Page 37 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Will

W e hiked the better part of a mile before reaching a small hilltop town with a bell tower and three taxis clustered like vultures outside a crumbling stone café. Thomas negotiated the fare with the one driver who spoke broken English while I kept an eye on the road behind us.

We didn’t appear to have a shadow.

Not yet.

We reached the hotel just after sunset. The moment the cab pulled to the curb, I spotted them—two men loitering across the street, their trench coats far too clean, their interest far too fixed on the revolving doors of our hotel.

We didn’t look at them, just grabbed our bags, tipped the driver, and headed inside.

The lobby felt quiet— too quiet—the kind of sterile hush that made footsteps echo off the marble floors a little too loudly .

Once inside our room, I locked the door and drew the curtains. We moved silently, instinctively falling into our old pattern. I opened the closet, pulled out a pad of paper, and scribbled, “ Check for bugs .”

Thomas nodded and mouthed, “Bathroom.”

I moved that way, scanning carefully. It didn’t take long. Behind the molding above the vanity was a small black microphone. I gave Thomas a wave to get his attention, then pointed to the device.

He returned the gesture, pointing to the light fixture that hung over the bed, then made a circular motion with his hand. I stood on the bed and carefully unscrewed the dome—another bug glinted back at me. I picked it out of its nest and dropped it silently into my coat pocket.

Thomas tapped the nightstand and held up a second mic he’d pulled from the drawer’s underside.

Three. We’d found three bugs. How many had we missed?

We reconvened at the desk.

I scrawled, “ We have to assume everything here is compromised .”

Thomas took the pen and added, “ Let’s take a walk .”

I nodded.

Then, below his message, I wrote one more line, “ They’re watching, but they don’t know who they’re dealing with. ”

Thomas cracked a faint smile, his eyes hard with resolve. He leaned forward, pressed his lips to mine, and held the back of my head for a moment I wished could’ve led to more—or lasted forever—either would’ve been just fine.

But we both knew what needed to happen next.

Ten minutes later, we slid into the back of a cab and gave the driver a simple request: “A tour of the city, please. The major sites. Colosseum, Pantheon . . . and the Vatican.”

The driver, a man in his sixties with a tan cap, thick mustache, and fingers stained the yellow of too many cigarettes, gave a nod and a warm grin. “You want the grand tour, eh? Rome never sleeps. She sparkles at night . . . like jewels, yes?”

As the cab rumbled to life and pulled into the maze of cobbled streets flanked by crumbling stone facades and shuttered cafés, Rome unfolded before us in slow, cinematic frames.

The Colosseum came first—colossal and ancient, its pockmarked walls glowing amber in a wash of floodlights.

Every arch seemed to breathe history. I imagined the roar of crowds, the clash of blades, the ghosts of gladiators pacing the arena long after the empire had fallen.

As we rounded the back side of the massive structure, our driver gestured proudly.

“The Colosseo ,” he said with a sweep of his hand.

“Nearly two thousand years of gladiators, lions, emperors, blood, and glory. And now? Just tourists and pigeons.” He chuckled, tapping the steering wheel.

“But still she stands, eh? Rome may fall, but she always gets back up, so we say.”

As I leaned across to gape out the window, Thomas took the opportunity to reach up and twist my nipple. I grunted, resisting the urge to leap and bump my head against the roof of the cab. My quiet scowl was met by a grin of triumph.

Then, out of sight of our driver, I raised one very meaningful finger.

Thomas’s grin only widened.

Fucking Thomas Jacobs.

We wound past the Roman Forum, and my breath caught.

“This—this was the center of the world,” our driver said in thickly accented English.

“Senators walked here. Caesar, too. All roads really did lead to Rome, and this was where they met and merged.” He glanced in the rearview mirror, a glimmer of pride in his eye.

“Now? It is little more than rocks, but once—eh—once it was the beating heart of everything .”

Marble columns rose like solemn sentinels, some snapped in half like broken bones, others still proud and reaching. Cracked pediments and weed-choked pathways whispered of gods long gone and power long spent.

It felt a bit like standing at the edge of a memory .

Then came the Pantheon—silent, magnificent, eternal.

The dome crowned the night like a celestial eye, lit from below and reflected in the sheen of the surrounding piazza.

The columns out front stood like giants in prayer.

A few tourists loitered near fountains, their laughter mingling with the splashing water.

In the halo of soft yellow light of the dying day, it felt more like a temple to time than to gods.

“The Pantheon,” our guide said, his voice swelling again.

“The dome still holds the record—no steel, no rebar, just Roman genius—surviving almost two millennia. Rain comes in through the hole at the top—the oculus —but the building never floods. The floor is slightly curved so it drains like magic.”

Beside me, Thomas sat quietly, his gaze fixed out the window. I watched the reflection of the monuments flicker across his face. For a single, aching moment, I imagined this was all real, just the two of us on a well-deserved holiday with no mission, no threat, no enemies tailing us in a Fiat.

I reached over and gently brushed the back of his hand with mine.

He turned, his deep brown eyes meeting my blue ones, and gave a faint smile—a shared breath in a life that so rarely let us exhale.

I wanted to freeze that second and keep it somewhere safe, but it slipped away in a blink—no, a heartbeat—like everything else in this damn line of work .

“Tail,” Thomas murmured, his voice suddenly low.

I glanced backward, pretending to stare back at the history vanishing behind us. Two cars behind us was a black Fiat. It was not just following anymore; it was crowding us, keeping pace like a wolf waiting for us to slow so it could pounce.

Still, we let the tour continue. The city gleamed in its shroud of brilliant sunset hues, but our peace had vanished.

“Change of plans,” Thomas said, casually leaning forward. “Could you take us to the Vatican now?”

“Feeling like forgiveness?” The driver grinned through the rearview mirror. “ Si . We go.”

He veered onto the broad Via della Conciliazione, and the Vatican rose before us. St. Peter’s Basilica shone like a lantern of the old world, towering above the cobblestones of the piazza.

Behind us, the Fiat remained close, hugging every curve of the road like a second shadow.

“We’ll get out here,” Thomas said as the car rolled to a stop near the edge of the square.

We climbed out of the cab, cool air hitting us like a warning.

Priests, nuns, and monks scurried about, their cassocks stark reminders of the Holy City in which we walked.

Tourists paid them no mind, snapping photos, pointing, and gawking, more annoyed by the clerical presence than enlightened by it .

Across the vast square, another Fiat slowed to a crawl, then stopped.

Two men stepped out. More dark suits. Cigarettes already lit. They leaned against the hood of their car as if they had all the time in the world.

We drifted toward the colonnade, the great arms of Bernini’s design wrapping the square in silent majesty. The fountain gurgled quietly.

In the distance, a nun’s laughter echoed faintly.

Thomas and I found a bench halfway between the basilica and the obelisk, its marble cool beneath us. For a moment, we just sat there in the open, bathed in the glow of centuries, trying not to look back at the men who had followed us for miles—or forward at our newly arrived sentries.

I rubbed a hand down my face without turning toward him. “What now?”

Thomas exhaled through his nose. “We could try to get in. Rinaldi might still be here.”

I glanced toward the Vatican gates. Swiss Guards stood stiffly under the arch, halberds gleaming, faces unreadable. “You think they’re just going to wave us through and offer espresso while we wait?”

Thomas cracked a smile. “Maybe if you ask nicely or flash ’em a little leg.”

“Idiot,” I grumbled, unable to keep my lips from curling. “They’ll laugh us away. We don’t exactly have an appointment, and the last time we visited, we found a dead priest. ”

“We found a missing priest. He was only dead after we left the Vatican,” Thomas corrected. Clearly, one of us was taking this whole episode with far more grace than the other.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We could find a phone. Call Manakin.”

“Absolutely not,” I said, sharper than I meant to, then softened. “You know we can’t call him on an open line, not with bugs in our hotel and tails on our ass.”

“I’d love to tail your ass.”

“Thomas! Be serious.”

“I’d seriously love to tail your ass.”

I snorted. Fuck me. I actually snort-laughed. “God, I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said with that fucking smirk twisting his mouth again.

“Then we go to the embassy,” I said, refusing to yield to his roguish banter.

He hesitated. “If we show up there, our friends across the piazza will know we’re getting serious. They’ll call their handlers, and if any of those handlers work inside the Vatican . . .”

I was quiet for a beat. “We’re Americans, Thomas. That’s no secret; and everyone following us already thinks we’re spooks.”

“Maybe, but thinking a thing is true and having proof aren’t the same. The second we make that call, we give them their proof. ”

I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated. “So what? We do nothing?”

He shook his head. “We go inside. We talk to Rinaldi. If he won’t help us, then we burn the embassy door down.”

My lips twitched. “That’s my Thomas. Ever the diplomat.”

He huffed out a laugh.

As we stood and made our way toward the gate, I stole a glance back. The two men across the square were still there—cigarettes nearly done, posture relaxed, eyes sharp. Ahead, the other pair were equally vigilant.

Let them watch , I thought. We’re done hiding.