4:30 p.m.
Rome, Italy
Exiting Roberto’s opulent mansion, Mario journeyed across the city via metro to his modest apartment. Roberto’s residence was luxurious, but it was too extravagant for Mario’s simple tastes. He preferred his humble abode provided by the Catholic Church, a testament to his vow of celibacy.
His apartment was situated across the street from his former Catholic church, a place he no longer directly served ever since his promotion to his esteemed position within the Vatican Secret Archives. Upon seeing his old church, the doubts that had crept into Mario’s mind intensified. Had he been fortunate to obtain this prestigious role, or was he merely a disposable pawn like Father Benedetti, who had stumbled upon the same forbidden knowledge? Mario knew he had to tread carefully, his conspiracy radar now on high alert. Was it that Roberto’s influence was making him paranoid? Could all this truly be happening?
“Excuse me, Father?” A woman, slightly older than Mario, approached him from behind. Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed her approaching.
He shook off his thoughts, ready to perform his priestly duties regardless of the turmoil brought on by the Vatican Secret Archives. “Yes. How may I assist you?”
“May I confess to you in private, Father?”
“Of course.”
“Can we go inside your place? I don’t want anyone to overhear.”
Mario glanced at the church across the street, knowing that the confessional was the appropriate place for such matters. However, seeing the woman’s distress, he made an exception.
“Alright, I’ll make an exception for you. Please, come in.” He unlocked the front door and stepped inside, the woman trailing behind him. He flicked on the light and placed his backpack on the couch. Something seemed amiss here, but he couldn’t quite identify it. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Do you have a coke? I could really use one.”
She found herself unexpectedly taken aback by the striking good looks of this priest. Her recollections from her formative years were filled with images of grizzled, old men, their skeletal fingers wagging in her direction, prophesying that if she didn’t mend her ways, she was destined to walk the path of a lady of the night.
After a couple of minutes, he returned to the living room and handed her the drink.
“What is your confession?” he asked, moving a coaster in front of her so the soda wouldn’t stain his coffee table, before settling into his club chair.
“I am a prostitute, Father, and I’m ashamed of my sins.”
Mario remained unfazed. He had taken confessions from many ladies of the night. However, a prostitute’s confession paled in comparison to the dark, hidden secrets he had heard from the seemingly innocent and devout members of his congregation, those who paraded their holiness in public while concealing their darkest sins.
“I’m so sorry I have to do this, but I couldn’t pass up the money.” The prostitute felt a pang of remorse as she looked into the eyes of the handsome priest.
“Money makes us do things—” Mario was cut off by a sudden, sharp sting on his neck. His hand flew up instinctively, fingers brushing against the foreign object - a syringe embedded in his skin. He looked at the prostitute, her lips forming the words “I’m so sorry” but couldn’t hear her—his world faded into darkness.
The man in the all-black suit standing behind Mario removed the syringe from his neck and guided the priest’s slumping form sideways, draping him across the armrest. Luca, the Vatican assassin, placed the empty syringe back inside his Vatican-issued briefcase filled with his other tools of persuasion. He turned to the prostitute. “Go to the bedroom and get ready.”
Two other men in black suits emerged from the shadows and carried Mario into the bedroom. There they undressed him and placed him on the bed. They opened two large black cases filled with equipment for a photo shoot. They set up the lampstands and shades, transforming the room into a stage for an incriminating photo session.
The scantily clad prostitute crawled into bed beside the unconscious priest. She felt a pang of guilt, but the man’s offer of two months’ rent was too tempting to refuse.
“Make it look like you’re kissing but keep out of the way. I want to see his face clearly,” Luca instructed the prostitute as the other assassins began to take photos of the compromising scene.
Chapter 72
March 11, 2000
1:33 a.m.
Rome, Italy
Roberto eased his sports car into the central spot of his expansive five-car garage, the engine’s purr rebounding off the walls. He exited the car and strode over to the passenger side to assist his stunning companion for the evening. “Welcome to my palace, princess,” he theatrically bowed, arms spread wide.
“It’s quite the spectacle,” Paola replied, closing the distance between them, wrapping her arms around Roberto’s neck and pulling him into a passionate kiss. He was lost in the softness of her lips, the intoxicating scent of her perfume. Was she a nice girl? He could see himself settling down with this one—beautiful, intelligent, seductive . . . and blonde—his ultimate weakness.
He closed his eyes, savoring the slow, sensual kiss, pulling her closer. He didn’t want the moment to end. . . .
Ow! A sharp sting interrupted his blissful reverie.
He pulled out of the kiss to clutch at his neck where he’d felt the sharp pain. What the hell? He felt the syringe there, and his gaze locked with Paola’s before he slowly crumpled to the cold cement floor of his garage.
When he regained consciousness, he found himself bound to his bed, his hands and feet tied to the bedposts. His eyes fluttered open to find a striking man with slicked-back dark hair and dressed in an all-black suit standing at the foot of his bed.
“Who the hell are you?” Roberto demanded, straining against the ropes that held him captive in his own bed.
“I’ll be the one asking the questions, Roberto,” the man, Mateo, responded coolly.
“You can go to hell,” Roberto spat, his anger flaring at being held prisoner in his own home. “And how do you know my name? You want money? Is that it?” His mind raced, trying to make sense of the situation. These men weren’t your typical thugs. They were too well-dressed, too organized. They were after something else.
“Are you done?” Mateo asked, his patience with Roberto’s incessant rambling wearing thin.
“Yes.” Roberto fell silent.
“Where did you get this?” Mateo held up the microSD card they’d found while searching Roberto’s office.
“I don’t know what that is,” Roberto lied, playing dumb.
