Page 38 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Thomas

W ill and I waited just inside the main entrance, past the Swiss Guards in their Renaissance uniforms that would’ve looked ridiculous anywhere else. They didn’t speak, didn’t even blink as far as I could tell.

“The Monsignor should be along shortly,” one of the guards informed us.

Will nodded politely, then leaned against the wall beside me, his arms folded like he was at a train station rather than standing in the belly of the oldest intelligence apparatus in Europe.

I wasn’t nearly that calm. I scanned the hall—every priest who passed, every door that clicked open, every cough and echo. I shifted the weight off my injured arm, trying to ignore the persistent ache. The blade hadn’t gone deep, but every heartbeat reminded me how deadly this game truly was .

“We need to be careful what we say,” I murmured, low and clipped. “We don’t know how far this thing reaches or who owns that cardinal’s cassock we found.”

Will didn’t look at me. “We’re here to stop an assassination. We can’t afford to play coy.”

My jaw tensed. You’d think he’d learn by now.

“What if Rinaldi’s in on this? What if he’s the cardinal?”

“Now you’re just being paranoid.” Will glanced my way, his eyes barely resisting the urge to roll. “If Rinaldi was part of this—whatever it is—he never would’ve introduced us to Marini. He personally walked us down to the Archives, where we found our only real leads.”

“Just like a conspirator would,” I countered. “Give us just enough rope—”

“Thomas . . .” Will hissed, clearly annoyed.

Fine, be annoyed. One of us needs to keep a clear head.

“I’m not saying we do nothing—or anything crazy,” I said, measuring my words with deep breaths. “But maybe let’s not lay our entire hand on the table before we know who’s sitting across from us.”

Will finally turned to me. “So we just stand here and smile while someone tries to kill the Pope?”

There it was. That fire behind his eyes—righteous, impatient, damn near reckless. I bit back my first response, which would have landed me in the doghouse for more days than I cared to count. Then I looked at him. Really looked.

Even frustrated, his eyes carried that quicksilver light, the one that drew me in years ago on the Harvard quad.

Even now, as tension crackled between us, I loved him so much it hurt—because that fire in him was why we were still alive.

Hell, it was why we survived any number of times, why we always came home.

So many times, he leaped when I paused, shouted when I calculated.

We weren’t just partners.

We were counterweights to each other’s flaws.

“Don’t forget Budapest,” I said, quieter now, still unable to yield the point.

That stopped him. His shoulders dipped slightly, the fight softening in his eyes.

Good. He remembered.

Our contact had smiled at us that morning, offered helpful advice and fought by our side. Then she walked us into a trap and pulled a gun on us like it was routine.

Will ran a hand down his face. “Yeah. I remember.”

“We can’t afford that again. Not here, not with stakes this high.”

“This is a mistake,” Will said. “I know I said we should trust Rinaldi, but the more I think about it, we should be at our own embassy, not spilling our beans to some foreign national who might be part of the plot.”

“Will . . .” I paused, more to gather myself lest irritation boil over. “We’re here now. We need to focus on what’s next, not what we could’ve done differently.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “Fine. We tell Rinaldi there’s a threat, but not everything, just enough to put him—and all these guards in clown outfits—on alert.”

I suppressed a chuckle.

Clown outfits.

If the Swiss Guard heard him say that, they might introduce him to the business end of their very pointy weapons. Then again, those poor men had probably heard it all. They were proud of their peacock-looking outfits, all puffy and colorfully striped like some medieval mummer’s robe.

Instead, I gave a nod. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Silence settled between us again, but it wasn’t the brittle hush of anger or frustration. It was something else—something tired and worn, but still whole.

I glanced sideways. He wasn’t looking at me, but his hand was a little closer to mine than it had been before. And that was enough. I could almost feel him—and I needed that. Because even in those moments, especially in those moments, I never doubted what we were, who we were to each other .

Will Shaw made me braver. I made him more careful.

We made each other better spies.

And better men.

I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding like some precious gem, air whooshing out as a deep, centering calm washed in. We would be all right. We would always be all right.

Footsteps echoing down the corridor brought me back to the present a heartbeat before the man himself came into view.

Rinaldi.

“Signori,” he said, extending a hand with forced warmth. “You are back sooner than expected.”

Will stepped forward, shaking Rinaldi’s hand. “We’ve uncovered something urgent. It . . . concerns the safety of someone . . . very important to you.”

Will struggled to get the words out, to come up with some explanation that might convey the gravity of our information without revealing any of it to prying ears.

Rinaldi’s fingers twitched, withdrawing too fast.

His gaze flicked to me, then away just as quickly. It bounced off the nearest of the Swiss Guard, flitted toward Will, then landed on the floor near his feet.

This man, this clerical leader, used to hold my gaze. He was direct and calm, the kind of man who made you feel steadied just by standing near him.

But not anymore. Not in that moment .

His fingers fidgeted with his rosary as he turned. “Come. We should speak in private.”

Will and I exchanged a quick glance and fell into step behind him.

With every pace down the corridor, my nerves ratcheted tighter.

Rinaldi walked too fast, too stiff. Sweat glistened just behind his ears, which was odd for a man who spent his days in the cool corridors of the Apostolic Palace. His knuckles were white where they gripped the edge of his robes, occasionally rising to clutch his crucifix.

Will didn’t seem to notice. But I did. I noticed everything.

The way his shoes clicked unevenly on the marble.

The way his shoulders jerked at every creak of a door.

The way he nearly leaped out of his robe each time a passing priest or nun offered a greeting nod.

I’d seen this before—in Budapest—just before our closest ally betrayed us.

Pressure built behind my sternum, the quiet churn of instinct screaming from somewhere low in my gut. Something was wrong. Something was off.

Will leaned toward me as we turned a corner. His voice was barely a whisper. “He’s nervous.”

“Yeah,” I murmured. He had been watching. He had noticed the priest’s jittery behavior. Despite everything, something inside me smiled. That was my Will. I should’ve never doubted.

We passed another pair of priests. Each called Rinaldi’s name, smiled, and offered perfunctory bows. Rinaldi didn’t even acknowledge them. He just kept walking, fast and focused.

Will shot me another glance, his brow now furrowed. All I could do was shrug and stay attentive.

Rinaldi stopped in front of a simple wooden door and produced a brass key from his pocket. This wasn’t his office. We’d never been in this room, didn’t even know what room this might be.

Rinaldi’s hand shook as he unlocked the door. “Inside, please.”

He gestured us through with a sweep of his sleeve.

Will hesitated.

Just half a second.

Then he walked in.

I followed—because I wasn’t letting him out of my sight. Whatever this was, we’d face it together. And I had a bad feeling we were about to learn just how deep the rot in the Vatican went.