Page 12 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

I cut him a look. “I assume this is the part where you tell me not to start trouble.”

“I would never insult you with advice so unrealistic.” He touches his heart.

Instead of heading toward the papal apartments, where administration meets, he veers down a service corridor. He stops halfway down beside a steel door, and we step aside to make room for an alarmed staff member to scurry past with a tray of rotting fruit.

A lump forms in my throat. “Has the food . . . ?”

I can’t finish the sentence.

Bianchi’s expression pinches, and something like doubt flickers over it. But then he glances around as if to see if we’re followed, then says, “Until recently, the situation was mainly in America. It was easy to explain away. Unfortunately, it is now appearing here.”

I follow Bianchi as he starts walking again, but my limbs feel numb. Has the rot followed me to Italy?

“People are gathering at the square,” Bianchi continues, “demanding His Holiness make a statement.”

“Which will be?”

His lips press together as we arrive at a door. He puts his hand on the knob and pauses. “That depends on what happens in this meeting.”

He opens it and takes me into a dimly lit space. The door closes behind me, turning everything pitch-black until Bianchi reappears nearby, illuminated by a lantern he has lit with a flame. He stands at the base of a windowless spiral staircase with a hollow center, but another passage leads away in two directions. It’s the kind designed to facilitate clandestine meetings.

“It gets dark up there,” Bianchi explains, handing me another lantern. “Be careful not to fall down the middle.”

And then he’s off, climbing. I follow a few steps behind.

No electrical lights on the walls. No sensors. No cameras at all. Just stone steps wide enough for one man, and an open space we circle in the center.

Most of Bianchi’s figure disappears into the shadows. It seems like a floating lantern. I imagine I’d look the same if anyone followed me.

Perfect for ambushes, or for seeing enemies coming.

I hurry to catch up.

“He is in one of his patient moods,” he says quietly.

Even a whisper echoes loudly. Prying ears in the darkness could hear us at any level.

“Great,” I mutter.

“Also . . . I thought you should know.” A pause. “And I thought you should hear it from me first that your access has changed.”

Of course it has.

Bianchi goes on, carefully neutral. “Temporary adjustments. Consolidated movement. The usual performance when Rome is frightened and does not wish to call itself so.”

“The nun who greeted us at the airport is Custodi.” My jaw tightens. “She hardly embodies the feeling of safety.”

He stops and fidgets with his lantern.

What concerns me about the nuns of The Custodians of the Veil is that they answer only to the Cardinal and the Pope’s inner circle. They are cold, overzealous in their faith, and see all outsiders as a threat.

“Bianchi . . .”

“The American is alive, uninjured, and not currently screaming at anyone.” His tone stays dry, but his illuminated face turns to me. “Take the gift offered in that sentence, Francesco.”

“She should not be handled by women who have already decided what she is.”

“No,” he says mildly, “she should not.”