Page 37 of The Crimson Lily

It’s a ten-minute drive from the Grand Hotel Flora to the first glimpse I catch of the Vatican’s wall.

We drive along the tall block of bricks that surrounds Vatican City until we reach a small square.

I spot the white gate topped by Roman statues that announce Musei Vaticani in big Latin letters.

The bowler-hatted driver pulls over, and Giovanni steps out first, then lets me out of the car.

There are already some tourist stands buzzing on the square by the gate that sell little Vatican trinkets, miniature Roman busts, and even hats.

I’m curious to see if I can get something, maybe for Priya, but I don’t linger too long.

Giovanni is patiently waiting for me to follow him.

He stands there, by the side of the road, in his jeans and black trench coat.

He’s combed his hair today the same way he did yesterday, and his eyes are dark brown in the morning light.

“We can get you a fridge magnet later if you want, bella ,” he says with a smile.

I giggle and purse my lips. “I think we can find something better than a magnet!”

He laughs, telling me about how tourists always fall for these stupid gadgets while Rome’s treasure is actually the food—that people would do better spending their time appreciating their stay than wasting it finding something to bring back home.

Memories should be made, not bought! Those are his words.

We swoosh through the official entrance, not through the adorned gate.

Giovanni takes care of the tickets, says a few cheerful words to the young man behind the counter, and in the Vatican Museums we are.

It’s rather busy for a Monday morning in the middle of winter, but then again, this is Rome, and tourism in Rome doesn’t have a calendar.

It’s obvious that we are on a tight schedule.

We pass the alley of ancient sculptures without looking at them.

We hop from hall to hall like rapidly bouncing balls.

Giovanni paces ahead, and I do my best to keep up, asking myself why this man is in such a hurry and remembering that he was thirty minutes late to pick me up.

There are statues, paintings, Egyptian vases, and more statues flashing around my entire field of vision.

Something about this place feels familiar yet absolutely forgotten.

I’ve been here before, I remember that, but there is something else.

A feeling, a tickle that makes me wonder what there is about this place that I can’t recall.

And now it hits me.

My heart stops because I’m not walking behind Giovanni anymore. I am following a man with red hair and mutton chops. It’s no longer winter, and we are no longer in 2023.

The sun rains down between statues of gods as William de Loit, who turns back to me and smiles, addresses me with his gravelly voice. “Isn’t it just marvelous, Lili?”

It’s summer 2016. I’m in the Sala della biga, and William is with me.

Like a slap to the face, there it is, a memory I hadn’t retrieved.

The first flashback in six months. I’ve been here, with William, in 2016.

I was barely twenty-one in 2016! I always knew William as my boss, the head of the Art History and Archaeology department.

I never thought we had known each other for far longer than seven years!

And to top it all, William called me Lili, which is far more disturbing than anything else at this point.

Giovanni stares at me with beady eyes. I paused for a few seconds to recenter my mind, and I am now blindly gawking at the statue of a horse.

“Are you okay?” he asks in concern.

I clear my throat and blink a few times. “Yes,” I assure. “I just like horses.” That’s the first thing that comes into my mind that won’t raise any alarms.

Giovanni shrugs and moves on. Great, that worked! Now, I need to figure out what that memory means and who the hell William was to me. Because with this additional clue, everything I thought made sense seems light-years away from the truth.

The fountain of the Giardino Quadrato reminds me of a humble Holy Grail.

I sit on one of the benches closer to the garden’s gate, where it is significantly less crowded than by the cafe.

Giovanni told me exactly which bench to pick while he’d stay there, melted into the crowd.

I am to meet with Chiara Zanetti alone; that is the deal.

A little over ten minutes later, I peek over my shoulder to make sure he’s still there, his faraway figure sitting at one of the tables.

When I turn back, I notice a woman with dark hair and a purple beanie walking up to me from the fountain’s direction.

She wears a black leather jacket, dark jeans, and boots that are similar to mine.

She has long black hair underneath that beanie that reaches down to the arch of her back.

I can see her bright-blue earrings from here, dangling like tiny pendulums as she marches.

She takes a seat beside me, inhales deeply, then turns to me. “Liliana?” she checks.

I nod.

She purses her full lips and twitches her delicate and pointy nose. “I’m Chiara,” she says with a musical voice. “I have some information that can help you get your dagger back.”

Wow, straight to the point, and with a charming Italian accent. All right, let’s do this.

“Are you in contact with William?” I ask directly. I want to know. One reason being the Kinzhal Strastey, the dagger of glass. The other is obviously because of my flashback earlier. I need to know who he really is, and I don’t have time to waste.

Chiara looks to her feet as if she’s selecting the words to say. She’s about my age, or maybe even a little younger. For a brief minute, before she speaks again, I wonder how she got mixed up in all of this herself.

“I’m a member of the Syndicate,” she concedes, and my heart stops. Her tone is grave, like that fact is something she preferred not to share. But she quickly recovers her stance and turns to lock her brown eyes with mine. “Just like you were. And just like you, I believe they need to be stopped.”

There it is. Back in Paris, I got enough evidence of my involvement with the Syndicate. I know I had something to do with keeping that dagger safe. I even built the darn safe! Now, I have confirmation.

“Have we…” I hesitate. “Have we met before?”

“Ah, yes. Your memory,” she says, as if she just remembered. She shakes her head next. “No, we never met during your service.”

“My service?” I immediately inject. What the hell is a service? What’s the meaning of my service ?

“We have a lot to talk about, Liliana,” she states. “But not here.”

Blargh! Again, with the prolonged mysteries. I roll my eyes, a little annoyed that I’m not getting the answers I want at this instant. She must have noticed because she lays a gentle hand on my arm.

“Meet me at the Gatto di Strada at 8:00 tonight,” she says, almost whispering. “Giovanni knows the password.”

Password? I raise an eyebrow at how dubious this all seems.

“I’m sorry, Liliana,” she responds to my cautious reaction. “I wanted to make sure you were here before moving forward. We will talk tonight.”

I want to say something but really can’t find the words, so I just watch her rise to her feet and walk away.

I’m left with absolute confusion. So, I was a member of the Syndicate.

Sure. I did something called a service .

Did Chiara mean something like a military service?

Maybe. And why the hell was I here, seven years ago, with William de Loit?

No, the better question is: How do I know William?

To be honest, I’m afraid to know the answer.

I’m afraid that he and I were somehow…?involved.

That idea simply disgusts me to the core.

I stand from the bench and quickly return to the cafe, where Giovanni sips on an endless cup of coffee. I am frustrated—annoyed because Chiara only gave me more questions, and upset by that memory of William de Loit talking to me in a way that feels much too personal.

“That was quick,” Giovanni remarks as I come closer.

I take a seat in front of him and cross my arms, then my legs. “She didn’t have much to say,” I complain. “Not now, at least. It seemed like she was being secretive more than anything else.”

Giovanni chuckles. “That sounds like Chiara.”

“How do you know her?” I wonder out loud.

“She came to us with intel about the Syndicate,” he replies. “Chiara is like…?a whistleblower.”

So, Giovanni does know more about this game we’re all playing.

“There’s a war, you know, for a seat on the Throne of the World,” he explains in that dramatic and mysterious tone of his.

“The Syndicate operates in the dark. Even law enforcement has trouble proving these guys exist. They pin everything on us or other organizations like ours. It’s about time to take those bastards down. ”

Giovanni falls silent when some people come sit at the table next to us.

A mother and a child who obviously doesn’t want to be here.

Neither do I—not anymore. This is our cue to leave.

We stand up simultaneously and head back into the Musei Vaticani.

We don’t waste time with paintings or sculptures.

We make it to the exit faster than I thought possible, pass through the adorned gate to the small square of Viale Vaticano, and head down the street to get away from this place.