44. Thomas
Thomas
I tore through the press of bodies like a madman, jostling priests and tourists, muttering apologies I didn’t mean.
My legs burned, and my shoulder pulsed with fresh pain, but I couldn’t stop—not now, not with the Pope stepping onto that balcony in minutes, not with the weight of the future pounding in my chest like a second heartbeat.
Two days. Damn it. We were supposed to have two days. This couldn’t be happening today .
I found the alley—a narrow slit between a wine shop and a butcher—and hurtled into it, skidding on spilled olive oil and slamming into the door I’d memorized during our planning with Lucio. He’d proven himself a wizard in navigating the ancient city.
The staircase beyond was tight, the walls closing in as I climbed up one floor, then another, then six or eight more—I lost count.
Breaths came in ragged bursts .
I thought my heart might beat its way out of my chest.
I checked my pistol for the hundredth time, then pressed forward. The rooftop door—an old metal thing—refused to budge. I leaned my weight into it. Still nothing. I stepped back and slammed against the unyielding slab. It finally popped free, its hinges groaning in protest as it swung wide.
I froze.
The roof was empty.
There was no gunman, no rifle, only flat stone tiles, a few scattered cigarette butts, and the quiet flutter of a papal banner fluttering in the breeze on a nearby balcony.
I spun, scanning every corner.
There was nothing.
No one.
I was on the wrong roof.