Page 76 of Skotos
“I’d seriously love to tail your ass.”
I snorted. Fuck me. I actually snort-laughed. “God, I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” he said with that fucking smirk twisting his mouth again.
“Then we go to the embassy,” I said, refusing to yield to his roguish banter.
He hesitated. “If we show up there, our friends across the piazza will know we’re getting serious. They’ll call their handlers, and if any of those handlers work inside the Vatican . . .”
I was quiet for a beat. “We’re Americans, Thomas. That’s no secret; and everyone following us already thinks we’re spooks.”
“Maybe, but thinking a thing is true and having proof aren’t the same. The second we make that call, we give them their proof.”
I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated. “So what? We do nothing?”
He shook his head. “We go inside. We talk to Rinaldi. If he won’t help us, then we burn the embassy door down.”
My lips twitched. “That’s my Thomas. Ever the diplomat.”
He huffed out a laugh.
As we stood and made our way toward the gate, I stole a glance back. The two men across the square were still there—cigarettes nearly done, posture relaxed, eyes sharp. Ahead, the other pair were equally vigilant.
Let them watch, I thought.We’re done hiding.
36
Thomas
Will and I waited just inside the main entrance, past the Swiss Guards in their Renaissance uniforms that would’ve looked ridiculous anywhere else. They didn’t speak, didn’t even blink as far as I could tell.
“The Monsignor should be along shortly,” one of the guards informed us.
Will nodded politely, then leaned against the wall beside me, his arms folded like he was at a train station rather than standing in the belly of the oldest intelligence apparatus in Europe.
I wasn’t nearly that calm. I scanned the hall—every priest who passed, every door that clicked open, every cough and echo. I shifted the weight off my injured arm, trying to ignore the persistent ache. The blade hadn’t gone deep, but every heartbeat reminded me how deadly this game truly was.
“We need to be careful what we say,” I murmured, low and clipped. “We don’t know how far this thing reaches or who owns that cardinal’s cassock we found.”
Will didn’t look at me. “We’re here to stop an assassination. We can’t afford to play coy.”
My jaw tensed. You’d think he’d learn by now.
“What if Rinaldi’s in on this? What ifhe’sthe cardinal?”
“Now you’re just being paranoid.” Will glanced my way, his eyes barely resisting the urge to roll. “If Rinaldi was part of this—whatever it is—he never would’ve introduced us to Marini. He personally walked us down to the Archives, where we found our only real leads.”
“Just like a conspirator would,” I countered. “Give us just enough rope—”
“Thomas . . .” Will hissed, clearly annoyed.
Fine, be annoyed. One of us needs to keep a clear head.
“I’m not saying we do nothing—or anything crazy,” I said, measuring my words with deep breaths. “But maybe let’s not lay our entire hand on the table before we know who’s sitting across from us.”
Will finally turned to me. “So we just stand here and smile while someone tries to kill the Pope?”
There it was. That fire behind his eyes—righteous, impatient, damn near reckless. I bit back myfirst response, which would have landed me in the doghouse for more days than I cared to count. Then I looked at him. Really looked.
