Page 87 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

I open my mouth. Close it.

So that was to be my job? A direct line to the Pope permanently . . . officially? No Team Saint? No abbey Masses? Or does Bianchi mean that I do both? It doesn’t really matter.

“I don’t know,” I answer. “Much has changed in the past few days.”

“Since I last saw you?”

“Bianchi, did you know that passage you sent us led to undiscovered ruins below ground?”

“Ah, yes.” I hear the smile in his voice. “I was wondering when you’d mention that. What did you think of the frescoes?”

My brows wing up. “So, you know about them?”

“The Church has always known. It is a closely guarded secret for obvious reasons. In fact, I think most have forgotten they exist at all.”

“Mercy believes the pictures show the truth about Saint Peter.”

“Clever woman.”

My eyebrows knit together at the validation of the lie I’ve built my faith on. Bianchi didn’t even hesitate. I don’t know what to do with this, so I agree. “She is.”

There’s no point telling him about Asmodeus, or that I was frozen the entire time I was down there. I trust Mercy’s interpretation wholeheartedly.

“I can see why you are in love with her,” Bianchi remarks. “You deserve happiness.”

A smile tugs at my lips, and I turn my face toward the sun just to feel closer to her.

“Before you speak with the Holy Father, Francesco,” Bianchi continues, “you should go somewhere quiet. Think about my question. Do you still have the book?”

“I do.”

“Have you read it?”

“I . . . have not had the chance.”

“I didn’t think so. Read it, then let the Holy Father know what your answer is. Va’ con Dio.”

He ends the call. I look at the phone for a moment in my hand, then put it away.

The pigeon is still with me, perched and enjoying the sun. But I know he’s keeping an eye on my empty cup.

“Somewhere quiet,” I mutter, casting my gaze across the piazza.

People are waking up, starting their day. A pair of early morning joggers is climbing the stairs.

“This will be loud, no?” I ask the pigeon.

He bobs his head.

“I thought so, too.” I pick up the espresso cup and head down the stairs toward the basilica.

I wanted to visit anyway for my morning prayer. It will be a good, quiet place to reflect and read the book. Then I will find Mercy something to eat and think about what to do with Paolo.

His name splashes a feeling of cold on me, and I repress a shiver. Perhaps I should have asked Bianchi to help undo what Valerio did, but I think it’s too late. Besides, I don’t want to be beholden to the Vatican again. Paolo is my problem to deal with.

I greet the joggers with a courteous nod, and then quicken my steps to the other side of the piazza. Suddenly, I want to get this all done. I long to crawl into bed beside Mercy and count freckles until the cold feeling disappears.

Weekday Mass shouldn’t start for another hour or two. When I open the heavy door and walk inside, I’m pleased to find it relatively empty.