Page 55 of Scandalous Kingpin
“It’d be a crime to lose all the beautiful fountains,” I remarked, smiling softly while my insides melted. Fuck, I loved the way he showed affection.
“It’d be a bigger tragedy to lose you.” His eyes watched me with a possessiveness I was growing to love. “And trust me, angel. They’d be begging for death.”
The soles of my Vans felt too heavy against the thousands-year-old stone. The sound of silverware and plates, running water from the open windows and cracked doors, reminded us that it was past lunchtime. It was the pocket of time in the afternoon when everyone was about to take their rest.
Christian stopped in front of a local shop. “Here, let’s stop in here and see if you like anything.”
A group of priests passed us, pulling drags from their cigarettes and speaking in rushed Italian. Their designer sunglasses and expensive watches caught the light and my attention.
“I thought joining the priesthood was about giving up material things,” I whispered under my breath. “And living modestly.”
Two looked up and smiled at us while Christian glared at them.
“Nothing modest about them,” he gritted, and I squeezed his hand in comfort.
“Let’s see what this shop has,” I said, tugging him through the old wooden doors.
Ten minutes later, we exited the shop looking like locals: me wearing a white dress and a sunhat; Christian in a wide-brimmed hat and summer version of an old-time suit with suspenders over a white linen shirt, the buttons at the collar undone.
“You just need a mustache and you’ll look like some twenties gangster,” I teased as we eyed a café with outdoor seating that showed no signs of closing up.
“Then let this gangster buy you lunch.” My eyes flashed to him, surprised to hear him crack a joke.
I bumped my shoulder against him as he held the wicker chair out for me.
“I didn’t know you had a sense of humor.”
He smirked. “I don’t. Ask anyone who knows me.”
Except, I didn’t think there was anyone who actually knew him. Not truly, anyway. Not when he lived behind those thick, high walls. But I was slowly making my way through, and I wouldn’t stop until we stood chest to chest, bare to each other with all our faults.
I intended to show him that I wasn’t going anywhere.
He took a seat next to me and we looked out over the piazza. This café seemed built with the purpose of welcoming patrons following church service, with many in the area but the closest one at the center of the square. I peered at it and realized—unsurprisingly—a fountain with a wolf’s head carved out of stone lay before it.
Compared to other churches we’d visited in the city, this one was almost unremarkable. But this was where Father Gabriel’s trail had led us.
Our driver turned tour guide had been worth the money I knew Christian was paying him. Particularly when he’d taken us for an extended drive a few days ago and pointed out the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter’s Basilica, pulling over to let us watch the Swiss guards change shifts. Christian and I had stayed silent when a Vatican Swiss guard wearing a striped tunic the colors of the Medici family—red, dark blue, and yellow—approached our black SUV and bent to scowl at Bernardino.
The guard took one look at us in the back seat and hissed, “No loitering,” in perfect English.
Surprise shot through me and I blinked in confusion, about to argue when a folded note drifted through the window and landed at my feet.
Christian had read it and promptly requested our driver to get out of there, and that was how we found ourselves here, sipping our espressos and checking over our shoulders to ensure we had privacy.
He pulled the note from his pocket and unfolded it, elegant writing staring at us. It was the last known location of Father Gabriel.
“He must have done something bad to be placed in such an unremarkable location,” I muttered.
“Close to headquarters but still too far away,” Christian deadpanned. “They must have learned about his tendencies.”
I’d come to the same conclusion.
“It’s about time karma caught up,” I whispered, eager to see my husband’s vengeance delivered.
PRIEST
Stalking a prey and patience were two things I excelled at. As I sat in the little café with my wife, drinking coffee, I kept a watchful eye out.
