Page 78 of Skotos
But not anymore. Not in that moment.
His fingers fidgeted with his rosary as he turned. “Come. We should speak in private.”
Will and I exchanged a quick glance and fell into step behind him.
With every pace down the corridor, my nerves ratcheted tighter.
Rinaldi walked too fast, too stiff. Sweat glistened just behind his ears, which was odd for a man who spent his days in the cool corridors of the Apostolic Palace. His knuckles were white where they gripped the edge of his robes, occasionally rising to clutch his crucifix.
Will didn’t seem to notice. But I did. I noticed everything.
The way his shoes clicked unevenly on the marble.
The way his shoulders jerked at every creak of a door.
The way he nearly leaped out of his robe each time a passing priest or nun offered a greeting nod.
I’d seen this before—in Budapest—just before our closest ally betrayed us.
Pressure built behind my sternum, the quiet churn of instinct screaming from somewhere low in my gut. Something was wrong. Something was off.
Will leaned toward me as we turned a corner. His voice was barely a whisper. “He’s nervous.”
“Yeah,” I murmured. Hehadbeen watching. Hehadnoticed the priest’s jittery behavior. Despiteeverything, something inside me smiled. That was my Will. I should’ve never doubted.
We passed another pair of priests. Each called Rinaldi’s name, smiled, and offered perfunctory bows. Rinaldi didn’t even acknowledge them. He just kept walking, fast and focused.
Will shot me another glance, his brow now furrowed. All I could do was shrug and stay attentive.
Rinaldi stopped in front of a simple wooden door and produced a brass key from his pocket. This wasn’t his office. We’d never been in this room, didn’t even know what room this might be.
Rinaldi’s hand shook as he unlocked the door. “Inside, please.”
He gestured us through with a sweep of his sleeve.
Will hesitated.
Just half a second.
Then he walked in.
I followed—because I wasn’t letting him out of my sight. Whatever this was, we’d face it together. And I had a bad feeling we were about to learn just how deep the rot in the Vatican went.
37
Will
We stepped into a square chamber—tiny, stark, and, unlike the rest of the opulent palace of Catholicism, utterly devoid of decoration. There were no frescoes, no golden saints, just cold white walls—and a simple desk behind which a priest sat blinking up at us.
The clerk, not the timid, distracted sort we’d passed on other floors, was all sharp edges—a square jaw, rigid spine, and buzzed blond hair graying only at the temples. Beady eyes that likely never missed a detail fixed on us as we entered, but the man neither flinched nor blinked. Had it not been for his spotless cassock, he would’ve looked more like a soldier than a secretary.
Two Swiss Guards flanked the double doors at the far end of the room, their halberds gleaming, posture immaculate. Unlike the men stationed at the entrances to the palace, these men were built like statues—but not those of the meek martyrs,more like Spartans prepared to rip an enemy’s arm off using only their ab muscles, if such a thing were possible. These were the types of soldiers who could choke out a man with one arm while holding scripture with the other. Their eyes were bright and alert, their expressions entirely unreadable. Even their armor looked heavier than those outside, somehow made of sterner stuff, as though tanks might burst through the outer doors and only their breastplates could stop them.
Rinaldi didn’t acknowledge the clerk. He didn’t even slow at the desk.
He walked straight through the room as though the doors nestled between the two colorfully adorned monsters were already open. The guards snapped to attention, the clicking of their heels echoing throughout the chamber. Without so much as a gesture, the men extended a hand and gripped the double doors’ handles in perfect unison, then pulled open the doors in a fluid motion.
Rinaldi blew past without a word or nod.
