Page 28 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Thomas

W e returned to our hotel as the sun dipped behind Rome’s ancient skyline, shadows stretching like the long fingers of time across the cobbled streets.

The concierge barely looked up as we passed through the marble-floored lobby, too engrossed in his newspaper to care about two Americans with tired eyes and suits dusted with Vatican stone.

I tossed our key onto the desk in our room and collapsed into the armchair beside the window, but Will didn’t even bother sitting. He was already rummaging in the minibar like a man on the brink of a breakdown.

“Will,” I said, deadpan, “we just stood before the Holy Father and unburied a secret order of assassins. Could you at least pretend you’re not thinking about food?”

His head popped up from behind the minibar door. “You’re lucky I wasn’t thinking about food while we were in the catacombs. You know how cold it was down there? I burn calories when I shiver.”

Despite everything, I laughed.

Then silence came creeping back, curling around us like ivy.

“I need air,” I muttered, standing. “Come on. Let’s take a walk.”

Rome felt alive at twilight, a city with a second heartbeat that only thrummed once the sun went down. The streets glistened from the earlier rain, and the smell of garlic drifted through narrow alleys from kitchens already hard at work.

We didn’t speak at first, just walked.

We passed fountains and clustered scooters. We strolled past lovers sharing wine on worn marble steps. Rome never tried to hide her age—she flaunted it like a Broadway actress, daring the world to forget her history.

And she was stunning.

Will finally broke the silence. “You’ve gone quiet.”

I shoved my hands into my coat pockets. “Because I’m thinking. None of this makes sense.”

Will raised a brow. “We’re on the same page there.”

I glanced around to ensure no one was close enough to overhear us, then lowered my voice. “Are we chasing Russian royalists or rogue priests? Did we just sit through a performance orchestrated by the Pope himself, or is he an unwitting victim in this game? Or worse, is he a target?”

Will exhaled slowly. “I’ve been asking myself the same questions. Rinaldi practically shook with fear over the Pope’s safety; and yet the Pope himself seemed . . . less surprised than I expected . . . and utterly unaffected by his potential doom.”

“He was calculating,” I agreed. “And so measured I couldn’t tell if he was protecting something—or someone.”

“Maybe both,” Will said. “But even if he’s clean, he knows more than he let on. That bit about internal rot, a darkness rising . . . it didn’t come from nowhere.”

“Spiritual leaders are always afraid of rot of one kind or another. If he smelled your breath in the mornings, he might think he’d found the source.”

Will shot me a glare and then raised one very meaningful finger.

I winked and strode on.

We rounded a corner onto a quieter street where vines hung low over cracked stone walls and the clink of silverware echoed from a tiny trattoria tucked into the base of an old building.

Delicious scents wrapped us in their warm embrace—simmering tomatoes, melted cheese, rich herbs, and something crisping in olive oil.

“God,” Will whispered. “Are we in heaven? ”

A humble sign hung from the door, its lettering faded but still legible: Trattoria delle Ombre .

Shadows and pasta.

Will grabbed my arm and feigned a fainting spell. “This is what the Church means by ‘divine intervention.’”

I rolled my eyes and chuckled as we slipped inside and were greeted by a tiny man with a voice like a tire losing air and the smile of one who’d seen too much and decided to love life anyway. He waved us to a table by the street-facing window without a word.

Will sat and immediately reached for the bread basket. I yielded the first piece. He’d earned it. As we waited for our food, the weight of the day settled again.

“The Order,” I murmured. “If they survived centuries in the dark, who would know they were still alive?”

Will chewed thoughtfully. “The Pope didn’t. Or at least, he didn’t appear to; but someone knew. Someone brought them back. Who gave the order to kill De Gasperi, Petitpierre, and the king? Is this an organized plot or a single actor playing out some sick fantasy?”

“There’s no way one person could pull all this off. Just look at the geography, the ground they’d have to cover. Never mind the security they penetrated over and over. This has to be a group of some kind, likely sophisticated, with access to resources.”

“Deep access, from what we’ve seen.” Will grunted, wagging bread in the air and flinging olive oil across the table. “Hell, they have their own branded bullets.”

I chuckled again. Branded bullets. That was good, if a tad close to the mark.

“The real question,” I said, grabbing a breadstick before he could devour them all, “is who’s next?”

Will leaned back and stared at the ceiling as if the answer might be scrawled across the plaster. “Who’s visible enough, hated enough by the far right, and feared enough by the far left to warrant a bullet?”

“Chancellor Adenauer,” I said quickly. “He’s rebuilding his half of Germany as a democratic state. The Soviets hate him for pulling West.”

“But he’s Catholic,” Will added. “The Order wouldn’t target someone aligned with the Church.”

“Unless they think he’s too liberal,” I countered. “Maybe that’s enough.”

Will chewed and tapped the table thoughtfully. “What about Attlee in Britain?”

“He’s Labour, pretty left-leaning, but not pro-Soviet. Still, he may be too secular for the Order.”

“And if they want to make a statement, how much louder could one be than to take out the British PM? ”

“Right.” I dropped the breadstick onto my plate, no longer interested—or even hungry.

“The Pope warned us. Whoever they are, they want to burn out perceived corruption,” Will said. “What if they think secularism is corruption?”

“What about a Scandinavian?” I offered. “They’re neutral but progressive. They could be seen as traitors to tradition.”

“They’re too peripheral.” Will shook his head. “I think it’ll be someone symbolic, a cornerstone figure, someone tied directly to the postwar reconstruction, someone who represents the liberal order.”

“Churchill?”

“He’s retired, though still influential. Definitely symbolic.” Will grimaced. “So far, they’ve only killed men in power. The king—”

“George VI,” I whispered.

Will’s voice dropped. “He’s the monarch, an ally to the US, and a devout Anglican. He’s also about as public as a person can get, globally so. Killing him would send a very loud message.”

“And possibly ignite global panic,” I finished. “Maybe that’s the real goal.”

The waiter arrived with pasta so fresh it nearly wept steam. He poured wine from a carafe that probably hadn’t been washed since Mussolini. Neither of us touched it right away .

Finally, Will leaned forward and lifted his glass. “So who do you think’s behind this? Moscow? Or this damn Order?”

I frowned. “I’m torn. The Soviets have motive—they’ve been trying to break the West’s unity since the war ended. Taking out Western-leaning leaders makes sense strategically, and they’ve never been shy about wet work.”

“But they’re too smart for this,” Will countered. “Think of the consequences if they were discovered. The entire West would unite against them, and they’d have solid reason to do so.”

“The West is already united against them, even if some of the European powers are still reeling from the war and can’t throw much weight around. What do the Soviets really have to lose? It’s not like we can hate communism more than we already do.”

“You underestimate the world’s ability to hate,” Will snarked before taking a sip, grimacing slightly at the bitter wine.

“Fine, hate is a powerful force. Still, the Soviets make sense.”

“But the signature.” Will shook his head. “The spear fits the Vatican angle. The killings aren’t just strategic—they’re symbolic, ritualistic, even. This doesn’t feel Soviet. It feels older and far more fanatical.”

“Unless it’s a false flag . . . and nobody loves those more than Uncle Joe.

” I leaned in. “What if the Soviets want us to think it’s the Church?

Turn the West against itself, stir paranoia, splinter the alliance?

That’s another game they’ve played well throughout the years, even before the Soviet Union existed.

Don’t forget, the Russians wrote the playbook on spy games.

Catherine the Great herself was a master of whispers. ”

“I’m pretty sure that wasn’t one of her official titles.” Will smirked.

“It should’ve been,” I said, finally surrendering and grabbing my wine glass.

“Then again,” Will countered, “what if it is the Order—and they’re playing us all? What if their goal isn’t just toppling governments but reigniting something ancient? A war of faith, not politics.”

We sat in silence for a long moment, each chewing over the same gnawing truth, the wine no longer bitter on our now-numbed tongues.

“Maybe it’s both,” I said quietly. “Maybe the Soviets found the Order . . . or someone inside the Church allied with Moscow.”

“Shit.” Will’s face darkened. “The Pope said something: ‘None but our Lord may know the soul of another.’ He knows there’s rot inside the Church; he’s just afraid to say where.”

I nodded slowly. “Then maybe we don’t need to decide who’s behind all this yet. We just need to find the next target before they do. ”

Because whatever flag the killers flew, false or otherwise, their aim was the same: tear down the world we were trying to rebuild and make sure it never rose again—or when it did, it rose in an image of their choosing.