“You’re going to make this difficult, I see.” Mateo signaled to one of his men, who brought over a black briefcase. He opened it, revealing an array of vials, syringes, scalpels, and other ominous-looking tools.

Roberto’s heart pounded in his chest as he took in the contents of the briefcase. “What’s that for?”

“Either you tell me where you got this chip”—Mateo held up the microSD chip again—”or we’ll have to persuade you.”

“You don’t scare me,” Roberto bluffed, trying to maintain a brave front.

“I’m going to ask you one more time: where did you get this chip?”

“I told you, I don’t know,” Roberto insisted, recognizing that these men were Vatican assassins. They weren’t after money; they were after information.

“I see you do recall where this chip came from,” Mateo observed, noting Roberto’s eyes flicking to the upper left, a telltale sign of a lie being told.

Roberto remained silent, trying to figure out how he could get out of this situation. Unfortunately, he had nothing to bargain with.

“We have a policy at the Vatican: nothing ever leaves the secure halls of the Vatican Secret Archives. Nothing. And yet, you somehow violated our protocol, Roberto.”

“It wasn’t me—” Roberto began before Mateo cut him off.

“Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere.” The assassin smiled. “Who did remove this information from the Vatican? Confess.”

Roberto clamped his mouth shut, his mind racing. He’d sooner meet his maker than betray Mario.

Mateo, realizing mere words wouldn’t break Roberto, reached into his briefcase. He withdrew two vials and two syringes, placing them ominously on the table. He methodically filled each syringe with two-tenths milliliters of two separate mysterious fluids, then signaled for one of his men to pin down Roberto’s arm.

Roberto’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched the scene unfolding. “What are you doing? What is that?” he stammered, his eyes wide with terror.

“This, Roberto, is going to be quite painful,” Mateo warned, then plunged the first needle into Roberto’s left arm. He swiftly withdrew it, reaching for the second syringe.

A searing pain shot up Roberto’s arm, making its way towards his heart. It was unbearable. He could feel his heart shuddering, struggling to pump blood through his veins. He tried to scream, but no sound came out. He convulsed, his heart seizing under the intense pain. He barely registered the second injection—adrenaline coursed through his veins, counteracting the induced heart attack. He collapsed back onto the pillow, gasping for breath as his heart resumed its normal rhythm.

“What the . . . fuck was that?” Roberto managed to croak out, his voice barely a whisper.

“That, Roberto, was an induced myocardial infarction. A heart attack, if you will,” Mateo replied coolly.

Roberto lay there, eyes closed, trying to gather his strength. His mind was a whirlwind of fear and confusion.

“Now, I’ll ask again. Where did you get the chip?” Mateo pressed.

Summoning the last of his strength, Roberto motioned for Mateo to lean in closer. As the assassin did so, Roberto gathered a mouthful of saliva and spat in Mateo’s face. “Fuck you,” he hissed.

Mateo recoiled, wiping the spit off his face. He turned away and in a rage filled a syringe with a lethal dose of fluid. Swiveling back to Roberto, a cruel smile played on his lips. “I’m going to relish this, you piece of shit.” With a swift, brutal motion, he plunged the syringe into Roberto’s arm, emptying its deadly contents.

Roberto’s body jerked violently for a moment before going eerily still. His heart ceased to beat. The interrogation had reached its grim conclusion.

Mateo methodically returned the vials and syringes to the black briefcase before snapping it shut with a finality that echoed dully in the deadness of the room. He surveyed his team, his gaze landing on Paola. “Make it look like an overdose,” he ordered, his voice cold and detached. “The rest of you, comb the entire house. Ensure that chip’s the only one. And wipe his computer clean.”

Chapter 73

March 11, 2000

Saturday, 8:30 a.m.

Rome, Italy

Mario awoke, his head pounding as if a drummer had taken residence inside his skull. He was half-covered by sheets, his body bare. He tried to piece together the fragments of the previous night through the relentless throb of his headache. He sat up, his head heavy in his hands, his mind a whirlpool of confusion. He hadn’t been drinking at Roberto’s, had he?

Staggering to the bathroom, he reached for the Advil, downing four instead of his usual two. He leaned heavily on the sink, his reflection staring back at him. His eyes were squeezed shut against the pain, but when he opened them, he saw a smear of rose-colored lipstick on his cheek. His heart pounded harder.

The prostitute. The confession. The pieces were slowly falling into place.

After a few minutes, the Advil began to dull the pain. He splashed water on his face, running a comb through his hair to tame the unruly strands. He dressed quickly in his usual black attire and white collar. He needed to get to Roberto’s. He needed to know if anything unusual had happened there too.

He hailed a cab and gave the driver Roberto’s address. As they pulled up to the mansion, the flashing red lights of emergency vehicles filled his vision. He instructed the driver to wait and rushed towards a paramedic standing in the doorway.

“What happened?” he asked, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Overdose,” the paramedic replied.

“Can I go in? I’m his brother,” Mario lied, desperate for answers.

Mario bolted through the grand foyer, his heart pounding in his chest as he navigated the throng of emergency personnel. His eyes locked onto the grim sight of six firemen and two EMTs. They were all standing in solemn silence around a medical examiner, who was halfway through zipping up a black body bag.

That’s when Mario saw him.

“No!” he screamed, a raw, guttural sound of pure anguish. His eyes remained glued to Roberto’s pale, lifeless face as it disappeared behind the zipper.

Every head in the room was staring at Mario, their expressions a mix of sympathy and shock. A nearby fireman, his face etched with empathy, gently guided Mario into the living room.

Mario allowed himself to be led, his legs feeling like jelly beneath him. He collapsed onto the plush couch, his body wracked with sobs. “No, no, no, no, no,” he repeated, his voice a broken whisper. His hands cradled his head as he shook, tears splattering onto the expensive rug beneath him. The reality of his loss was a crushing weight suffocating him.

“Was he your brother?” The fireman’s voice was gentle, his eyes filled with understanding.

Mario could only nod, his throat too tight to form words.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Father,” the fireman said, his voice filled with the practiced sympathy of someone who had delivered this sort of news far too many times.

“Why?” Mario managed to choke out, sitting up and wiping at his tear-streaked face.

“We suspect he died of an overdose. The lab will need to confirm, but he shows all the signs. I’m sorry. These things happen.”

“Wait, but . . . he doesn’t do drugs.” Mario’s tears had stopped, replaced by a chilling resolve. His headache was receding, his mind clearing. He stood, moving past the fireman into Roberto’s office. His eyes scanned the room, looking for anything out of place.

His laptop was open on Roberto’s desk, but the microSD card was missing. A quick search of the desk revealed nothing. Booting up the laptop, Mario was met with a blank screen—all his files had been erased. Roberto’s computer had suffered the same fate. The Vatican had discovered his transgression and were meticulously erasing the evidence he’d collected. His hand instinctively grazed his right thigh, feeling the stitches and the concealed microSD chip within.

They hadn’t found this copy. But if they’d silenced Roberto for knowing too much, then Mario was undoubtedly next on their hit list.

With a newfound sense of urgency pulsing through his veins, he exited the office and strode out the front door to his waiting cab.