Private Rome

Chapter 41

I slammed the door shut and crouched beside Father Carlos, who lay slumped against the wall beside the huge door, clutching his chest. The dim light inside the church exacerbated his loss of color, making him look ethereal, like someone who already belonged to another world. His breathing was rapid and shallow, and he wore the expression of anguish and regret that I’d seen on the faces of others during their last moments.

“Sir,” he said, between hurried gasps. He clutched at me weakly. “Proditio. Mendacium.”

His body shook with the force of a convulsion. He was losing a lot of blood. I tried to help by pressing my hand against his wound, but I knew there was nothing I could do for the man. The injury was mortal, his fate was sealed.

“Signor Morgan,” he rasped. “Quia precium sanguinis est.”

His last words were in Latin. The moment they passed his lips, his eyes glazed and rolled back. It felt as though the effort of delivering a final message in the ancient tongue of the Church had cost him his spirit.

I’d drifted far from my faith but felt the death of a priest should be marked by proper religious ceremony, however simple. I made the Sign of the Cross over Father Carlos’s body and said a Hail Mary for his soul. The Almighty wouldn’t decide this man’s fate based on my intercession, but at least the universe would know someone lamented his passing. And I truly did. This man had died while bringing me the truth, one of many innocent victims I’d seen cut down in my years as a detective.

If he was right, and Antonelli was responsible for these killings, the old Roman gangster would pay for what he’d done.

I couldn’t do anything more for Father Carlos so I rose to my feet and stepped away from his body. I pressed my ear against the door and listened carefully, straining to hear any sound coming from beyond the ancient, heavy planks. There was nothing so I pulled the door open and peered round it, slowly and carefully.

The portico immediately beyond the door and the surrounding cobblestones were deserted. There was no sign of whoever had shot Father Carlos. They had clearly been under instructions to kill the priest but couldn’t have known he’d already told me the most important piece of information he possessed.

There were a few passers-by on the other side of the piazza, but they showed no sign of having seen or heard anything out of the ordinary and paid me no attention as I eased my way out of the church. I was tensed ready for a sudden onslaught, but none came. By the time I reached the stone steps in front of the church I was moving fast. I hurried down them and sprinted right along Via del Corso, my footsteps echoing off the surrounding buildings as I ran into the night.