Page 42 of Skotos
Thomas grinned. “Can you please not talk about the Baroness’s pleasure? I won’t be able to look her in the eye when we leave.”
I let my head fall back against the leather chair and laughed. “God, I hate you.”
He stepped around the table, leaned down, and planted a tender kiss on my lips. “No, you love me down to your pinky toes. Just accept it. Everything will be so much easier when you surrender.”
I bit his lower lip.
“Ow! What was that for?”
I grinned and stepped toward the hatch. “For always being so damn right. You’re my little toe, that’s for sure.”
He shoved me against the cushions and turned toward the trapdoor.
Rome. Again.
I released a long sigh.
The Alps stared at us through stained glass like silent sentinels as we crossed the second-floor landing. The scent of roasted coffee and something buttery lured us toward the foyer—along with the unmistakable clack of the Baroness’s heels on marble.
“You look troubled,” she said, her arms folded as though she already knew the answer. “Is it your bird man again?”
I nodded, exhaling. “We’ve been redirected to Rome.”
“Rome?” A flicker of surprise—and disappointment—passed behind her eyes. “But you only just arrived.”
“He didn’t exactly give us a chance to vote,” Thomas muttered beside me.
The Baroness stepped closer, her expression cooling into something far more calculated. “Then at least allow me to arrange your travel.” She started to turn but froze, narrowed her eyes, and speared out a very pointed finger. “But only if you agree to finish your breakfast first. We simply cannot have international espionage on an empty stomach—that would be most uncivilized.”
We followed her back to the dining room where the morning feast remained untouched. As I bit into a croissant, the Baroness poured coffee with the gravitas of a priestess blessing an altar.
“So,” she said, settling herself. “Rome. The Pope, I presume?”
Thomas nodded and then glanced around the room, I presumed to check for ever-present servants hovering like choppers over a landing zone. The Baroness, anticipating the need for a privateconversation, had already cleared the room. Hence, our wealthy hostess serving her own coffee.
“The Vatican may be involved,” Thomas said without flourish.
She snorted delicately. “Your man always did see phantoms in cathedrals.”
“I thought the same thing, but there’s actually reason to consider it,” I said, more guarded than usual. “An intercepted message referenced a very particular phrase, and there are now three known instances of those etched bullet casings, each in a different city across Europe, including Lugano. Something far bigger than we first thought is going on.”
“There have been three assassinations in how many days? I fear the scale of whatever this is has already shaken the continent to its core.” She thought a moment and then asked, “A long-range rifle? In Lugano?”
“Hidden near the airfield,” Thomas confirmed. “Same symbol etched on the side, same caliber.”
She stirred her coffee. “I suppose the Vatican’s involvement is possible, but do not discount the Soviets. The Church enjoys drama and colorful regalia, not clumsiness. Assassinating heads of state? That reeks of politics and a thirst for power, not theology.”
“And yet, if the Soviets were behind it,” I argued, “why use religious symbolism? The spear by itselfdoesn’t sound religious, but add the sacred wording and it reeks of zealotry.”
“Unless someone wants to point the finger at Rome,” Thomas said.
The Baroness smiled into her cup. “Or maybe you are chasing ghosts in vestments.”
“You’re saying the Pope isn’t a killer?” I teased.
She shot me a look. “If he were, he would not leave casings lying around. He would serve you poisoned tea and call it divine retribution.”
Thomas laughed. “Remind me never to drink your tea.”
