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T he restaurant was located on the Corso Vittorio, directly opposite the Chiesa Nuova, the original home of Caravaggio’s Deposition of Christ .

Owing to a last-minute cancellation, the Art Squad had been able to obtain a table for two.

General Ferrari decided that handsome Luca Rossetti was best suited for the assignment.

At present he was sitting in the back of an unmarked Alfa Romeo parked next to the church.

Gabriel sat at his side, a laptop on his knees.

The winking blue light on the screen indicated that His Eminence Cardinal Bertoli was in his office on the third floor of the Apostolic Palace.

His Milanese financial adviser, Nico Ambrosi, was stepping off a train at Roma Termini.

“Just the way you and your boss planned it all along,” said Gabriel.

“Not even the general could have imagined it would end like this.” Rossetti shook his head slowly. “This is going to be one of the biggest scandals in the history of the Church.”

“Exactly what I was hoping to avoid.”

“Your friend the Holy Father isn’t to blame.”

“I’m not sure his enemies will see it that way.”

Rossetti’s phone pulsed with an incoming text. “Ambrosi is five minutes away. ”

“Tell your colleagues to give him a wide berth.”

“We know how to follow people.”

“Do you remember the night you tried to follow me home from Harry’s Bar?”

Rossetti rubbed his jaw. “I’m lucky you didn’t kill me.”

“It was an innocent mistake.”

“It was an assault.”

“I broke my damned hand on that granite head of yours.”

“I’ll have you know my head is made of the finest Italian marble.”

A chauffeured Mercedes sedan slowed to a stop outside the restaurant.

“That was fast,” said Rossetti.

“I believe that’s your dinner date, Luca.”

The driver opened the rear door and Veronica Marchese, in a shimmering black pantsuit, stepped into view. Rossetti regarded her admiringly. “She’s very beautiful.”

“And quite unavailable.”

“Still grieving for that husband of hers?”

“She’s grieving,” said Gabriel. “But not for Carlo Marchese.”

Rossetti opened his door. “Any advice?”

“Order the gnocchi with fontina. You’ll thank me later.”

***

Veronica was chatting with the ma?tre d’ when Luca Rossetti came through the door. He offered a hand in greeting, but she gave him an intimate kiss on each cheek instead.

“How was your day, darling?”

“Busy. Yours?”

“Perfectly dreadful.” She smiled. “Until this moment, that is.”

She held Rossetti’s arm as the ma?tre d’ ushered them to their table. Only one other table in the dining room was not yet occupied—the one in a semiprivate alcove. It was set for three people.

Veronica was looking at the drinks menu. “Shall we have an aperitif?”

“I’m on duty.”

“No, you’re not. You’re having dinner with a prominent museum director at one of Rome’s trendiest restaurants.”

“And what is the nature of our relationship?”

She sighed. “Purely physical, I’m afraid.”

“In that case, this promises to be an interesting evening.”

“In more ways than one.” Veronica directed her gaze toward the attractive, dark-suited man who was now being shown to the secluded table in the alcove. It was Nico Ambrosi. “Did you happen to notice the number of place settings?”

Rossetti nodded.

“I wonder who the third guest could be.”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

Veronica checked the time. “What do you suppose is keeping His Eminence?”

“Shall we ask our mutual friend?”

“Why not?”

Rossetti shot a message to Gabriel. The reply was instant. “Cardinal Bertoli just left the Vatican with a Polizia di Stato escort.”

“Tell me something, Luca. Why does a mere cardinal require a police escort every time he crosses the border and enters Italy?”

“If it were up to me, he wouldn’t get one.” Rossetti put away his phone. “How did you meet him?”

“Our mutual friend?”

Rossetti nodded.

“Several years ago, I helped him take down an antiquities smuggling network. Unfortunately the leader of the network turned out to be my late husband.”

“I’m sorry, Dottoressa Marchese. It was before my time.”

She leaned across the table and whispered, “Since we’re sleeping together, Luca, you should probably refer to me by my given name.”

“It’s one of my favorites.”

“My mother chose it. She loved the story of the young woman from Jerusalem who wiped the face of Jesus as he carried his cross to Golgotha.”

“You were raised in a religious home?”

She nodded, then asked, “What about you?”

“I was a model Catholic.”

“And now?”

“I’m Catholic the way most Italians are Catholic.”

“Not so much?”

“I still believe,” said Rossetti. “At least I think I do. But I lost my faith in the Church a long time ago.”

“You’re not alone.”

Several heads turned as Cardinal Bertoli, resplendent in his crimson-trimmed cassock, glided across the dining room at the side of the ma?tre d’.

As he approached the alcove, Nico Ambrosi rose to greet him.

They exchanged a businesslike handshake and sat down.

Cardinal Bertoli placed his telefonino on the tablecloth, then gestured toward the third place setting.

“I could be mistaken,” said Veronica, “but it looks to me as though His Eminence is wondering the same thing we are.”

“Are you suggesting that Nico Ambrosi would invite someone to dinner without the cardinal’s knowledge?”

“I wouldn’t put anything past Nico.”

A waiter appeared and Rossetti requested two glasses of prosecco.

“Are you from Naples?” asked Veronica.

“Is it that obvious?”

She smiled but said nothing.

“I grew up in a neighborhood controlled by the Camorra. When I was a boy, I saw bodies in the streets.”

“Is that why you became a police officer?”

“I suppose so. My mother wept for a week when I told her.”

“Why?”

“She wanted me to become a priest. Can you imagine me in a Roman collar and a clerical suit?”

“I can, actually.” Just then the door of the restaurant opened, and a man with an angular face and hair combed closely to his scalp came in from the street. “Guest number three?”

“Definitely.”

“Who is he?”

“A banker from Lugano who just lost a half billion dollars belonging to the Camorra.”

“Franco Tedeschi?”

Rossetti nodded, then watched as Tedeschi made his way unescorted to the table in the alcove. He shook the hands of Nico Ambrosi and Cardinal Bertoli and lowered himself into the remaining chair.

“The unholy trinity,” observed Veronica. Then, with a wry smile, she added, “It’s a shame no one’s listening in on their conversation.”

The waiter delivered the prosecco.

“What should we drink to?” asked Rossetti.

“How about to us?”

“Is there any chance our relationship can become something more than physical?”

“I’m afraid not. You see, Luca, I’m hopelessly in love with someone else.”

“Really? Who?”

Veronica smiled sadly. “I’ll never tell.”