Weird décor that doesn’t match this house at all. Brantley stops me before my hand is on the door handle. “We’ll stay out here.”
I shake my head. “No. I want you both in there.” But I won’t tell you why…
Brantley’s hand is on the handle again, pushing until it splits open, revealing the vast office space of Hector Hayes. They say you can tell a lot about a man by how he keeps his office. This is more like a small library, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that fill the walls, a glass cabinet built into the wall, a long rectangular office desk clearly crafted from wealth, and a puffy leather chair tucked behind it, which is where Hector is staring at me from. He rolls a thick cigar between his thumb and forefinger, curling his other fingers up to signal Bishop to close the door.
Bishop closes it behind us, but I don’t move my focus from Hector. His smile looks deceiving, and I don’t know if that’s just how he is or if I’m reading him wrong. If I had to judge him by his office, I would say clean. There’s a problem with clean, though, and that’s because no one with the reputation of Hector Hayes is clean. So I’m left with the word fraud rolling around inside my head. Aside from that, he looks good for his age. Tattoos cover his skin, a trimmed beard around his mouth, and a full head of healthy hair.
He unbuttons his suit jacket and gestures to the four chairs in front of his desk. The idea to get this conversation over with was a decision I made on a whim. Bishop taking the gavel tomorrow means I want it done for him. I know how much he wants this conversation to happen, and I think deep down I have questions that I would like to know the answers to, whether he wants to share those with me or not.
Bishop falls onto the chair to the left of me, and Brantley to the one on the right. He scoots his chair forward farther so he’s slightly in front of me.
Hector notices, a small smile flicking over his lips. “Still don’t trust me, nephew?”
“The Godfather? Of course. Just not with this.” Brantley winks at him.
Hector shakes his head, his eyes finally coming to mine. “You look more like my family than you do your mother’s.”
Bishop leans into me. “That’s supposed to be a compliment.”
“Hmmm,” Hector huffs. “I guess you’ve got a lot of questions for me.” He flicks the ash off his cigar. “All of which I’m willing to tell you honestly. Brantley and I have both agreed it’s best you know everything that we know. That is, if you think you are able to handle the truth.”
“I can,” I say, looking to Brantley, who’s running his finger over his upper lip while watching Hector.
Hector leans forward. “Do you remember anything before being with Brantley?”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t even remember the day I arrived there. Where was I before if I didn’t go to Brantley until I was two?”
Hector pauses, his focus buoyantly on Brantley. He leans back in his chair. “You were in an orphanage in Vatican City.”
“An orphanage?” I ask, shocked. “Why in Vatican City?”
Hector remains passively focused on me. “This orphanage isn’t for any child. It’s for—well—”
“Here we go.” Bishop kicks out his leg.
“For kids with special abilities.”
The confusion must be evident on my face, because Hector continues. “It’s for kids who may suffer from issues that could separate them from society. It is owned by friends of The Kings, and has been there for generations. It’s in Rome because it’s far enough away from our enemies.” Hector stands. “Or so we assumed.” He turns to the bookshelf behind him and runs his fingers over worn spines.
Bishop groans. “Do not give her Tacet a Mortuis.”
“I’m not.” Hector laughs, finally picking a burned red leather spine and dropping it so hard on his desk that dust particles explode into the air. “This is our family history book.”
“Jesus Christ.” Bishop snickers. “Why so many fucking books?”
“Because it’s how our ancestors could communicate with us. I tried to get you to read it once. Not a chance.”
Bishop flips off Hector.
“It’s true. I read once that people would journal a lot, speak to their future from the grave,” I say futilely to no one in particular.
Hector ignores him and slides the book across the table. “Read it if nothing I’m telling you makes a lot of sense. But it all started with one of my great-great-great-grandmothers.”
