Page 30 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Thomas

W e made it back to the hotel without incident, though our tails stayed with us with at every turn—never close enough to draw attention, yet never far enough to forget.

Will and I didn’t speak of them until we stepped into the lobby, pretending to be nothing more than tired American tourists in suits.

The concierge greeted us with a too-eager smile, but I was already sweeping the tall windows flanking the entrance.

Outside, just past the line of taxis and flower carts, our gray-coated friend leaned against a lamppost pretending to read a newspaper.

The one in the blue tie loitered near a parked Vespa, tapping a cigarette out of a crumpled pack.

“Hungry?” I asked Will, mostly to keep things normal.

“Starving,” he said, one hand rubbing his stomach .

The hotel restaurant was all polished marble and soft lighting, the kind of place where forks clinked quietly and voices never rose above murmurs. Of course, the ma?tre d’ seated us by the window. Will sat facing the street, and I could tell he was counting blinks between tail glances.

“They’re not coming in,” he muttered, cutting into a mound of gnocchi drowned in sage butter.

“No, but they want us to know they’re there.”

I picked at my pasta, not really interested in food with goons glaring through glass.

“You think they’re protecting us or waiting for us to slip?” Will asked between bites.

“They’re not protecting us.” I shook my head. “They’d have announced themselves if we were on the same team. Whoever they are—they’re watching, and they don’t care if we know.”

We finished our meal in strained silence and then retreated to our room. Will double-locked the door and checked the window, ensuring the curtains were pulled tight. I turned on the radio and let soft jazz bleed into the space between us.

The next morning arrived gray and humid, with a haze over the Tiber that stank of a coming storm. We dressed quickly and silently. I chuckled as Will struggled to knot his tie.

“Here,” I said, gently shoving his hands away. “You’ll either strangle yourself or make a knot so tight we’ll have to cut it loose.”

He rolled his eyes but leaned into my touch, his hand rising to hold my wrist as I worked.

How long had it been since we had a moment alone, since we felt intimacy flow between us?

My logical mind knew it had only been days, a week or so, perhaps; but my heart, the irrational part of me that craved Will’s touch with every breath I drew, believed it had been years since we lay together as one.

We needed to correct that egregious error as soon as this mess was settled.

Perhaps before, if we could find a moment alone without tails or bugs.

“Worried they’ll follow us again?” he asked as I tied.

I nodded. “They already are.”

We exited through a side entrance this time, flagged a taxi by the back alley, and gave instructions in English. The driver’s weak attempt at an English reply was thicker than the tomato sauce we’d enjoyed with our bread the night before.

As the cab pulled into traffic, I pressed my shoulder into Will’s and leaned just enough to glance out the rear window.

Two cars followed.

Neither was close.

Neither was overt.

But both were familiar.

“Two now?” Will exhaled slowly. “They’re not even trying to hide. ”

“No, they weren’t really hiding last night, either,” I said. “And that means they want something. The question is—what?”

Rome drifted by in shades of stone and gold as we turned toward the ancient gates of the Vatican. Behind it all, the weight of unseen eyes settled heavier on our shoulders with every passing street.

The moment we stepped into the cool shadows of St. Peter’s Square, that feeling only deepened despite guards at the entrance checking our names against a list and waving us through without question.

Once inside, we asked for the Archives.

A balding priest I didn’t recognize robed in deep black with a silver cross gleaming at his chest stepped forward with a tight smile and spoke in English with the most pleasant dash of a French accent. “Mr. Barker, Mr. Snead, yes?”

“Yes,” Will said cautiously.

“The Monsignor would like a word. If you will follow me.”

Will and I exchanged curious glances but nodded and followed him through the arched corridors.

The moment the door to the Monsignor’s office opened, I saw the change. Hell, I could feel it in my bones, jarring and visceral and . . . almost painful.

Monsignor Rinaldi looked like a man who had seen war .

. . not in the sense of witnessing broken and bruised bodies, but in his soul.

His red-rimmed eyes bore the thousand-yard stare of someone who’d stood before a force he couldn’t name and walked away carrying only pieces of himself.

His collar was slightly askew, which wasn’t easy for a priest in one of their white neck devices, and his hands trembled as he gestured toward the chairs. “Please. Sit.”

As we did, he paced behind his desk then stopped and turned toward the window as though weighing the right words. His fingers pressed together in front of his lips, and then he said, his voice barely above a whisper: “The Curia is missing.”

The silence that followed was immediate and absolute.

“Missing?” I asked. “What do you mean he’s missing?”

Rinaldi turned, his eyes hollow. “He was not in his office this morning, nor in his rooms. His assistant claims he left late last night to retrieve something from the lower Archives but never returned.”

“Never returned from the Archives? Or he left work and didn’t return this morning?” Will asked.

“From the Archives,” Rinaldi said.

Will leaned forward. “And the guards?”

“They thought he was working. He often does, perhaps more hours alone—and at odd times—than anyone in this palace. It would not be unusual for him to fall asleep at his desk or at a table in the stacks. ”

Will looked like he’d been punched in the chest. “That’s not good enough.”

“I agree,” Rinaldi said. “Vatican security insists he may have simply gone off on retreat—alone, perhaps to a monastery, informing no one. They claim this has happened before with other priests, though I do not believe Marini would ever have done something so rash. Not Marini.”

“He’s never missed a day, has he?” I asked quietly.

“Not in over thirty years.” Rinaldi shook his head slowly. “Rain, snow, holidays. Never. Not once. One could set a watch by the timing of his arrival each morning.”

Will stood, already moving. “We need to see his office.”

Rinaldi blinked. “The Swiss Guard hasn’t declared this a crisis.”

“We’re not the Swiss Guard,” Will said flatly. “Besides, from the look in your eyes, you have declared it so, if only in your own heart.”

Rinaldi stared a moment, then nodded slowly. “I will take you there myself.”

He walked ahead of us, his hand never leaving the crucifix dangling at his chest, his fingers toying with it constantly, twisting, rubbing, clutching. Passing cardinals and priests, nuns, and plain-clothed workers nodded in greeting. The normally affable Rinaldi barely acknowledged their presence .

When we finally stepped into Marini’s office, the first thing I noticed was that nothing appeared disturbed. No papers lay strewn. No drawers stood open. Marini’s desk was neat, each item precisely arranged, just as we had seen it the day before.

It was too neat, too orderly. It felt . . . arranged.

Will glanced at me, one brow arched.

I nodded and began a slow circle around the room. Marini’s presence lingered—his pen resting beside a blotter, a folded letter atop a stack of correspondence.

Another thought crept into the back of my mind: Why was Rinaldi letting us sift through something so sensitive?

Archivists were notoriously possessive of their domains, and the Vatican was even more protective of its secrets.

Sure, we were known quantities; still, there was a huge difference between granting us controlled access to information and setting us free to rummage through a missing man’s office.

But I said nothing.

Will rifled gently through a stack of papers beside the inkwell, his lips pressing tighter with each slip of parchment.

“There’s nothing here but letters,” he said.

“Instructions,” I added, flipping through a folder. “Routine assignments, requests for texts.”

Then Will froze.

“What?” I asked .

Rinaldi stepped forward.

Will leaned down, gripping a loose corner of parchment that had fallen behind the blotter.

It was a torn corner of a page, yellowed with age—in the margin, a familiar mark: the spear . It wasn’t a full drawing, not a coat of arms. It was just a sliver, but an unmistakable one.

Will held it between us like it might shatter. “He found something. He knew something.”

I swallowed hard.

Whatever it was—whatever he’d learned—it had to be the reason he was gone.