Page 42 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Thomas

T he cab finally rolled to a stop beside a shuttered storefront tucked into the shadow of a crumbling Roman wall. A faded awning read “Caffè Sant’Angelo.” Behind its frosted windows, the faintest sliver of light glowed like a candle in a cave.

Will got out first, scanning the quiet street. He then hurried around and opened my door. In the window’s reflection, I saw how pale I was. My shirt clung to my side in a deep crimson mess. Despite it all, I still managed to roll my eyes at Will’s fussing.

“Quit treating me like I’m dying.”

Will narrowed his eyes and gripped my arm a little tighter than necessary. “I’ll quit when you stop trying so hard to get shot, stabbed, shoved off a roof, thrown into a river—”

“I’ve never been shoved off a roof,” I protested.

“Sorry, that’s my plan if you keep getting hurt.”

I grunted. At least Will had some semblance of humor left. It really had been a shitty day .

He helped me to my feet, slinging his good arm around my shoulders.

Together, we shuffled to the door, which creaked when he pushed it open.

The air inside was cool and earthy, thick with the scent of coffee grounds and aged wood, maybe a splash of spilled whiskey or ale, I couldn’t be sure. The place was nearly dark.

Chairs sat stacked upside down on tables, and a lone bartender behind a long counter polished glasses with the indifference of a man who thought he was alone.

“We are closed,” he barked in harsh Italian without looking up. “Come back after six.”

“We need to speak to Enzo’s nephew,” Will said in English. He tried to add some urgency, “Now, please.”

The man’s hand froze, towel and stein in hand. His head lifted, eyes tightening in the low light. “And who’s asking?”

Will didn’t blink. “Tell him it’s the American sailor with the smart mouth.”

The man studied us for a beat, then gave a tight nod and vanished through a narrow door behind the counter.

I looked at Will, raising an eyebrow. “The American sailor with the smart mouth?”

“I thought it was rather poetic. It’s clearly you.”

Before I could reply, the back door banged open and a young man burst through.

He was broad- shouldered with rolled sleeves, a jaw sharp enough to slice bread, and a gaze that would’ve made the most militant clergyman look away with feelings of unidentifiable guilt.

He noticed me, hissed a curse in Italian, and was across the room in two strides.

“ Dio mio , you are bleeding again? Do you ever stop?”

“No, he doesn’t,” Will deadpanned.

“I’m fine,” I grumbled. “I just need a minute to—”

“You need stitches, antibiotics, and a stiff drink, not in that order.” The man reached out to steady me, and I winced.

“I’ll take his stiff drink, thank you,” Will said.

“I said I’m—”

“I was trained as a field medic,” he cut in. “Not a nurse or a waiter. A field medic. So sit your stubborn ass down and let me work before I decide you’re too dumb to save.”

I opened my mouth, closed it, then nodded grudgingly.

Will, still holding me upright, snorted.

“Traitor,” I hissed. “I take back every nice thing I’ve ever said about you.”

“Too late,” he whispered, his voice as alluring as if we’d been holed up in a hotel room, naked, with only a tray of strawberries and whipped cream between us .

The man—the field medic—ignored our banter and ushered us past the bar and through a beaded curtain. We stumbled into a narrow room with low couches and old photographs staring down from exposed brick walls.

I sank onto the edge of a couch, hissing through my teeth.

“Who is this?” the medic asked.

“Will Barker,” I said. Over the years, the Allied intelligence apparatus had grown to trust Enzo, but I’d only met his nephew a few times, and the last thing we needed was to blow our own cover in the middle of an op.

The medic glanced up, met Will’s gaze, and appraised him like a farmer buying a bull for breeding. “Lucio.”

Will nodded in return but said nothing.

“Stay here,” Lucio said before disappearing through a back door.

“Lu-ci-o,” Will said, sounding out each vowel with intention. “Definitely ends in O.”

“Fuck you,” I whispered through gritted teeth.

Will shrugged. “Stop getting hurt and I might let you.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but whatever was about to fall out of my mouth was cut off by Lucio’s return.

His hands were laden with a tin kit, gloves, and a bottle of clear liquid.

As he kneeled beside me, unpacking supplies, Will leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed and gaze sweeping the room. He appeared vigilant yet relaxed.

His expression said, “We’re safe, for now.”

I hoped he was right.

Once Lucio finished stitching me up—grumbling the entire time about field dressings done by “barbarian children with butter knives”—he slipped out with a promise of espresso and food.

I leaned back against the couch, my face slack with exhaustion, one arm bandaged and propped on a pillow. Will finally sat across from me on a creaky wooden chair, his fingers laced, knuckles white.

Neither of us spoke for a long beat.

“We’ve got two days,” he finally said.

I cracked open one eye. “Two days?”

“Let’s start with the note, the one slipped into my pocket in the piazza.” He fished it out of his inner pocket, smoothing it across his knee. The paper was fine stock, likely expensive.

There was no signature. There were no instructions. There was only a quiet, terrifying promise.

“Cryptic.” Will stared at it for a moment, then, with sarcasm dripping thick as gravy, “I love cryptic. It really helps narrow things down.”

“At least we know one thing now,” I said. “This isn’t a Soviet op. It’s not about state secrets. It’s religious. ”

“A religious order with access to weapons, robes, and enough money to fund professional killers.” Will grunted. “You know, I always wanted to be a priest when I was little.”

“You would’ve been a terrible priest.”

“Confession would’ve taken forever.” He chuckled. “But yeah, I think you’re right. This thing’s being run by the Church—or a part of it, at least.”

“A rogue sect? Something buried deep?”

“Or orders from a Pope who fears nothing,” Will countered, his thought chilling. “I know he pleaded for our help, but that could’ve been a ruse. The man’s a brilliant strategist.”

“With sympathies the West hasn’t always loved.” I groaned, thought a moment, then said, “The meeting room under the chapel, the ceremonial robes, the way the shooter reached out with that pistol like he was giving a blessing before he pulled the trigger . . . none of this smells like the KGB.”

Will tapped the note again. “But if they’re planning something in two days, we’re already behind.”

I sat forward, wincing. “So, list out what we know. No guesses. Just facts.”

Will nodded. “All right. Fact one: A Vatican archivist tried to warn us and ended up dead for it. Fact two: Someone—maybe a cardinal—was at that secret meeting, maybe leading it. Fact three: Someone ran us off the road, shot at us, and was wearing ecclesiastical robes while doing it. ”

“Jesus would be so proud of his followers.”

“Fact four,” Will said, holding up the note. “Something big is happening in two days, something involving a relic.”

“Not necessarily.” My expression darkened. “The note mentioned a relic, but there wasn’t any legible information about it. That means it’s not the endpoint . . . or . . . the Pope could be the relic.”

“Why can’t all this cryptic bullshit translate into plain English?”

I ignored him. “Or . . . it could be some object the Church plans to reveal or use or promote . . . We should ask Rinaldi to check the Pope’s calendar for the next few days, see if there is something like that coming up.

Relics are important, symbolic, and dangerous in the wrong hands. They draw crowds.”

“And crowds mean opportunity for very public statements.”

We locked eyes.

“The Pope,” we said in unison.

Silence followed, deeper than before.

“If this is a religious sect with internal access,” I said, “they won’t use a bomb. That’s too indiscriminate. They’ll want to control the message. Use something seen , especially if they’re trying to take out the head of their own church.”

“A sniper?” Will offered.

“Or someone close enough to use a blade?”

“A cardinal could get that close,” Will said .

“True.” I let my head fall back on the couch.

The motion pulled painfully down my arm.

“But these people haven’t seemed suicidal.

They hit and run, make their statement or take out their victim, and then vanish back into the shadows.

I doubt this cardinal would burn his position so close to power by exposing himself.

He wants to be part of something after these killings are done. ”

“Like become the next Pope?” Will asked.

Words lodged in my throat. Either way, if the note was to be believed, we were two days away. Maybe less.

Will stood and began pacing. “We need to get back into the Vatican, dig deeper, shake the tree.”

I looked up at him. “If we shake too hard, we’ll end up like Marini.”

“Then we shake carefully.”

I leaned my head back again and exhaled. “Where do we even begin?”

Will scooted forward and rested a hand on my knee, drawing my gaze back to him.

“We go back to the chapel. We may not know much, but we do know that place was the group’s meeting spot, maybe even their headquarters. Neither of us were in the best frame of mind for a thorough search. We probably missed things, possibly important clues.”

“And if a gang of priests show up armed with rifles and swords? ”

Will grinned. “I’ll take the swordsmen. You’re better at catching bullets.”

“Fuck you.” I winced as an involuntary laugh sent pain shuddering down my spine.

We sat there for the longest moment, Will’s hand still resting on my knee, as we each thought through the insanity of our plan.

Sure, walk back into the lion’s den. It should be fun.

I doubt there will be any lions in their own fucking den.

It should be a walk in the park on a sunny day—or a bloody catastrophe. It sounded on par for our missions.

“Enzo was in the Italian underground during the war, wasn’t he?” Will asked suddenly.

I nodded. “Most of his work was behind the scenes, helping the resistance, feeding the Allies information.”

“If Lucio still has his contacts—”

“He could get us weapons, possibly some men to tag along for security,” I finished his thought. “Holy shit, Will Shaw, this is why I love you.”

“Only this?” Will painted on an offended expression. “I’m brilliant, handsome . . . and very good with my hands. There are so many things to love.”

I shoved him, immediately regretting the act. “Fuck!”

“Serves you right for trying to assault me,” he snarked.

“Assault? ”

“You behave.” His smirk widened into a very assholish grin as he stood. “I’m going to have a chat with Clan Enzo.”