Private Rome

Chapter 42

I finally stopped running when I reached the Via Tomacelli, which was eight blocks south of the church. It was approaching 11 p.m. and there were a few diners and revelers meandering along the sidewalks, laughing loudly at jokes, arguing animatedly, or in the case of lovers, holding hands or walking arm-in-arm. Many swayed with intoxication but gave me no trouble nor paid me much attention as I picked my way through the streets to a taxi stand on Piazza di San Silvestro, a beautiful cobbled square lined by luxury jewelry stores, offices and apartment blocks whose windows were lit like golden lanterns.

I took the first cab in line. The driver, a cheerful man in his late thirties, tried to talk in halting English, but soon picked up that I wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

I was focused on my phone and spent the journey to Ostia trying to get hold of Justine, Mo-bot or Sci.

I had no luck reaching them. When I finally made it back to the apartment above the cell-phone store, I changed out of my suit, which was flecked with the blood of the fallen priest. I put on my black jeans and T-shirt and sat and waited impatiently for one of my colleagues to call.

Finally, almost two hours after the priest had died in my arms, my phone buzzed and the screen lit up with Justine’s name.

“Jus!” I said, relieved.

“What’s happened?” she asked.

“Another priest has been killed. I was with him at the time. I... I couldn’t do anything for him.”

“I’m so sorry, Jack.”

“I’m fine,” I replied, a little too emphatically.

“Jack, you’re not fine,” she said. “The death of another is always a shock, no matter how many times you’ve experienced it. Please don’t downplay what just happened.”

I nodded and stayed silent.

“And you’re taking too many risks out there on your own.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“No, Jack,” she responded. “You’re doing what you know. There’s a difference. I’ve talked to Maureen and Seymour.”

I always knew it was serious when she used their proper names.

“And we’re coming to Rome. I’m not going to let you face this alone.”

“Justine—” I tried, but she cut me off.

“Would you leave me? If I was the one in Rome, facing what you’re facing, would you leave me to deal with it on my own?”

“That’s diff—”

“If you’re about to say it’s different, you’d better have a good reason. One that doesn’t ultimately rest on you being a man and me being a woman.”

“Justine,” I tried one last time.

“You said we’d review the situation. Well, consider it reviewed. I’m not going to let you face this alone,” she reiterated. “Nor are Seymour and Maureen. We’ve made arrangements for our workloads to be covered here. We’ll be on the first available flight.”

I knew there was no point resisting any longer. I had zero chance of defeating the concentrated determination of three stubborn minds.

“Before he died, the priest told me Elia Antonelli is behind all of this,” I revealed. “He said the men who shot him worked for Antonelli.”

“Do you believe him?” Justine asked.

It hadn’t occurred to me that the priest might have been lying.

“I think so,” I replied. “I think Father Carlos—”

My response was cut short by the sound of a knock at the door.

I froze.

“Someone’s here,” I whispered to Justine.

“Get out, Jack,” she replied.

“If it was bad guys, I don’t think they’d have bothered knocking,” I said, rising from my seat on the couch.

“Hello?” I called, approaching the door.

“Mr. Morgan, may I please come in?”

I recognized Faduma’s voice immediately and opened the door to find her standing at the top of the metal staircase. She was in black slacks and a green halterneck top and looked as though she was made up for a date.

“I have to go,” I told Justine. “Let me know when you’ll be arriving.”

“Will do,” she said, before I hung up.

“Have you been following me?” I asked my visitor.

“What? No,” Faduma replied, stepping into the apartment and closing the door behind her. “Not tonight, anyway. I was out for dinner.”

“What do you mean, not tonight?” I asked. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I followed you here after we met at the cemetery. I wanted to see what you did with the information I gave you.”

I scoffed, but she waved away my disbelief.

“I came because there’s something you need to see.”

She reached into her purse for her phone, which she turned toward me. The screen was filled with a news website’s piece covering Father Carlos’s murder.

“There’s been another priest murdered,” she said.

“I know. I was there.”

Her eyes widened in surprise.

“He said Antonelli is behind the killings, right before he was shot.”

“That’s terrible. Poor man.”

I nodded. I couldn’t shake the memory of the priest dying in front of me.

“But you were unhurt?” she asked.

“They didn’t seem interested in me, thankfully,” I said. “It’s clear they wanted to silence Father Carlos, but they weren’t quick enough.”

“Do you think he was telling the truth?”

I nodded.

“Does that mean Matteo Ricci is a liar?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” I replied. “But I do know I want to talk to him again.”

“I want to come with you,” she said. “We’ll go first thing in the morning.”

She turned for the door.

“Don’t I get a say in that?” I asked.

“Of course not,” she replied with a mischievous smile. “Meet me on the Via di San Vitale at eight tomorrow.”

I nodded. “And I’ll ask Gianna Bianchi to join us.”