Page 30 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

A nod. “I tripped it myself. Rats scatter when you turn on the light.”

Mercy locks eyes with me and raises her brows. There’s no time to explain Bianchi’s meaning, only that I trust him enough to follow him deeper into the excavated room. We keep going past a half-collapsed reliquary. We follow him through a low arch. Every few feet, red lights strobe through dust. The evacuation remains in full swing.

“This should be good enough.” Bianchi finally stops in a narrow, shadowed tunnel. He tilts his head to listen, then turns to me. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” He glances at Mercy, mouth twitching, and introduces himself in broken English. “Sister. It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Monsignor Bianchi. I trust Francesco has told you about me.”

He waits expectantly.

“Um . . .” Mercy looks to me for direction.

“He is the exorcist who discovered me in Blackfriar,” I explain. “And friend.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, Monsignor.” Mercy’s purr sounds more like a growl as she steps closer to me. Her sleeve brushes my wrist, and the hunger shifts. Every muscle in my body clamps and screams, mine, mine, mine. Now it’s just her in my mind, a frequency I could lose myself in if I let go.

“You’re burning up, Francesco. Sweating.”

Biancho is right. While I’m nowhere near the condition I was in after Jasmine, my recovery period has rapidly decreased. I’m hungry again. If I don’t find space and time to control myself, to pray, to confess, to find some semblance of peace other than Mercy . . . she might not survive my attention.

I close my eyes but see her naked against the cedarwood lockers and wince. She consented to my demands, but if she truly wanted me to stop, I’m not sure if I could have. She doesn’t understand how dangerous this can be.

“Cisco.” Her hand lands on my forearm. Squeezes once.

“I’m fine.” I open my eyes and force myself to look steady.

Bianchi gives me an assessing once over, clearly unimpressed as he switches to Italian and says, “My son, if you did to the cardinals what you did in prison to save my life, then you are the furthest thing from fine.”

My eyes narrow. “You’re not here to turn us in?”

“Why did you chase us, then?” Mercy asks, also in Italian.

Bianchi’s brows shoot sky-high. “So it’s true. Sinners are chameleons.”

She bares her teeth. “You’ll never see us coming before we slit your throats.”

“I mean no offense. We have been . . . I suppose you can say sheltered . . . from the truth.” He sweeps his gaze over both of us. “You two are the answer to a prayer.”

My fists clench and open on repeat. “You led me into that viper pit, and now you’re calling us a prayer.”

“I admit, the plan was not perfect.” He makes a constipated sound and shakes his head, wild hair bobbing. “The only thing we didn’t expect was that you’d make it so . . . final. Like the fireworks at Ferragosto. You left nothing behind to find.”

“Who’s we?” Mercy asks.

“His Holiness,” I reply.

It has to be.

Bianchi steps closer to me. “He has spent years watching the black smoke of Satan pour through the vents of the Apostolic Palace, Francesco. He couldn’t speak to you. Not with Valerio’s dogs sniffing at his heels. He had to know if the man he sent into the dark was still his . . . or theirs.”

The buzzing in my head drops to a low, confused hum.

Bianchi reaches into the deep folds of his crumpled jacket, his eyes flickering briefly to Mercy. He produces two items: a sleek black phone and a small leather-bound book so old it’s bound in skin.

“You proved your loyalty with their blood,” he says. “From this breath, you do not exist to the Church. No more Entity, not the old team. Now you report only to His Holiness. Through me.”

He shoves the objects into my chest. The book is heavy, vibrating with a cold power that makes the tattoos on my ribs itch. Mercy must sense it too because she steps closer, wary.

Mercy’s eyes narrow on the book. “What’s in it?”

Bianchi smirks. “Answers. The kind people were murdered to keep quiet.”