Chapter 3
I lifted my cassock to my nose and inhaled. Beneath Azevedo’s blood, the assassin’s scent clung to me. He smelled of espresso and burnt sugar, too good for someone so blood soaked.
The way he’d moved… I’d fought dozens of opponents in the boxing ring, in training, and on missions for the Order of St. Michael, but I’d never fought anyone quite like him. He was good. Better than good. Better than me.
So why did he leave me alive?
Three sharp raps came at the bathroom door and Father Torretti’s voice came through. “Father Oliviera, I have news.”
I pulled open the door but didn’t exit. Torretti was thirty years my senior, and one of the elders of the order, but he held as much love for me as I did for him. That was to say none at all. He’d always resented the way Azevedo had taken me under his wing.
Torretti adjusted his glasses. "The Swiss Guard and Sacra Custodia have searched the entire city. Your assassin is gone."
“Of course he is,” I muttered looking away. “He’s too smart to let us catch him that easily.”
Torretti narrowed his eyes. “You sound almost as if you respect him.”
I glared at him. “I want him caught as much as you do.”
“Well, then, you’ll be pleased to know that you’ve been summoned by his excellency. Prince and Grandmaster Constantine has asked to speak to you directly.”
My stomach dropped. Constantine was the head of the Knights of Malta and one of the few people outside the Vatican staff to have regular, unfettered access to His Holiness the Pope.
I was a low-level operative for the Order of Saint Michael.
Being summoned by someone with such power and authority was practically unheard of.
I turned back to the sink and washed my hands a sixth time. “Did he say what he wanted?”
“Does it matter? You can’t refuse an audience. It’d be career suicide.”
Dammit, as much as I hated to admit it, Torretti was right.
"When?" I asked drying my hands.
"I’m to escort you there now. And Father..." Torretti's weathered face grew solemn. "Be prepared to answer questions about what you saw."
I followed Torretti through corridors tourists never saw. My heart hammered against my ribs with each step deeper into the Vatican's hidden bones. The maze beneath St. Peter's swallowed us, and our footsteps echoed off stones worn smooth by centuries of secrets.
Six levels down, a heavy door waited. Iron-banded wood that looked older than the stone around it. Torretti unlocked it, the sound echoing through the passage.
"He's waiting inside," Torretti said. "God be with you."
The way he said it sounded like a farewell.
I stepped through.
The room beyond had been hewn from ancient volcanic rock centuries ago, perhaps while Christ himself still walked among us.
Five alcoves were carved into the circular chamber's walls, each hidden behind heavy curtains of midnight velvet.
At the center, an altar of black marble bore our seal: St. Michael's sword piercing a serpent's skull, wreathed in flames that promised purification.
Prince and Grandmaster Constantine stood beside the alter.
He was a tall man, perhaps sixty, with silver-white hair swept back from aristocratic features that belonged on Renaissance portraiture.
He wore a bright red suit jacket with golden buttons and ridiculous looking golden shoulder pads.
The head of the Knights of Malta looked like he’d dressed for a parade, not some meeting in the bowels of the Vatican.
I dropped to one knee, bowing my head. "Your Eminence."
"Oh, that's not necessary,” he said in a thick Austrian accent. "Please, stand. We're going to be here for some time, and I prefer to look a man in the eye when we speak."
I rose slowly. He smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made my skin crawl because it seemed genuinely warm.
"You must be Father Rafael Oliveira." He moved closer slowly. "I've heard quite a bit about you in the last few hours. They tell me you fought Azevedo’s assassin. Is that true?"
"Yes, Your Eminence."
"Please, call me Constantine." He stopped a few feet away, tilting his head slightly as he studied me. "We needn't stand on ceremony here. After all, we're about to become quite intimately acquainted." He circled me slowly. "Tell me about the assassin. Did you get a good look at him?"
I took a deep breath. “Yes, I did. I could describe him for a sketch artist if you’d like, or identify him in any surveillance photos.”
“That won’t be necessary.” He completed the circle, coming to stand before me again. "Does the name Lorenzo Vasquez mean anything to you?"
I frowned. “What does he have to do with…”
“Ah, so you do recognize the name.”
"I..." I cleared my throat. "When I was eleven. My father took me to a warehouse in Rio. There was a boy there, muzzled and chained. Lorenzo. My father bought him."
"And?" Constantine's voice sharpened with interest.
"He bit me hard enough to leave a scar." Tremors wracked my hands until I pressed them flat against the stone. "He was feral like an animal. And then my father sent him away the next day and I never saw him again.”
“Until tonight,” Constantine said.
I stared at him, trying to make sense of the words with my heart racing in my ears. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand—”
“The assassin who murdered Azevedo has already been identified as Lorenzo Vasquez,” Constantine continued as if this was common knowledge. “He works for The Pantheon. One of your father’s little…Ferrymen.” He spat out the last word with obvious disgust.
“No,” I said and then caught myself. “I mean… Are you certain?”
What were the chances that same feral little boy would suddenly pop back into my life twenty years later? They had to be astronomically small. Impossibly so.
Constantine’s left eye twitched. “I don’t make mistakes, Father Oliviera. The man who murdered your mentor is the very same feral child your father purchased in that Rio warehouse twenty years ago. Of this, I am certain.”
“I…” I swallowed whatever I’d been about to say. No words, however well thought out, could capture the sick feeling churning in my gut. The Church had taught me that there was no such thing as fate or luck, only Divine intervention. Had God put Lorenzo in my path for a reason? If so, what was it?
I thought back to the way he’d fought me with a smile on his face, almost like he’d been enjoying it. Ever since that moment, I hadn’t been able to shake the memory of the way his skin felt under my hands, or the way his scent clung to my clothes.
Maybe it wasn’t God who’d sent Lorenzo at all. Maybe it was the Devil.
Constantine smirked. “I thought that might pique your interest. Well, then, we’d better get on with it. Strip.”
The command came so casually I must have misheard. "I'm sorry?"
"Your clothes. Remove them." He turned back to the altar, running his fingers along the handle of a hammer that had been laid out there. "The Rite requires purity, you see. Nothing between you and God's judgment."
I hesitated until he shot me a look that said he was serious, and that denying Constantine anything might be bad for my health.
My hands shook as I undressed. Cassock first, then collar, then undergarments. Then, shivering, I knelt on the cold stone floor in front of the altar.
Constantine followed, picking up one of the nails and weighing it in his palm. "Azevedo spoke of you often, you know. His protégé. The boy he'd taken under his wing after such terrible tragedy. He was quite proud of you, Father Oliveira."
I tried to swallow, but my throat was suddenly paralyzed.
"I know you cared for him deeply," Constantine continued. "That makes this even more difficult, I'm sure. To have witnessed his murder. To have fought his killer and failed to bring him to justice." He paused. "That must weigh heavily on you."
"It does," I whispered.
"Of course it does," he said gently. "You want vengeance.”
Finally, my throat worked and I swallowed the urge to say yes. “The Lord said, ‘Vengeance is Mine,’.”
“He did indeed.” Constantine crouched before me, bringing himself to eye level.
“And then He armed us with sword and spirit and a sense of righteousness. For some, God’s vengeance can wait until the afterlife.
But for a servant of Azevedo’s importance, we must turn to Exodus and not Deuteronomy, my son.
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth… a life for a life. ”
He took my left hand in his. His grip was firm, positioning my palm upward.
"Do you accept this charge, Father Oliveira? To hunt Lorenzo Vasquez wherever he flees? To ensure that Cardinal Azevedo's killer faces justice?"
I should refuse. Should tell him to send someone else. My lips parted. "There must be another way. A trial. Due process."
"For a man who murdered a Cardinal in the Vatican itself?
" Constantine's voice remained pleasant.
"What do you imagine a trial would accomplish, Father Oliveira?
Lorenzo Vasquez would use it as a stage.
He would spread lies about Cardinal Azevedo's holy work.
He would turn his crimes into propaganda.
" His grip tightened slightly on my hand.
"Is that what you want? Your mentor's name dragged through the mud? His life's work questioned?"
"No, but—"
"Then what alternative do you propose?" He waited, and the silence stretched. "I thought not."
My mouth went dry. There was no way out. There never had been.
"I would not recommend continued refusal." Constantine's voice remained perfectly pleasant. "We have precious few men with your particular qualifications. It would be unfortunate to discover you lacked the strength to serve. That you were... unsuitable for the work God has called you to do."
I swallowed and said the only thing I could. "I accept."
"Excellent." Constantine positioned the nail's point against my left palm. "This will hurt."
He drove the nail through.
The pain was indescribable. It was hot and throbbing and burning all at once. I bit down on my tongue and the bitter taste of iron flooded my mouth.
Constantine held my hand steady throughout, driving the nail through with three solid strikes. When it was done, he yanked the nail back out and I wasn’t sure what hurt worse, the way it went in or how it came out.
"Very good," he murmured and gestured for me to present my right hand.
My hand trembled as I placed it on the altar.
This time I did scream. I couldn't stop it. The pain was beyond anything I'd prepared for, beyond anything I thought I could endure. My vision blurred and I had to close my eyes and turn away to keep from vomiting.
But somehow, I made it through.
"There we are," Constantine said gently. "All finished. The worst is over."
He helped me sit back on my heels, both hands now pierced and bleeding. The wounds throbbed in time with my heartbeat.
"I have such faith in you." He patted my shoulder. "Stand. Let me help you dress. Your hands will be difficult to use for a few days."
I stood on shaking legs. Blood dripped from my fingers as Constantine helped me back into my cassock.
"There." He adjusted the collar. "Now, you are ready.”
He pulled open the door to the chamber. The passage beyond stretched into darkness. Torretti stood waiting where Constantine must have told him to wait, a shadow among shadows.
I stumbled into the passage, cradling my bleeding hands. Behind me, the door closed. The lock clicked into place.
The nail wounds burned. But all I could think about was the crescent scar on my forearm, twenty years old, and how Lorenzo's teeth had broken skin the first time we met. He'd marked me then just as Constantine had marked me now.
Was I hunting Lorenzo for justice? For Azevedo? Or was I just desperate for an excuse to see him again, to understand why he’d killed the only good person I had in my life?
The next time I saw him, I’d have my answers.