Chapter 8 Aurelia #2
The car pulled up outside of Saint Peter’s Basilica, and Constantine helped me out of the back seat.
Despite my conservative outfit, I still wore my sky-high stilettos to give my ass a little oomph.
It was all cobblestone here, so I’d have to hold Constantine’s arm if I was going to make it without breaking a leg.
He couldn’t carry me here and flash my ass to all the spectators who’d come to participate in mass.
We were guided to a separate entrance into the basilica and then placed in a line before we were allowed to enter. I’d been in the basilica before on a tour, but it was a long time ago and full of tons of tourists who’d come from all over the world.
It was not an event like this.
Constantine stood with me, his arm around my waist.
I recognized people in the line ahead of us, the prime minister of England, the vice president of the United States, the president of France, people who had come all the way here on a holiday.
I felt completely out of place. “I have never been so nervous in all my life.”
He started to rub my back. “I’ll do all the talking, all right?” He brought me in close and kissed my temple. “Just stand there and look pretty.”
One by one, people were ushered inside, probably to meet the pope one-on-one before the ceremony began.
I couldn’t believe I was in this line at all.
The prime minister went next, and then shortly after him the vice president of the United States.
“I told him about you.”
“Who?” I asked. “The pope?”
“I told my uncle about you.”
“What did you say?”
“That I’d met someone. Told him your name. He said he was happy for me.” He took a step forward after the president of France entered the basilica. “He’s not the kind of man that says a lot, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
“What else do you guys talk about?”
“Work, mostly.”
“So, he’s aware of what you do?”
He nodded.
“And he . . . supports that?”
“He understands there’s a separation of church and state. And he understands he wouldn’t have the freedom of being the pope if there weren’t an emperor protecting him and his people from the evil forces in this world. Basically, I get my hands dirty so he doesn’t have to wash his.”
One of the security guys waved us forward.
“Showtime.” He took my hand and walked with me inside, and then the shade of the basilica covered us and the air was cool on my skin. I felt the hardness of the tile underneath my heels, felt all the blood rush into my heart with dread.
I saw the pope ahead, standing in his beautiful robes and his hat, smiling with his eyes as he squinted through his glasses. Behind him was the altar directly above Peter’s tomb down below, covered in black and gold.
Pope Zephyrinus extended his hand to take Constantine’s. “My son, how are you?”
Constantine took it with a firm grip. “Hello, Father. This is Aurelia.”
He extended his hand to me.
I almost gasped right in his face. The pope extended his hand to me, and I’d never been so floored in all my life.
He continued to smile, like he was used to everyone he interacted with being affected by his connection with God.
I finally took his hand.
He placed his other on top of mine. “May God be with you, Aurelia.”
I took a second to find the words, my hand encompassed by his. “And you, Father.”
He blessed me before he blessed Constantine.
Constantine took my hand and guided us to our seats—right in the front row. Thousands of chairs went back through the basilica to the door that led to the square outside. People were already seated there, including Rocco.
We sat down, and it was good timing, because my legs were about to give out from the thrill.
“You did great.” Constantine’s hand moved to my thigh.
“I don’t think I can ever wash this hand again . . .” I stared at the hand he’d touched, my fingertips numb like he’d zapped me with electric current. I’d been blessed by the freakin’ pope. I felt like I could survive a plane crash with that blessing.
He gave a chuckle. “Please do . . .”
Once mass concluded, everyone rose from their seats and started to mingle.
Constantine knew everyone. And not just superficially, but intimately.
He asked the prime minister of England about his kids, walked right up to the Prince of Wales and talked about football for a few minutes, spoke with the prince of Denmark about some gambling app that just launched . . . I couldn’t believe it.
Then another man walked up, and I knew right away he was different from all the others. Something about the look in his eyes, the way he carried himself, the aura around him.
He was just like Constantine.
When he stopped before Constantine, he didn’t shake his hand, but he didn’t seem hostile either. There were no greetings or pleasantries or talk about sports. “I have Vladimir.” He spoke in Italian but with a distinct French accent. “Brought him along, and he’s ready for the exchange.”
Vladimir, the man who ran the operation that had almost gotten me killed. It was the first time I’d witnessed a conversation like this, watching Constantine work in real time. He took phone calls around me, saved my life on the street, but I’d never seen him interact with someone like this.
“Thank you, Luca.”
“Keep your friends close but keep your allies closer.”
“Aren’t friends and allies the same?”
He gave a slight shake of his head. “Not at all.” Then he walked off, sliding his hands into his pockets, and headed for the door that led to the square.
“Who was that?” I knew he wasn’t a president or a diplomat or a senator.
“The First French Emperor of the Fifth Republic.”
So, I was right—he was Constantine.
He turned to me. “Let’s go. I have work to do.”
Constantine
It was three in the morning when I texted her.
I hadn’t been able to wind down after all the shit that had happened to get ready to deal with Vladimir.
I’d gone home, but I’d sat in my study, trapped in a rage that continued to make my heart pound like I hadn’t gotten my vengeance.
Now I was sitting in my Range Rover outside her apartment. Sweetheart?
To my surprise, the three dots popped up, and then a message appeared. You okay?
Yes.
Then what is it?
I would have gone to her door, but I didn’t want to scare her in the middle of the night.
I know this makes me sound like a dick, but I just want to fuck you and go home.
Don’t want to talk. It’s the only thing that helps me wind down sometimes.
And this night had been packed with violence and rage and so much adrenaline that my heart couldn’t pump it out of my system.
I would have stopped by a brothel, but there was only one woman I wanted to take my dick these days.
The dots appeared, and I expected many questions. But then her quick response came through. Door’s unlocked.
“Yes.” I left the Range Rover on the street, headed up the stairs to her floor, and then let myself into her apartment.
The lights were off because she hadn’t bothered to turn them on.
I made it to her bedroom and found her naked in bed, the covers pushed to the side, her eyes sleepy like she’d been knocked out cold when I texted her.
I was fucking hard at the sight of her and dropped my clothes at record speed.
I joined her in the small bed, moved on top of her, and bent her the way I liked, and then I sank into the warm flesh of a beautiful woman.
I felt the softness of her skin every time I thrust inside her, felt how wet she was when she’d just been asleep minutes ago.
I didn’t kiss her like I normally did, just fucked her, hard and fast, my hips working like a piston in an engine.
She came with a whimper, not one of those drawn-out moans she normally made, probably because she was still half asleep. It was like morning sex, when she wasn’t quite there, when she didn’t react with the same enthusiasm because she was in a dreamlike state.
I’d been ready to go when I’d sat outside her apartment, so it didn’t take much for me to finish, filling her little body with my seed, releasing my adrenaline through my sweat and arousal, finishing off a violent night by finding peace between my woman’s legs.
When I was done, I didn’t lie beside her. Immediately, I pulled out and put on my clothes so I could head home.
She turned toward the wall, pulled the sheets to her shoulder, and seemed to go right back to sleep.
I watched her as I continued to dress, expecting her to say something, but she didn’t.
I smirked, then walked out. “Night, sweetheart.”
She didn’t say anything back—so she really was asleep.