Page 11 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

I know this part of the Vatican. Or I knew it once.

Service roads. Internal gardens. Quiet courtyards are hidden behind the spectacle shown to pilgrims and tourists. The roads are narrower than I remember. Or perhaps it is only that everything feels smaller now that I know exactly what lies are hidden inside these walls.

We stop before a pale stone building with shuttered windows and too many locked doors. It’s one of the residences used for important guests, such as Cardinals, during conclave season. It’s for men whose sins are handled discreetly, a leash dressed as hospitality.

The suited man gets out and then comes around to open my door.

“This way, please, Don Francisco.”

I step out of the car and smooth a hand over the front of my shirt, though it does nothing to settle the pressure tightening beneath my ribs. The building before me is pale stone and shuttered windows, elegant in the way only old power can be.

The driver hands me my bag with a smirk that tells me he checked inside and found a surprise.

While Mercy showered this morning, I noticed her bag was missing a few of her favorite things.

A frown tugs at my brow when I recall the wounds on her thighs. I would rather face embarrassment than have Mercy suffer without her toys, so I packed them in my bag, knowing it was less likely to be confiscated. We could be here for days, and despite my aching to help satisfy her, the prophecy clearly states it’s a very bad idea for the Sinner and Saint to “become one.”

A man in black waits just inside the entrance with a takeaway coffee cup in his hand. Thin silver hair sweeps neatly back from a face I recognize almost as well as my own sins.

Monsignor Bianchi.

For one stupid, treacherous second, relief moves through me.

His eyes crinkle, and he hands me the cup. “Double espresso, no sugar, if I recall correctly?”

I take a sip and almost sigh as the bitter heat hits my throat. “Thank you.”

He beams. “You look better than the last time I saw you.”

“That is not a high bar, Monsignor.”

“No.” His mouth tilts. “There was blood on the wall then.”

He was still an exorcist, and I was still a prisoner in Blackfriar then. A demon was snarling through a dying man’s teeth while Bianchi fumbled for the rite, and I stood there knowing exactly what looked back at me from the other side of those black eyes.

“His Eminence asks that you come to him at once,” he announces.

“Before I am shown my room?”

“Especially before that.”

I glance past him, into the polished quiet of the residence. “And the American?”

His expression alters by a degree. “She is being shown to her room. Don’t worry, it is on the same floor as yours.”

My brows slam down. “The same floor?”

“For her safety, of course.” Bianchi studies me for a beat, then steps aside, ushers me in, and lowers his voice. “Walk with me, Francesco. And do try not to look as though you’re about to kill someone in the entryway. It upsets the marble.”

He vowed to keep using my birth name despite the administrative mistake. I let him because he is my friend. We move down the corridor side by side, our steps muted by old stone and runner rugs. The residence smells faintly of bleach. Somewhere deeper inside, a door closes with soft, careful finality.

As we move through the opulent, ancient halls, my mood sours with our silence, and the coffee tastes too bitter. The more I think about them housing Mercy on the same floor as me, the more I realize nothing about this is accidental. Not with the monsignor being the one to greet me, whom I have a history with. Not with the proximity of Mercy’s sleeping quarters. They want me to feel comfortable while, at the same time, painting me in a scandalous light.

“You’ve lost weight,” Bianchi notes.

“So has your optimism.”

“There you are.” He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “I was beginning to fear you’d changed.”