Page 12 of The Villain
Besides, I know what happened on this land. How it’s tainted.
The church, which is dedicated to St. Anastasia stands tall, a foreboding gothic structure on the edge of town. The road leading up to it is dark and quiet. There’s no reason for anyone to be on it unless they’re headed to the church. It is modeled at least in part after St. Anastasia in Verona, Italy, although it’s nowhere near as old. I like to say I’ve kept to the wishes of the original architects in maintaining and restoring what I could. It is beautiful, although the residents of Devil’s Peak were less than thrilled when they learned who it was sold to. But here in Devil’s Peak, just like anywhere else, money talks, dirty or not.
Clouds drift and the moon casts its cool light over the stone walls encircling the property. They were crumbling when I bought the place. I kept what I could of the original wall and grew the barrier into a twelve-foot-tall perimeter around the house. The SUV slows as regal iron gates slide open at our approach. The church with its two imposing steeples is lit softly from the outside, dark stone and arched, stained glass restored, reinforced. Made better than it was. Soldiers stand sentry in what used to be the rectory, but what now functions as a gate house. We drive past the guards and as we circle the drive to the carved, wooden doors, one opens, and Enzo waits to greet me.
I climb out of the SUV, walk inside and slip off my coat. Hanging it on the rack, I stand inside the entrance, and I breathe in the lingering scent of incense that I still burn even though it’s been more than two decadessince Mass was celebrated here. The ancient stone floors are still in place, the bones of the wealthy devoted, those who could afford it, buried beneath, the carved names worn down by the feet of several hundred years of worshippers. I wonder if money brought them any closer to their god in the end. If it was worth it.
“The girl?” I ask Enzo.
“She’s in the room adjoining yours, as you requested.”
“She didn’t give you any trouble?”
“Not a peep.”
“Good.” I guess the mention of the crypt kept her docile. “Did you eat something?”
“Not yet. You hungry?”
I glance over his shoulder at my closed bedroom door. “I’ll eat later. You go ahead.”
My cousin follows my glance to the bedroom and grins. “Guess you’re anxious.” He pats my back, and I smile. Enzo is my most trusted man, more than a soldier and my cousin. More importantly, though, he is my childhood friend. We grew up together. After what happened with my mother, I spent as much time at my uncle’s house as I did my own. Although Enzo’s always been good about respecting our positions. He may be my cousin, but he works for me, ultimately. “I’ll make a sandwich and head out,” he says. Enzo has a house deeper in the woods of the property, a smaller chapel he converted into his home himself.
I loosen my tie and undo the top buttons of my shirt, our footsteps echoing off the walls as we cross themassive space, Enzo to the kitchen and me toward my bedroom which was once the Baptistry.
Six imposing stone pillars support the massive structure, disappearing into the vaulted ceilings which are three stories high. Murals paint mesmerizing scenes over our heads and along the walls, most violent, many divine. I find I can study them all day and never see enough. There’s always some nuance to be discovered. Although the work on the ceilings is complete, the murals in some of the devotional chapels are still in the process of being restored. Time did its damage, of course, but the decay makes it somehow more beautiful.
The pews have been removed, replaced by comfortable furnishings, living and dining areas on one side, a more casual and slightly more private spaces to relax set in the most beautiful of several smaller chapels off the main room. I kept the original gates leading into each of them, although all stand open. Fires burn all day long throughout the winter in the two large wood-burning fireplaces I had built while preserving as much marble as I could. The sanctuary at the very front of the house is now a generous kitchen with the best equipment, the altar itself serving as one of two dining tables with chairs custom made to accommodate for its height and to befit it’s beauty.
The only rooms I’ve closed off in here are the space I use for my office and the two larger chapels converted into bedrooms. Enzo lived in one while he built his house. After he moved out, I passed it on to Jet. But that was when things were different between us. He rarely uses it anymore.
The scent of incense is stronger as I walk past the thurible, and I breathe it in on my way to the corridors that will lead to my private rooms. There are two doors here, one to my bedroom and the second to the smaller bedroom that adjoins mine. I pause outside her door to listen, hearing some sound inside, a quiet scraping. I raise my eyebrows to the man standing just outside her door to ask about it, but he shrugs his shoulders and it’s gone before I even get the chance to ask.
“Anything?” I ask instead.
“No sir. She’s been pretty quiet.”
“Good. Go ahead. I’ll take it from here.”
He nods and walks away. I head to my bedroom and enter, closing the door behind me. My bedroom, which is circular, is the room that contains the baptismal font. It’s my favorite space, the place I feel most centered. Most myself. The entire church is quiet as the dead, but this room has something else to it. A complete stillness that’s almost impossible to find in the noise of life.
It’s where I come to think.
Tonight, though, I glance at the door that leads to her room. My Little Moth.
Setting my phone on the dresser, I slip off my suit jacket and toss it onto the bed, sling my holster holding the Glock over the back of a chair and pull my tie and shirt off. I drop those on the bed as well and make my way into the bathroom. Everything is stone and marble here too, the style of the church preserved as I updated what needed modernizing. I switch on the glass-walled shower and strip off the last of my clothes as the waterheats. A moment later, I step beneath the flow and close my eyes.
Michael Moretti is probably at the hospital now getting his wrist set. I hope it fucking hurts. I wonder what Malek Lombardi is up to. No matter what Jet’s source uncovered, I have a gut feeling about him. Michael’s too inexperienced and far too stupid to have figured out when that shipment of arms was coming in. He’s too fucking lazy to bother with a plan that would have taken time and subtlety.
Malek on the other hand is a patient man. He’d worked at Alaric Moretti’s side for decades. In the last year or so of Alaric’s life, though, there had been rumors about a falling out. Although I normally wouldn’t bother with the internal goings on of another family, I make a mental note to look into Malek’s history, to understand him, because I think he masterminded this. I think he set Michael up to take the fall. Michael Moretti is a weak, lazy man. He’s not his father and it’s no secret, not within his own family, not outside of it. He’d want the glory of taking something from me. Did he really think I wouldn’t find out? Maybe. Was he set up to take the fall? Probably. Seeing him today, interacting with him, only solidifies my thinking. Malek, though, he’s been flying under the radar. He isn’t in it for the glory, the recognition, at least not yet. That’s too simple, although all human beings are vain. But what he truly wants is power.
I also know there’s a snitch on my end. No way anyone should have known anything about thatshipment. I’m looking into that now, but quietly. I, too, am patient.
Once I’m finished, I switch off the shower and grab a towel to dry off before wrapping it low around my hips and returning to the bedroom. Bare stone is smooth, but cold against my bare feet, a carpet only placed around the bed. I make my way to the walk-in closet and pull on a pair of sweatpants and a white V-neck T-shirt. I push my hair back with my fingers, it’s pretty much uncombable, and check my phone. No messages. I type out a text to Angelo. Growing up, he was like a father to me and when I took over the family, I kept him on as my consigliere. I trust him like I trust few people.
I type out a text
Me: Saw dad but he was asleep.
