Chapter 4
NIGHTOWL
I can’t help the small, grim smile that twists my mouth.
Somewhere across the sea, an angel in a habit has just been snatched from the safety of her convent by a raging predator who loves to create carnage first and ask questions later.
I kill the lights in my little hidey-hole.
The glow of a dozen monitors washes over me as the room falls into a digital twilight of pulsing screens.
I watch the helicopter’s flight path snake its way north over the Tyrrhenian Sea.
‘Happy fucking miracle, Salvatore,’ I murmur, leaning back in my chair. ‘Let’s see what you do with her now.’
The chaos has already begun.
Within the hour, the convent will be crawling with Carabinieri, Vatican security, Interpol and Aegis – the one other intelligence flag no one would dare question – trying to make sense of what just happened and being stonewalled to kingdom come.
Cesare will bark orders through gritted teeth when he discovers his brother went AWOL for several hours.
Rafa, clever and eye-wateringly unhinged, will already be tracing phantom enemies through his private channels, attempting to piece together wet breadcrumbs.
Thanks to me, he almost unravelled this particular mystery last year. And thanks to me and a little fire I set to a convent, he failed. Because when it comes right down to it, this isn’t his problem to solve.
It’s always been Lorenzo Salvatore’s.
The Mancinellis will feel the shift like wolves scenting blood. Their lack of a clear leadership these days will make things… interesting when his particular pawn surfaces on the board.
I’ve done more than move a pawn tonight.
I’ve tossed a live grenade onto the board and dared both kings to keep playing. Every click of the rotor blades as the chopper nears its destination tightens the fuse.
But that’s the beauty of it.
Chaos breeds clarity.
Families show their true loyalties when the floor catches fire. And secrets, no matter how well buried, always rise in the smoke.
I watch the feed for a few more seconds, just long enough to see the helicopter cross from Sicilian into Italian airspace. Then I lean back, fold my arms behind my head, and let the grin widen.
They’ll call it interference.
I call it enlightening entertainment.
* * *
Sister Benedetta
The first thing that hits me is the light.
Even through the fabric of the hood, I can feel it burning brighter, colder and artificial. The kind of light that doesn’t come from candles or the sun, but from manmade things.
The helicopter has landed on a harder surface than the garden of the convent.
And by the sudden clinical stillness that surrounds me, the shift from vibration to silence, I know that God hasn’t performed a miracle and returned me to the safety of the only home I remember.
Still, I summon a prayer, just in case.
But before I can utter it, the gloved and impersonal hands return, to firmly guide me down.
My bare feet meet solid ground, smooth and echoing like expensive tiles.
There’s a gust of air, dry and sterile, scented faintly with disinfectant and metal that reminds me of the hospital visits I’ve made with the other sisters to attend those of faith and even those without.
But this scent is sharper. Cleaner. Colder.
And unsettlingly… expensive.
The man in charge, the one whose silent presence has pressed against my awareness since the convent courtyard, hasn’t spoken in the last half hour. Not one word. Not a command, not a reassurance, not even a grunt of pain.
But I heard him earlier, the ragged edges in his breathing. The strain knotted beneath that silence.
Is he hurt?
I swallow hard, grasping for the safest explanation for this wild, impossible night. Perhaps the extraction was for him, not for me. Perhaps I am only here because he needed medical attention and I—
I what?
Was nearby? Convenient? Disposable?
And dear God… why should it twist inside me that he might be in pain? Why should the thought make something warm and terrified unfurl low in my ribs?
Because he’s one of God’s children, I tell myself fiercely. That is all. Nothing more.
I repeat it again, slower, as if conviction can be conjured by cadence.
When the hood comes off, I blink hard, eyes watering under the white glare. For a moment everything is too sharp, the corridors of glass and steel, walls the colour of bone and light panels sunk into ceilings that stretch endlessly in every direction.
My first, hopeful guess that this is a church is quickly shattered when my second theory rings truer. It is a hospital but it looks less like a place of physical healing and more like a cathedral stripped bare.
A cathedral that worships money, power, influence.
This is no ordinary hospital.
And while I may have been cloistered, I know enough about the world to know this place doesn’t tend to those without means.
Hands guide me forward. My pulse stutters when I glance around me, not from the pressure of their grips but from the sudden emptiness at my side.
The silent man – the one in the balaclava, the one whose voice burned through my very bones when he said It’s you. He’s no longer beside me.
I turn my head, frantic for a glimpse, a shadow, anything. Only bright lights and faceless soldiers answer me.
Stop it.
I clench my jaw before another thought can bloom.
I have no right to wonder where he is. No right to feel this strange tug of concern in my chest. No right to be thinking of him at all when my freedom, my future – my vows – hang in the balance.
And yet… I do.
I can’t seem to stop.
We march deeper inside the structure until we reach a circular antechamber. A woman in combat fatigues waits beside me, another just behind. Their faces are clean, unreadable, the lines of their weapons stark against their uniforms. No insignia. No name tags.
‘Where… where am I?’ My voice is hoarse, too small in the echoing space.
Neither answers but one gestures towards a door.
It slides open without a sound when we near it.
Inside is a small suite with a bed, adjoining bathroom and a wardrobe. Two lamps sit on the bedside tables and the carpet looks soft and plush. There’s a compact fridge set next to a desk and – my eyes widen when I see it – a TV set into the wall opposite the bed.
Luxurious by any measure, and most definitely the kind Madre Superiora and the older nuns would frown and mutter at, but it’s the sterile kind of luxury that feels more like a stage than a room meant for living.
‘Change,’ the taller soldier says after cutting the binds tying my wrist. Her voice carries a faint accent, maybe northern Italian, clipped into command.
She points at the folded garments on the bed and I see my habit, veil, rosary. It’s both familiar and alien to see my belongings outside the confines of the convent, all arranged neatly as if someone had pressed them into service again after a few confusing hours of disuse.
I glance down at my thin cotton nightdress and my skin prickles anew. ‘I – what is this place? Who are you?’
No reply. Just the same measured stare.
‘Did the convent send me here?’ I try again. ‘Am I meant to—’
‘Change,’ she repeats, sharper this time.
My fear curdles into anger.
It’s not a feeling I’m used to any more, and one that feels almost rusty but present nonetheless. ‘I will not undress in front of strangers,’ I say, clutching the neckline of my gown. ‘Whatever authority you think you hold, this is indecent.’
For a moment, there’s no reaction and my heart jolts.
Then the other woman, a little younger, eyes hidden behind dark lenses despite it being the middle of the night, steps closer. She doesn’t touch me. She doesn’t need to. Her stare alone is enough to silence rebellion. The kind of stare that says we’ve carried out worse orders than this.
I swallow hard, my fingers trembling. ‘Fine.’
They don’t leave but they turn away, faces blank to the wall, as I lift my nightie above my head, fold it neatly and place it on the bed. Then I dress, supremely conscious that my underthings weren’t packed.
The white habit’s wool scrapes my naked skin; the veil clings, carrying the faint scent of candle smoke, incense and lavender from the convent. It feels wrong, sacredness dropped into chaos. I knot the rosary at my waist with hands that won’t stop shaking.
When I’m done, I draw myself up, spine straight despite the trembling. ‘Now will you tell me what’s happening?’
The younger one exchanges a glance with her companion. Then, almost grudgingly, she mutters, ‘Stop asking questions. You were brought here to serve the purpose you were chosen for.’
‘Chosen… for what? To tend a patient?’
The younger one strides to the door and holds it pointedly open. ‘Something like that.’
I swallow as trepidation rams down my spine, threatening to weaken it. This is far from the norm of things and we all know it. ‘Who is it?’
The older one gestures again. ‘You’ve already met him, Signorina. Now let’s go.’
* * *
You’ve already met him.
I try not to think of how ominously the words pound through my veins as they lead me through a warren of hallways.
Everything gleams, the floors polished to a mirror shine, walls lined with abstract art that seems more about money than beauty.
Staff pass occasionally, men and women in pale-blue coats, but no one makes eye contact. Doors slide open at our approach then seal again behind us.
The air hums faintly, heavy with electricity and secrecy.
I count at least three layers of security between the helipad and wherever they’re taking me. And the farther we travel the tighter unease knots in my stomach.
Finally, we stop at a heavy door set apart from the rest. There’s no sign or number or a lock. Just a sleek electronic panel that one of the soldier’s inputs with several numbers before unlocking.
The taller woman turns to me. ‘Inside. Do not touch anything.’
Her tone makes it sound like touching something could kill me.
The door slides open.
I step through, and I freeze.