“Do you know where the red-light district is?”
“Sì, padre.” The cab executed a swift U-turn in Roberto’s driveway, setting course for the infamous locale. Twenty minutes later, Mario found himself deposited in the heart of Rome’s seedy underbelly.
“I’m sorry about your brother, padre.”
“Thank you. God bless you.”
Even in this part of town, a row of newspaper vending machines lined the sidewalk, offering up Rome’s newspapers, real estate papers, rental guides, and tourist guides. Mario wasn’t one for headlines, but the bold print and catchy phrases designed to lure in passersby managed to catch his attention. Among them was the L’Osservatore Romano, Vatican City’s daily newspaper that reported on the Holy See’s activities as well as international events impacting the Church worldwide.
Mario’s heart skipped a beat as he saw his own face plastered on the front page.
A local priest, recently elevated to a prestigious position within the Vatican, was found in bed with a prostitute . . .
Father Mario Marino has served in the Vatican Secret Archives since February. It is a heartbreaking sight to witness such a revered clergyman’s rapid fall from grace . . .
The image was damning—a snapshot of him naked in bed, his modesty obscured by a blur. The woman from the previous day—the one who had claimed a need to confess her sins—was nestled beside him, her arm draped over his chest, her lips pressed to his skin. This scandalous image would be impossible to justify to Mario’s superiors. A picture spoke a thousand words, regardless of the fact that he’d clearly been unconscious when it was taken.
“How did this happen?” Mario muttered to the newspaper stand. He fed coins into the slot, pulled open the door, and snatched a copy. Unfolding it, he began to read.
“Father? Is that you?” A female passerby who had paused to buy a copy of the same newspaper was glancing from its cover to Mario and noting the striking similarity.
“No, no,” Mario stammered, his words tumbling over each other as he turned tail and hurried away.
The woman watched as he disappeared down the street towards the red-light district. “Such a shame,” she murmured, shaking her head at the sight of the fallen priest.
Mario rounded the corner then paused to read more of the article. A shiver ran down his spine as he absorbed the damning evidence laid out before him. Whatever drug they had administered had completely incapacitated him. He had no memory of the previous day’s events. With his photo splashed across the front page of every Vatican newspaper, there would be no explaining his side of the story to the cardinal—how could he explain something he couldn’t even remember? His body may have been present, as the photos clearly showed, but his mind had been absent. He was at a loss to explain what had happened, or how his image had ended up on the cover of the Vatican newspaper so swiftly.
Despite the historical tales he’d read about Pope Pius XII and World War II, Mario had never imagined the Vatican could operate with such corrupt ruthlessness in the modern era. Yet, who else could have orchestrated the rapid dissemination of such a damning image using the Vatican’s own newspaper as the vehicle?
As he pondered the murder of his best friend, it dawned on him that the Vatican was rapidly tying up loose ends. He was next. His only hope was to find the woman in the scandalous photograph. She was the only potential eyewitness who could explain what had really happened.
He navigated the streets, a shadowy jungle even in the morning that pulsated with the undercurrents of the previous night’s illicit activities, its stench thick with a mix of cheap perfume and lingering desperation. Mario spotted two women, their attire revealing their profession. Approaching them, he interrupted their hushed conversation. “Pardon me, ladies,” he began, holding up the newspaper while strategically concealing his own image. “Do you recognize this woman?”
One of them gasped, her eyes welling up with tears. “Oh my God!”
“What did I say?” Mario asked, taken aback.
“The paramedics . . . they just took her away,” the other woman managed to say, her arms wrapped protectively around her sobbing friend. “They said she OD’d, but we know she’s been clean. Gina was seven-months sober.”
Mario shuddered. The news of another death just hours after his friend’s sent a wave of terror through him. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, Father,” the woman replied, her friend still weeping in her arms.
“Could you direct me to Gina’s apartment?” he asked, hoping to find any clues that might help explain this tragedy.
“It’s a few blocks down this street, on the left. Ask around when you get close. Someone will guide you.”
“Thank you. And again, I’m truly sorry for your loss,” Mario said, offering a comforting touch on the woman’s shoulder before he ventured down the street in the direction she’d indicated.
As he walked, a figure in black caught his eye. A man, dressed head to toe in black, was walking away from the direction of Gina’s apartment. Mario’s blood ran cold. He recognized the all-black uniform of the Vatican’s assassins. The cleanup crew was already here.
Mario whirled around, his heart pounding like a drum as he sprinted back the way he’d come.
“Call 1-1-2!” he bellowed at the two women as he dashed past them. One of them fumbled for her phone, her fingers trembling as she dialed the emergency number. The assassin, hearing the command, drew his silenced handgun, his aim deadly accurate. With a single muted shot, he pierced both phone and skull—the hollow point bullet exploded out the other side of the woman’s head in a gruesome spray of blood. Her crying companion screamed, her voice echoing off the buildings before she too fell victim to the assassin’s lethal precision. Their bodies crumpled to the ground, blood pooling around them.
The assassin’s gaze never left the priest, watching as he darted into a dead-end alley. He slowed his pace, a predatory grin spreading across his face. He knew the priest was trapped in there with nowhere to go. The assassin stopped about fifty feet from the entrance to the alley and waited for the inevitable moment when the man’s panic became too much—he’d run for it, try to escape. That was the moment he would end the traitorous priest’s life.
Just as the assassin predicted, the priest burst out of the alley, skidding to a halt before spinning around and sprinting in the opposite direction of the assassin. The assassin raised his gun, his steady aim trained on the back of the priest’s head.
He squeezed the trigger.
The hollow point bullet entered the back of the priest’s skull and exited through his face in a gruesome display of violence. He fell limp to the ground.
The assassin approached the lifeless body. His gloved hand reached into the priest’s back pocket to retrieve his wallet. Identifying the body had indeed once belonged to a certain Mario Marino, the assassin slipped the wallet back into the corpse’s pocket. He dragged the body into the alley and up to a pile of trash bags stacked against the alley wall, where he stuffed it in amongst the refuse. It would later be discovered by the polizia following an anonymous phone call.
In the depths of the dead-end alley, the assassin’s ears pricked up at a sound emanating from a dumpster some fifty yards down the way. With a swift glance to ensure no prying eyes were present, he smoothly drew his handgun from its shoulder holster and advanced down the alley.
As he neared the dumpster, a sudden movement alerted him—a feral cat leaping out. His reflexes, honed to a razor’s edge, responded instantly—he fired, extinguishing the cat’s life in a gruesome display against the dumpster.
“Fucking cat,” the assassin muttered, his gaze assessing the smear against the dumpster. He sheathed his weapon and pulled out his phone. His fingers deftly typed out a message on an encrypted line to the Vatican:
Package Destroyed
He sent the message. With that, the assassin melted away, his path leading him back to the Vatican, ready for his next assignment. This loose end had been neatly tied up.
PART II
Chapter 74
March 11, 2000
Rome, Italy
Five minutes earlier
With a surge of adrenaline, Mario sprinted towards the two women, screaming, “Call 1-1-2!” One of the women turned her head sharply, her eyes scanning for the source of the priest’s terror. She spotted the pursuing figure dressed in all black and pulled out her phone, her fingers trembling as she punched in the emergency number. Before the phone could connect, a chilling crack pierced both the phone and the woman’s skull. She crumpled to the cold pavement, a crimson river flowing from her temple. Her companion let out a shrill truncated scream before she too collapsed lifelessly beside her.
With his heart hammering in his chest, Mario dared not risk a backward glance at the gruesome execution. Terror was his fuel, the icy realization he was next on the executioner’s list propelling him forward. He swerved abruptly into a nearby alleyway and crashed into a figure whose attire mirrored his own.
“Please, you must help me!” Mario implored the stranger, his eyes wide with terror. As he scrutinized the man, he was taken aback by the striking similarity of his face. It was as if he was gazing into a mirror.
“Come with me,” the man ordered, his grip ironclad on Mario’s arm as he steered him deeper into the dead-end alley.
They ducked behind a grimy dumpster and the stench of rotting garbage filled Mario’s nostrils. The stranger, who introduced himself as Benoit, locked eyes with Mario, his gaze intense as he relayed crucial instructions. “The man chasing you is an assassin from the Vatican,” he explained in a hushed whisper. “I’m here to take your place. Stay silent, stay hidden, and you might just survive. Do you understand, Mario?” His fingers dug into Mario’s shoulders, his viselike grip ensuring the priest remained in the present and absorbed every word.
“Who are you?” Mario stammered, his mind reeling from the sudden, bizarre encounter.
