“I suppose that doesn’t really mean much to you, does it?” Felix chuckled. “We’re all too young to die in your eyes, even me.”
Smiling, the Man pinched Felix’s cheek as he had when he was a boy.
“I need you to forge an identification badge,” he said. “Can you do this for me?”
“What kind of badge?”
“U.S. Department of Homeland Security,” the Man said. “Nothing high-ranking. A Courier would do perfectly.”
Felix stroked his chin and frowned.
“Got something for me to work from? They’re getting more and more clever these days, Dominus. Magnetic strips, microchips, holograms—you name it.”
“Yes, of course,” said the Man, producing Cato’s passport.
Felix thumbed through the booklet, then held it sideways so he could look at Cato’s picture.
“Cato, eh?” He murmured. “You want me to give him a new name?”
“What’s wrong with his name?” Asked the Man.
Waving absently, Felix scanned Cato’s information.
“Tell me,” he ventured. “Is the birthday a coincidence, or are you playing at something funny? Papa—he always told me not to poke my nose where it doesn’t belong, but...”
The Man stared.
“I am on a tight schedule at the moment, Felix,” he said. “I need the badge by first light tomorrow morning. Is that possible?”
Felix tipped the hat back even further, and sighed.
“Yes, yes—I can do it.”
“Thank you,” said the Man. “I could always count on you, just like I could your father. I’ll never forget that—never.”
…
Back on the street, the Man checked his watch and saw that the day was beginning to sneak away from him. The late September afternoon had grown crisply hot, and the city shimmered. He strolled down the block to a bar called La Pelle di Lupo and stepped inside. Unseen by the other patrons, he ordered a glass of Valpolicella, and drained it. Wincing at the wine’s bitter pesticidal after-notes, he reflected on his situation.
Cato, alone in the house near the Pantheon, was in shock. Thankfully, Corallina had spent years shaping the boy into an ironclad asset. It should take far more than a single meeting with his Immortal Benefactor to break Cato’s mind. He was Orphanus. He was initiated.
Still, there were other elements for the Man to contend with. The police were following him again, after all this time. If they discovered Cato’s true identity, and word reached the wrong ears, decades of careful planning would unravel. In order for the Man to achieve his ends, everyone, including Cato, needed to stay in the dark for as long as possible.
Reaching into his jacket, the Man took out his cell phone and dialed the number of his Greek driver, Popi.
The line picked up immediately.
“I’m at La Pelle di Lupo,” the Man said into the receiver. “I’ll be waiting for you on the street.”
…
“Where to, Dominus?” Asked Popi, looking in the rearview mirror.
The Man settled into the Bentley’s back seat nodded.
“Just drive.”
“Are you sure,” smiled the Greek uneasily. “I’ve been doing my best all day, but they’ve made the Bentley. They keep finding me.”
“Let them,” said the Man.
Popi’s eyes grew fearful. He put the car in drive, and pulled them out into traffic. Heading north on the Via della Lungara, they sped against the Tiber’s flow. When they neared the Vatican Hill, Popi cleared his throat.
“They’re back,” he announced. “What should I do?”
The Man looked up from his hands and turned and peered out the back window. Behind them, trailing by four car-lengths, a blue and white Alpha Romeo 159 nosed through traffic. Inside the cruiser, two plain-clothes detectives could be seen.
“Speed up but don’t loose them,” he said. “I want to draw them in.”
Accelerating evenly, Popi sped up.
“Not too fast,” the Man warned. “We need to keep them with us.”
Popi wound around a corner, forcing the cruiser to break its low profile by swerving to stay in pursuit.
“Good,” smiled the Man. “Now close the net.”
The Bentley’s tires chirped as Popi cut hard to the left and brought them down an alley between two buildings. Turning in after them, the police cruiser skidded to a stop.
The Man unbuttoned his blazer and opened the door.
“Stay in the car,” he ordered.
“But—” cried Popi. “What are you going to do?”
“Ask them some questions,” replied the Man.
“Question?” Popi balked. “What kind of questions?”
Already in motion, the Man slammed his door. Advancing on the cruiser, he swelled like the shadow of a storm. In another instant, the alley was filled with the sounds of rending metal and the screams of terrified men.
Slouching down in his seat, Popi closed his eyes and turned his face away from the mirror. He didn’t want to see this part, didn’t want the nightmares it would inevitably bring.
…
That evening, as they drove through the cool purple dusk, the Man rolled down the Bentley’s rear-window and took in the muddled smells of the city. Restaurant kitchens, night flowers, hot bricks, dry leaves. Exhaling, he felt liberated—alive.
Now that he had retaliated for the murder of his beloved daughter, things would likely begin to happen much faster. His enemies were well funded and highly connected. They had money, influence, and power, a triple-threat that never failed to produce gains. Soon, they would come for him. Let them.
Closing his eyes, the Man shivered with a tincture of excitement and uncertainty. It had been some time since he’d experience anything close to danger.
“Dominus?” said Popi.
The Man blinked and looked up.
“What is it?”
“Do you want me to keep driving or…” he trailed off.
They were approaching the edge of the city, a luscious place where palatial villas hid in the forested foothills.
“No,” said the Man. “We’ve gone far enough. Take me back to the Trastevere, I want to have a look around the apartment.”
The Greek nodded and turned back toward the river. Three blocks from the Ponte Palatino, and the whispering waters of the Tiber, the Man instructed him to pull over.
“Meet me at my home tomorrow,” he said. “Come early, and bring the van.”
Popi scrambled to locate his cell phone so that he could show the Man that he was setting an alarm right there and then. About to get out, the Man caught sight of something and gestured to the Greek’s hands.
“Let me see your wrists,” he ordered.
Unsuccessfully stifling a moan, Popi raised his hands and pulled back his shirtsleeves. Wrapped snuggly around each wrist, gold chains glittered in the low light. Biting into the Greek’s irritated skin, their sharp links were caked with dried blood.
“You’ve been picking at them haven’t you?” Said The Man. “Keep it up and you’ll loose your hands.”
Popi began to moan louder.
“Don’t do that—I hate the stink of your cowardice. Tomorrow morning, be there.”
“Yes, Dominus,” Popi whispered. “I’ll be here.”
The Man rose from the car and stood tall under the dome of space and stars. Stealing up the street like a shadow, he passed through an archway, and stole into a maze of ivy-covered backstreets. In time, he reemerged and came upon a wide boulevard.
Across the rushing lanes of traffic, a luxurious apartment building dwarfed its less opulent neighbors. Decked with lavish inlays of pink and green marble, it had statues lining the rooftop and a regal portico with columns of granite. Once upon a time, the illustrious Rodrigo Borgia had owned the building and even lived in its corner apartment. Now, the Man kept a room there, secret and off the register. It was a place for his Orphanus to stay when they were in Rome, a place where they could be safe
.
And yet, even from where he stood, the Man could see that this was no longer the case. Shinning in the window, a light had been turn on—a signal. Eyes narrowing, he scanned the statues on the rooftop, looking for movement among their static outlines.
…
The apartment’s night-guard glanced up from his phone, and looked through the Man as he entered. Treading silently across the polished marble lobby, he climbed a broad, curling staircase to the third floor. There, bleached wooden doors lined a long hallway with carmine and gold carpeting.
Key in hand, the Man went to apartment number 315, and waited. Wolf-like, his hackles bristled. Something was not right. He slipped his key into the lock and retracted the bolt with a turn of mechanics. Opening the door, he snuck through, and locked it behind him.
Again he stood listening, sensing things out of place. In the living room, overstuffed chairs and bronze figurines greeted him in half gloom. On the sill, a green reading lamp had been placed, its shade angled toward the window. Going to the stationary table, the Man slid open the top drawer and looked inside. A ruined pistol lay in a heap of bent parts.
He turned and scanned the stillness. On the floor, just past the hallway door, something silver glinted feebly. He closed the gap in a blur of movement and crouched to retrieve it. Small, blunt, and heavy, the object was a snub-nosed .45 caliber bullet made of an affected, lustrous metal. A few paces away, more bullets could be seen, leading down the corridor.
Gaze leveled, the Man followed the bullets, moving toward the bedroom door. Ajar by half an inch, it produced a sliver of light that split the purple carpeting like a wedge. The Man paused and closed his eyes. He could hear the shower running in the master bathroom—taste the scent of expensive soaps as they wafted on the air. More subtly still, he could feel a shift in the magnetic pull of the apartment.
Pushing open the door with one hand, he turned the other into a fist. Stained red with the blood of the two dead detectives, it hung heavily at his side. On the bedroom floor, a backpack had been dropped beside a pile of discarded clothing. The Man bent and studied clothes—a pair of wall-worn khakis, tall leather boots, and a nine-inch Tanto blade, sheathed in nylon.
He reached for the knife, but halted midway. Crawling from within one of the leather boots, a small yellow-finch peeped once and took to the air. The Man watched it fly up and settle in among the other finches already perched on the crown molding. He rose and the birds chattered nervously.
Seeping from the bathroom, white fingers of steam curled around his legs. He went to the door, and nudged it open. Inside, the air was thick with fragrance and humidity.
“Hello, Ancient,” said a disembodied voice. “I’ve come to kill your thirst at last.”
The steam swirled and cleared, revealing the shining figure of a naked woman. As beautiful now as she had been eons ago, her pale flesh rippled with dark veins, and her green eyes radiated Immortality.
The Man took a step toward her.
“Diana,” he growled.
The Goddess laughed contemptuously and burst apart into a fluttering cloud of screeching yellow finches. Blown out by the resulting concussion, every inch of glass in the room flew to pieces. When the shards finally settled, and the last bird fell dead from the air, the Man stood alone in the bloody aftermath, unharmed. Gazing into empty space, he smiled—happy to name his enemy.
XI
At a small bar near the Piazza Orsini, Louisa Anastasi sipped her drink and sat facing the street. All around her, the din of conversation, and the flickering of candles created a lovely atmosphere. Flowing from the kitchen, plates of prosciutto-wrapped melon, and crispy-bruschetta were deposited at hungry tables. Mixed, shaken, and stirred, handcrafted cocktails clinked in their glasses.
Louisa set her drink down and checked the time on her phone—half past 11PM. She sighed and drummed her fingers. Two hours earlier she’d called Giorgio and asked him to meet her. Though still on duty, he had practically leaped at the invitation, saying he would swing by as soon as his shift ended.
Now, he was an hour late and Louisa was beginning to get cold feet. The whole reason she’d set the meeting was to tell Giorgio she was leaving town for a while. It was a lie, but it was a necessary lie. Given her intention to pursue the case of the dead girl from the river, she wanted Giorgio safely insulated from her actions. No one would be able to say he had helped her.
Buzzing to life, the phone lit up in Louisa’s hand. She answered it and held it to her ear.
“Giorgio?”
“Sorry Little Rabbit,” he said. “I got tied up at a crime scene, but I’m leaving now.”
“Anything serious?”
“More than serious,” he returned. “But I’d rather tell you about it when I get there. Order me something dark and strong, I’ll need it.”
Louisa hung up and stared at the blank screen. Wishing for a cigarette more than anything in the world, she downed the rest of her drink instead, and ordered two more. The waiter returned, drinks in hand, and eyed Louisa’s neckline. Waving him away like a gadfly, she picked up one of the tumblers and took a long pull.
From the next table, a man, elegantly dressed in a maroon three-piece suit, watched her. Louisa felt a sudden surge of anger, annoyed by the way that all men seemed to think it was okay to ogle her in public. She turned, and started to say something, but stopped.
The Man smiled, his rich eyes uncanny in the low light. Handsome beyond the normal sense of the word, he had an air of still purposefulness that struck a powerful chord in Louisa. Like frost at sunrise, her anger vanished.
“Cincin,” she said, tipping her drink.
The Man blinked in surprise, then slowly raised his own glass.
“To moderation,” he offered.
“Moderation is for Buddhists,” Louisa shot, gulping down the rest of her drink.
The Man broke into a wide grin and finished his wine. Setting the glass down, he leaned back in his chair and appraised Louisa anew. Appearing almost golden in the low light, his gaze had dizzying effect on her mind, and a warming effect on her flesh.
“What is your name?” He asked.
“Louisa,” she said without hesitation.
“Bella,” nodded the Man. “And what are you doing out so late on a night like this, Louisa?”
“I’m waiting for my friend.”
The Man’s face shifted in the candlelight, but his smile never faded.
“What kind of friend?”
“His name is Giorgio, he’s on his way.”
“That is a shame.”
Secretly agreeing with the Man, Louisa brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and took a quick sip of Giorgio’s drink.
“What about you?” She asked. “Are you meeting anyone?”
“No,” said the Man. “In fact I wasn’t expecting to be seen at all.”
Louisa laughed and arched an eyebrow.
“You’re joking, right? That’s the nicest suit I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you,” bowed the Man. “I think it looks like dried blood in certain lights. Don’t you agree?”
Louisa laughed again.
“You don’t happen to have a cigarette do you?” She ventured. “I’ve been craving one all day.”
Shaking his head, the Man made a defeated gesture with his large hands.
“I gave them away earlier this morning,” he said. “Had I known I would meet you tonight though, I never would have done such a foolish thing.”
Louisa smiled and looked down, not accustomed to being charmed by strange men in bars.
“That’s alright,” she said. “I’ve actually quit recently so you’re really doing me a favor.”
The Man smiled back, his effortless confidence almost unnerving.
“How late must your friend be, before I can respectfully buy you a drink?”
Louisa blushed and took another sip from Giorgio’s whiskey.
“I don’t think he’d like that,” she said. “He’s a
police officer with a macho streak in him. He might arrest you.”
“I would like to see him try.”
Grinning, Louisa crossed her legs.
“No respect for the law then?”
“None,” said the Man.
“What if I told you I was polizia as well?” She laughed.
The Man did not respond, but his features seemed to harden.
“It’s true,” Louisa continued. “I have a badge, and a gun, and handcuffs—so you better watch out.”
No longer smiling, the Man fixed her with a different sort of gaze.
“Who are you, Louisa?” He said quietly.
“I’ve already told you my name,” Louisa frowned in confusion.
“I’m not asking about that,” he returned. “I’m asking who you really are.”
Before she could respond, the door to the bar opened and Giorgio, still in uniform, strolled over to her table.
“Sorry I’m late,” he smiled, bending to kiss her on either cheek. “You won’t believe the night I’ve had.”
As if stirred from a waking dream, Louisa shook her head and peered curiously up at Giorgio.
“You’re here,” she said.
Dropping into the chair across from hers, Giorgio made a face.
“Yes I’m here—God, how much have you already had to drink?”
Still frowning, Louisa darted her eyes back to the next table where a single solitary wine glass stood like a blood-streaked crystal flower. The Man was gone.
“Where did he go?” She muttered, more to herself than anyone else.
“Where did who go?” Giorgio replied.
“That man, he was sitting right there.”
Giorgio glanced at the empty table and furrowed his brow.
“I didn’t see anyone when I came in, are you sure you aren’t just drunk?”
Shaking her head once more, Louisa looked around the bar but saw no sign of the golden-eyed Man. The hairs on the nape of her neck bristled.
“Anyway,” said Giorgio, drawing the word out. “You won’t believe the night I’ve had. Is that mine by the way?”
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