The butler inclined his head in approval.

“Thank you, sir . . . and your name is?” Trevor asked.

“Alistar, sir.” The butler’s gaze locked on the back of Mario’s head. “Your iced teas will be served shortly.”

“I never meet person with butler,” Mario admitted, his eyes wide with the novelty. His experiences with Roberto were the closest he’d come to such affluence. His old friend had done well for himself, but never indulged in such extravagance.

“What can I say? My novels have been rather successful. Have you read any?” Trevor’s curiosity piqued. Was his guest a fan?

“Sì. I finished one. Two days,” Mario replied, eager to show his host he’d made an effort before their meeting.

“You mentioned you have information about my father?” Trevor’s voice held a note of skepticism. How could this stranger know secrets about his father that weren’t already public knowledge?

“Sì. I have news.”

“That seems unlikely, considering you don’t appear a day over thirty.”

“Long story.”

Trevor lapsed into thoughtful silence, his curiosity warring with his suspicion as he waited for the young man to elaborate.

“I am priest. Um. Was priest. I digitize Vatican Secret Archives.”

“Really.” Trevor’s interest was instantly ignited. He had always been fascinated by the Vatican Secret Archives but had never been granted research access due to his reputation for penning fictional World War II thrillers. The Vatican only permitted certain scholars into the Secret Archives. Hearing Mario’s claim, he was all ears.

Mario saw Trevor’s eyes spark at the mention of the Archives. “I scan books. I stumble upon package, wrapped in brown paper and sealed wax.”

Mario could hear Roberto’s voice from beyond. Too many details, buddy. Get to the point. Sage advice, naturally—it was clear he was losing Trevor’s interest amidst the details.

“I discovered secret journal.”

Trevor leaned in, his eyes filled with intrigue. “What kind of secret journal are we talking about?”

In the shadowy hallway outside the office, Alistar eavesdropped. This was the intelligence he had been ruthlessly pursuing following his accomplice Mateo’s interrogation of Roberto. Mario was unwittingly spilling the very secrets Alistar had been hunting for.

“Secret journal by . . .” Mario faltered, questioning whether Trevor would believe his outrageous claim. He inhaled deeply. “Pope Pius XII.”

“Really? You unearthed a pope’s diary in the Secret Archives?” Trevor leaned back in his chair, his excitement deflating.

Alistar, holding a tray of iced teas, paused outside the door. He found the journal.

He entered the room. “Your iced teas, sirs,” he announced, placing the tray on the table nearest the door. He exited swiftly, ensuring Mario didn’t catch a glimpse of his face.

“Thank you, Alistar.” Trevor turned back to Mario. “I understand every pope’s journal is in the Secret Archives. What makes this one so extraordinary?”

Mario was rattled by Trevor’s lack of interest in Pope Pius XII’s personal journal. After the whirlwind of events he’d endured in recent months, he was disheartened by the indifference the renowned fiction writer was showing, especially given the possibility this pope was his father. Mario felt like a desperate salesman trying to pitch to an uninterested buyer. Why was this so challenging? “You’re familiar with Pope Pius XII?”

“Yes, of course.” Trevor was taken aback by the blunt question. “He was a controversial pope during World War II. So what?”

“Not controversial,” Mario’s voice rose, his conviction unwavering.

Trevor, noticing his guest’s growing agitation, was beginning to question his decision to invite him over. “Enlighten me.”

“Pope Pius XII controlling Hitler and Nazis.”

“Is that so?” Trevor’s patience was wearing thin as he realized he was about to be subjected to a tale involving some elaborate conspiracy theory.

“Pope bribe Hitler with Jew artwork for Führermuseum,” Mario blurted out, his excitement undisguised as he veered off the main point of his mission.

That did it. As a Jew himself, Mario had unwittingly struck a nerve. Trevor’s family tree had been brutally pruned by the Nazis, leaving only him and his mother. Horrific tales of extermination camps, narrated by his mother, had fueled his World War II novels, catapulting him to fame and fortune.

“Alistar, is it? This iced tea is divine,” came a woman’s voice, complimenting the butler who was lingering outside the office door.

“Thank you, madam.”

An elegant septuagenarian entered Trevor’s office. “I apologize, son, I wasn’t aware you had company over. I can return later.” She began her retreat.

“Mother, please stay. I believe you should hear what this young man has to say.”

Mario’s nerves jangled as he found himself in the same room as the woman he’d read about in the Templar library. “It’s you!” he blurted out, unable to contain himself.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Scusi, it’s just . . .” Mario fumbled for words. “I read lots about you.”

“Do I know you?”

“No. I read journal in Templar basement. Your journal.”

Anna’s face paled. She moved to the other chair and sat down. The Templar protection program had assured her her anonymity—now, with this stranger in their midst, their safety was in jeopardy.

“Where did you find this information?”

“Basement. Beneath Trinity Bank.”

Bingo! Alistar had hit the jackpot. The Templars’ location was a crucial piece of intelligence long sought by the Black Nobility. They and their proxy, the Vatican, had always been stymied in their attempts to locate the Templars’ base in Rome. Alistar needed to alert his team so they could finally deal with the Templars for good and obtain Solomon’s treasure.

Mario watched as Anna’s face drained of color. He realized he’d overstepped her boundaries. Unfortunately, his adrenaline-fueled enthusiasm often caused him to spill secrets before his brain could think better of it. This habit had landed him in retreats of silence ordered by his superiors more times than he cared to remember. He recognized this was one of those regrettable instances.

An oppressive silence filled the room. Mario, feeling the sting of his faux pas, rose from his seat. “Scusi. I say too much. I go now.”

“I think that would be best,” Trevor agreed, rising to escort the strange Italian out of his home. The mansion door slammed shut behind Mario with a force that mirrored the intensity of his own self-reproach.

“Mario, you idiot!” he berated himself in Italian, regretting his lack of preparation for this crucial meeting. He’d bungled his handling of sensitive information around Trevor and Anna Muldoon. The fact remained that it was imperative Trevor know the truth about his father—that was Mario’s trump card, capable of securing the Muldoons’ cooperation in exposing the truth about the Vatican.

Mario couldn’t undertake this mission alone. He resolved to try again in a few days, hopefully once more face-to-face. Sliding into Janet’s 2000 Toyota Avalon, he navigated the winding driveway towards the main entrance of the gated community. Turning onto Tamiami Trail North, he headed back to Janet’s house.

***