Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
IVY
W elcome to Rome.
Narrow cobbled streets. Piazzas. Churches. Fountains.
Rome had over two thousand historic fountains, fifty monumental ones and hundreds of smaller ones—or so our driver told us when he picked us up on the tarmac. “More than any other city in the world,” he’d called over his shoulder, his accent thick and jovial. I’d forever think of Rome as a city of fountains, thanks to Bernardino.
“I guess I don’t understand the obsession,” I muttered as we ducked under a balcony’s drooping clothesline.
“The ancients took pride in them, I guess. And they do come in handy when it’s hot out. Not to mention all the ones that act as coin collectors for gullible tourists.”
“Like today.” I pulled my hand out of Christian’s and wiped my sweaty palm on my jeans. “It’s like we’re baking in hell. And we’re definitely not dressed for it.”
He let out a dark chuckle. “It won’t be us baking, angel. Want to stop and buy a dress?”
It was the hottest day recorded for December in Rome, and of course, we were here. I was dressed in jeans and an off-white hand-knit Aran jumper, boiling from the inside. Honestly, I marveled how my husband managed to look cool, not a bead of perspiration on him, while wearing a three-piece suit.
I rubbed my temple, annoyed that I was still feeling the effects of jet lag, even after several days. “Might be a good idea. Otherwise, my DNA will be all over this city and I’ll end up in an Italian prison.”
His eyes turned a shade of blue so deep it was almost black. “I’d sooner level this city before I’d let them put you there, angel.”
“It’d be a crime to lose all the beautiful fountains,” I remarked, smiling softly while my insides melted. Fuck, I loved the way he showed affection.
“It’d be a bigger tragedy to lose you.” His eyes watched me with a possessiveness I was growing to love. “And trust me, angel. They’d be begging for death.”
The soles of my Vans felt too heavy against the thousands-year-old stone. The sound of silverware and plates, running water from the open windows and cracked doors, reminded us that it was past lunchtime. It was the pocket of time in the afternoon when everyone was about to take their rest.
Christian stopped in front of a local shop. “Here, let’s stop in here and see if you like anything.”
A group of priests passed us, pulling drags from their cigarettes and speaking in rushed Italian. Their designer sunglasses and expensive watches caught the light and my attention.
“I thought joining the priesthood was about giving up material things,” I whispered under my breath. “And living modestly.”
Two looked up and smiled at us while Christian glared at them.
“Nothing modest about them,” he gritted, and I squeezed his hand in comfort.
“Let’s see what this shop has,” I said, tugging him through the old wooden doors.
Ten minutes later, we exited the shop looking like locals: me wearing a white dress and a sunhat; Christian in a wide-brimmed hat and summer version of an old-time suit with suspenders over a white linen shirt, the buttons at the collar undone.
“You just need a mustache and you’ll look like some twenties gangster,” I teased as we eyed a café with outdoor seating that showed no signs of closing up.
“Then let this gangster buy you lunch.” My eyes flashed to him, surprised to hear him crack a joke.
I bumped my shoulder against him as he held the wicker chair out for me.
“I didn’t know you had a sense of humor.”
He smirked. “I don’t. Ask anyone who knows me.”
Except, I didn’t think there was anyone who actually knew him. Not truly, anyway. Not when he lived behind those thick, high walls. But I was slowly making my way through, and I wouldn’t stop until we stood chest to chest, bare to each other with all our faults.
I intended to show him that I wasn’t going anywhere.
He took a seat next to me and we looked out over the piazza. This café seemed built with the purpose of welcoming patrons following church service, with many in the area but the closest one at the center of the square. I peered at it and realized—unsurprisingly—a fountain with a wolf’s head carved out of stone lay before it.
Compared to other churches we’d visited in the city, this one was almost unremarkable. But this was where Father Gabriel’s trail had led us.
Our driver turned tour guide had been worth the money I knew Christian was paying him. Particularly when he’d taken us for an extended drive a few days ago and pointed out the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter’s Basilica, pulling over to let us watch the Swiss guards change shifts. Christian and I had stayed silent when a Vatican Swiss guard wearing a striped tunic the colors of the Medici family—red, dark blue, and yellow—approached our black SUV and bent to scowl at Bernardino.
The guard took one look at us in the back seat and hissed, “No loitering,” in perfect English.
Surprise shot through me and I blinked in confusion, about to argue when a folded note drifted through the window and landed at my feet.
Christian had read it and promptly requested our driver to get out of there, and that was how we found ourselves here, sipping our espressos and checking over our shoulders to ensure we had privacy.
He pulled the note from his pocket and unfolded it, elegant writing staring at us. It was the last known location of Father Gabriel.
“He must have done something bad to be placed in such an unremarkable location,” I muttered.
“Close to headquarters but still too far away,” Christian deadpanned. “They must have learned about his tendencies.”
I’d come to the same conclusion.
“It’s about time karma caught up,” I whispered, eager to see my husband’s vengeance delivered.
PRIEST
Stalking a prey and patience were two things I excelled at. As I sat in the little café with my wife, drinking coffee, I kept a watchful eye out.
It was no accident that I’d chosen this table. From our position, we could see every movement in and out of the church, and most importantly, we could see our target’s figure shadowing the windows. Almost as if he could sense judgment day was coming.
We’d been following his every move for the past week, down to every activity the fucker packed into his pathetic little routine. We tailed him to the Vatican and the grocery store, even his coffee and cigarette breaks. His last mass was at seven in the evening, and we planned on slipping through the rectory door while he started his ritual of locking the doors. He always started with the front gate.
Leaning back in my chair, I drummed my fingers on the table. Any minute now.
And like clockwork, my target came into view: a pathetic excuse for a priest, hunched over, rushing across the square toward his little sanctuary. It was a dump, that’s what it was. Not a church. And it was about to become his final resting place.
My mouth twisted into a smile, which was probably more like a grimace.
“Thank you,” I said, my eyes never wavering from my target. I sensed Ivy’s surprise, but I couldn’t look over at her. Not now. Not when the object of my nightmares was so fucking close.
“For what?”
“For giving me him ,” I breathed. “You were right. I need him dead to get closure.”
And I would finally get it.
The truth was that the Vatican should have done more than shove him away, out of sight. It wasn’t enough of a punishment for all the pain he’d caused. Maybe they’d hit him where it hurt—his ambition and pride—but they should have flayed him until flesh ripped from his bones.
But not to worry, I was content on playing judge, jury, and executioner. This devil, the rotten apple, would be removed from their folds.
“You’re welcome. Make him pay, baby.” I grinned at the viciousness in her voice. It was what I loved about her. She wasn’t soft, not in the classical way. She was like an avenging angel, stronger than I imagined most people gave her credit for. Her brothers made a mistake when they chose to keep her sheltered in that Irish castle. She was born to lead.
“Don’t you worry, angel. He’ll pay.”
Father Gabriel was about to have a very bad day, and I’d make it even worse by informing him it’d be his last.
Even from here, I could smell the stench of desperation and foulness radiating off of him. I still remembered the fucker’s cologne, even after all these years. It was burned into my nostrils.
But his demise was imminent, and it was for that reason and that reason alone that my shoulders felt lighter than they had in a decade.
I glanced down at my espresso with a curled lip, then stood up, extending my hand to my wife.
“Showtime.”
Her hand in mine, we made our way across the piazza and into the church from the east-facing side as Father Gabriel struggled with the heavy door of the church. He never even glanced our way, unaware we were taking the back way that led into the rectory while Father Gabriel locked the front door of the church.
Once inside, I turned to my wife and asked, “Are you sure you want to be here?”
It was her last chance to run.
“Absolutely. We stick together through thick and thin. Like Bonnie and Clyde. Let’s just aim for a better ending.”
It was a cheesy comparison and she knew it. Still, it made my lips twitch in amusement.
Once inside the church, I locked the door behind us. It was now between God and me what I was about to do. Our footsteps were silent, making our way deeper into the rectory.
Taking a seat by the table, she crossed her legs.
We didn’t have to wait long before Father Gabriel appeared in the doorway of the rectory.
“ Ma che ?—”
I jammed my fist straight into his nose. He squealed like a stuck pig, tumbling to his feet and thrashing about dramatically. Before he could get his footing back, I punched him again. The crunching of bones signaled his nose breaking, and he wailed, his throat gurgling as blood gushed from his wailing mouth.
“ Non ho soldi, ” he screamed, clutching his bleeding nose. I don’t have any money .
I yanked him by the back of the collar of his priesthood robe.
“We don’t want your money.” Punch. “I’m here to settle the score.” Punch. “Remember me, Father Gabriel?”
He was on the ground, swishing in blood smeared with his spit, those beady black pools locked on me. His eyes widened in terror.
“Christian…” He choked on his words. “DiLustro.”
I smiled viciously.
“Forgive me, Father, for I’m about to sin.” My voice was cold, seeping from the depths of my soul. He was on all fours like the fucking cockroach he was. I kicked his ribs, making him cower and draw his hands up by his ears. “You should say your prayers now, Father. Tonight, you’ll feel the icy grip of death.”
I kicked him in the balls with all my strength.
He hunched over, vomiting blood and holding on to his groin.
“You won’t be needing your cock anymore,” I drawled, pulling out a knife from my ankle holster.
He stared up at me with bleary, unfocused eyes. “Wh-what?” It was only then that he saw my wife sitting casually at the table in the rectory. “ Ti prego, aiutami .” Help me.
He reared back when I elbowed him in the mouth. “Don’t look at my wife, you sick fucking pervert.”
Ivy smiled, drumming her dainty fingernails against the wooden surface of the table. “Christian, love, make sure you let me know if you need my help. I’d love nothing more than to peel this poor excuse of a man’s skin back, inch by inch.”
Fuck, I was in love.
Father Gabriel crawled away from me, attempting to hide underneath the table. He reached for Ivy’s leg, as if to beg her for mercy, but before he could touch her, I grabbed him and punched him so hard, he went flying across the floor.
“Don’t you dare touch my wife with your filthy hands,” I hissed and gripped his throat. His eyes bulged as I snarled into his face. “Now, fucking pray .”
He swallowed violently, trembling as he looked up at me, his face ashen.
“P-please…” he choked, staring at me with undiluted terror.
My hand clamped hard around his throat, squeezing until his eyes rolled back in his head. “I didn’t hear you pray, Father.”
He squealed again as I grabbed the back of his robe and hauled him up, dragging him out of the rectory and into the nave, a part of the church similar to the one where I spent hours praying under the watchful eye of this sicko.
None of my prayers were answered. Father Gabriel’s wouldn’t be either.