The Man From Rome

by Dylan James Quarles

  “Niccolò?”

  “Madonna!” Cried her uncle, tossing up his hands. “For the love of God, don’t point that thing at me!”

  As if receiving an electric shock, Louisa’s finger leaped off the trigger.

  “What—what are you doing here?”

  Niccolò shut the door and came cautiously toward her.

  “I was looking for you actually,” he said. “Though I’m not trying to get killed in the process.”

  He eyed the yawning barrel of the .45.

  “You know, if that goes off in here, you’ll leave us both deaf for life. Where did you even get such a cannon?”

  “Please—” Louisa stammered. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

  Flashing a devilish smile, Niccolò bowed his head.

  “It is my profession to find people, Louisa—it’s in my blood. We are both Anastasi remember? Now, put that thing away.”

  Louisa blinked and lowered the pistol. Like a Mandelbrot fractal, her mind spun in on itself, confused and chaotic. She leaned against the wall for support.

  “You must be pretty surprised to see me, no?” Chuckled Niccolò. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a heart attack.”

  He shook his pack of cigarettes, and lit the one that came out. Watching him with unsteady eyes, Louisa waited.

  “Where to start?” He muttered. “Where, where, where? There’s so much to tell…”

  He glanced at her.

  “I spoke with Giorgio this morning. I came around your flat. You weren’t there, but he was.”

  Cheeks reddening, Louisa touched the scarf at her neck.

  “He was worried about you,” Niccolò explained. “It was very sweet. He said you’d taken off and weren’t returning his texts. I told him not to fret—that sometimes you give people the cold shoulder without really meaning it.”

  Louisa forced herself to meet her uncle’s gaze.

  “You should go easy on him, tesoro,” he ventured. “He’s a nice boy, but he doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into. In any event, my assurances did nothing to calm him down.”

  Chuckling again, Niccolò smiled sadly.

  “He’s smitten with you, Louisa. I think he’s in love.”

  The word sank like a stone, leaving an awkward silence in its wake.

  “Anyway,” Niccolò resumed. “That’s all beside the point. Giorgio, he uh—he told me something that just can’t be right. It’s really crazy actually—a bad joke.”

  His eyes wavered.

  “He said he picked you up at La Spada Spezatta last night. He said you were there when it happened. Is—is that true?”

  Louisa gave a shallow nod.

  “My God,” whispered Niccolò. “And—and what did you see?”

  “What do you think I saw?” Asked Louisa, regaining herself. “You’re here after all, aren’t you?”

  Putting a hand to his heart, Niccolò seemed to sag under some unseen weight.

  “Then you’ve found him,” he said. “The golden-eyed Man—the Man who doesn’t age. You’ve found him.”

  “And what about you, zio?” Countered Louisa. “He mentioned you by name—and Ferro, and papa too! How is this possible? What haven’t you told me?”

  Niccolò took a deep breath and frowned enigmatically.

  “It’s sort of a long story,” he said. “But I suppose it all boils down to legacy.”

  “Legacy?”

  “Yes. As long as anyone has cared to keep track, that Man has depended upon our family for…assistance. Your ancestors, your great grand father, my father, his father, your father, Ferro, me—”

  He paused and took a drag from his cigarette.

  “And now you too, Louisa.”

  His expression shifted, the lines hardening.

  “I would say welcome to the family business, but your father made me promise to shield you from all of this. He didn’t want you involved—couldn’t accept things the way they were.”

  “What things?” Pressed Louisa. “What are you talking about?”

  “The truth,” Niccolò sighed. “That Rome has always attracted unusual visitors. People get hurt, they get killed, there are problems. That Man, whoever he is, he handles all of that. He makes the problems go away.”

  Louisa moved from the wall, approaching her uncle.

  “But that’s a good thing,” she said. “If we’re helping him protect Rome, I don’t see the problem. Isn’t that what we Anastasi are supposed to do—protect our city?”

  Wringing his hands, Niccolò hesitated.

  “Well,” he said. “It’s a little more complicated than that, Louisa. Rome is a modern city now—in a modern world. There are rules, institutions, laws. That Man has been around for a long time—people notice things. They compile evidence, data—they check it for irregularities.”

  He took another drag of his cigarette.

  “He needs people like us—people like your father, and Ferro, and me. We cover the official side of things for him—sweep stuff under the rug. Do you understand what I’m saying? Evidence, clues, data—we make it all disappear. That’s how we help him.”

  Louisa drew back, shaking her head.

  “But—”

  “How do you think I found you here tonight?” Said Niccolò, reaching into his pocket. “I took this off that poor girl’s body while they were pulling her from the river. I figured it would be enough to cool the trail, but after I talked to Giorgio this morning I knew I’d been wrong.”

  He held up the room key.

  “I know this is a lot to take in, but please believe me—I am still the man you knew, tesoro. I am still your uncle.”

  Fighting to make sense of everything she’d just heard, Louisa shut her eyes. Bombarded by a thousand questions, she forced her way through them, and focused on the most important one.

  “Are—” she began with some difficulty. “Are you saying you’ve known about this room the whole time? Why didn’t you tell him?”

  “Who?”

  “The Man!”

  Niccolò squinted through the smoke of his cigarette and shrugged.

  “Why would I do that? He’s never cared what I did with the evidence before. And besides, with Savino sniffing around, I needed the trail to go cold quickly—like all the others.”

  “Oh zio,” Louisa groaned. “This isn’t like those others cases. That girl was special. She had information—important information!”

  Niccolò furrowed his brow.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s very complicated,” said Louisa. “But there is a man named Cosimo Bruno, and he has powerful friends, and—and powerful weapons. They mean to make war, zio! War here in Rome! La Spada Spezatta was them! But there’s still more to come.”

  She pointed to Leta’s backpack.

  “The girl—the one with silver in her throat, she worked for the Man—she was his agent. She knew what Bruno was planning! She hid the evidence here for us to find before she was killed.”

  Niccolò’s eyes moved from the hole in the wall to the backpack, and then to the deadly array of guns on the floor. His features set.

  “Tell me what is happening, Louisa,” he said. “Tell me what is coming.”

  Before Louisa could respond, the door banged opened and Cato strolled in.

  “Look out!” Shouted Niccolò, shoving her aside.

  He drew his pistol and charged.

  “No!” Cried Louisa. “Zio wait!”

  Cato looked up and saw the glint of steel. Almost automatically, he intercepted Niccolò, and stripped the pistol from his hand. Flashing out, he struck the older man in the chest, causing him to stop shot and cough.

  “Stop!” Yelled Louisa. “Cato—don’t hurt him!”

  Glancing at her, Cato faltered.

  “You know this guy?” He said.

  Still sputtering and coughing, Niccolò gripped his knees for support and glared up at Cato.

  “You—” he rasped. “You’re
the American, aren’t you—the one he sent to take care of the body?”

  Cato frowned in confusion.

  “What the hell is going on here, Louisa? Who is this guy?”

  Looking from one man to the other, Louisa hesitated.

  “Cato, this is my uncle Niccolò. Zio, this is Cato. I think its time we all sat down and had a very honest conversation.”

  XXXVII

  Mr. Hannity awoke in the dead of night with a kiss upon his lips. At first thinking he was dreaming, he tried to open his eyes, but found that they were already open. Shifting in the darkness, a woman he did not recognize came into view, and straddled him like a skilled rider. She kissed him again, folding him in her arms. So soft was her embrace, so supple and inviting, that a kind of physical pain shot throughout Hannity’s entire body.

  Divining his hunger, the woman arched her back and presented herself—milky white and peaked with pink. Hannity shuddered and fell upon her in an awkward rush. Never before had he wanted anyone so badly, never before had he known such desire. He had always believed himself above carnal distractions, unhindered by touch and kiss. He was a killer, a meat-eater. He had no use for love.

  And yet, with a single moan in his ear, the woman scattered these assertions, blasting them from Hannity’s mind like an explosion. Lifting his face, she wrapped him in the silky cascade of her rich brown hair, and licked his lips playfully.

  “Do you know who I am, Mr. Hannity?” She whispered. “Say my name.”

  “Artemis,” he responded, reaching for her.

  The Goddess smiled and raked her fingernails across his chest.

  “And are you ready for war, my love? Have you honed your weapons—sharpened them to naked points?”

  Tormented by desire, nearly enraged by it, Hannity nodded vigorously.

  “Those boys were born sharp,” he said. “They’re like wolves.”

  Artemis drew an eager, shaking breath and reached for Hannity’s hand. Guiding it down over her smooth flesh, she slid it between her thighs.

  “And who will lead the pack?” She murmured. “You?”

  She began to undulate, moving her hips from side to side. Wanting to respond, but unable to, Hannity felt a great ripple of warmth bloom in the pit of his stomach. Somehow, Artemis was feeding her pleasure into him, giving him the gift of her sensation. She squeezed and laughed, her green eyes penetrating the deepest recesses of his unhinged mind. Teetering on the brink of something massive and unknown, Hannity groaned. Throwing her head back, the Goddess joined him, pushing him over the edge, and into the throws of a tempestuous climax.

  When it was over, and the stars had finished falling from heaven, Hannity stared up into the empty blackness. Resting against his bare chest, Artemis sighed softly.

  “Then it is so,” she said. “You will lead my Spartoi on the hunt. You will be their master.”

  “Yes,” Hannity nodded, unable to deny her whatever she might want. “Yes—yes, anything.”

  The Goddess nuzzled his neck.

  “Bruno coddles them—treats them as if they are his sons. They are not.”

  Her cheeks flushed.

  “Quello Vecchio must pay for what he did, Mr. Hannity,” she spoke. “We must make him regret the day he came to this world—regret the day he defied me. That is what the Spartoi are for. They are meant to kill and cause mayhem.”

  “Say the word,” uttered Hannity. “And we’ll kill him tonight.”

  Artemis traced a fingertip over his ribs, embellishing the marks she’d made with her nails.

  “In time,” she said. “But there is a complication…”

  Rising onto one elbow, she stared into Hannity’s eyes.

  “The old devil has recruited the help of allies with—unique abilities. I despise such trickery. An example must be made—a lesson taught in blood.”

  Hannity’s pulse quickened and he sat up.

  “Just point me in the right direction and I’ll teach them a fucking lesson they’ll never forget.”

  “Now, now Mr. Hannity,” said Artemis in a soothing voice. “Hold your horses, as you Americans are fond of saying. I will tell you when to strike—and where. But now, I want you sleep—sleep. Everything will become illuminated.”

  As if to second her command, the old grandfather clock in the hallway struck 2AM. Fading with each echoing toll, Hannity began to sink back against the pillows. Caressing his temples, Artemis laid a final kiss upon his lips like a sendoff. He fluttered a moment longer, grasping limply to consciousness. There in that reactive void between waking and sleep, he thought he heard Artemis’ voice, whispering to him, spinning a web of hatred and intent.

  XXXVIII

  With a gasp, Louisa Anastasi threw her eyes open and scrambled to sit up in bed. From the window, Cato glanced over at her.

  “You all right?” He asked gently.

  Nodding, Louisa tried to recall the dream she had been having; yet all that was left was a lingering sense of dread. She got up and rubbed her eyes. Half-cloaked in shadows, the little hotel room settled into focus. In the corner, Niccolò slept in an armchair. Standing guard nearby, Cato had the carbine rifle slung over his shoulder, and a lit cigarette in his fingers.

  “What time is it?” She asked, joining him at the window.

  “Three,” Cato replied. “Only a couple more hours until daybreak.”

  Nodding again, Louisa peered through the glass and squinted. Quiet and almost unnaturally still, the streets below were abandoned. Niccolò snorted in his sleep and rearranged himself on the chair. As he did so, a small metal flask slipped from his hand and fell to the floor.

  “Gin,” said Cato, grinning. “He offered me some but I can’t stand the stuff. He drank it all himself.”

  Smiling ruefully, Louisa hugged her elbows.

  “That sounds like Niccolò.”

  “Aw,” shrugged Cato. “Give him a break. All that stuff about the Spartoi and Artemis—it’s enough to make anyone drink.”

  Louisa studied her uncle’s grizzled face and sighed.

  “How about you?” She said after a pause. “How are you handling…everything?”

  Cato hoisted the carbine tighter.

  “We’re past the point where that matters,” he said. “Right now, I’m just hoping to make it through the next phase alive. Have you ever been in a firefight before—ever traded shots with someone?”

  Frowning, Louisa to look at him.

  “Heavens no! I know things are different in America, but we Italian polizia avoid shooting at people if we can help it.”

  Cato lit himself another cigarette, then offered the pack to Louisa.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking one. “How about you, cowboy? Ever seen any action?”

  Slow to respond, Cato assumed a distant air.

  “Well?”

  “Uh, yeah,” he stirred. “Actually I have. A couple years ago, I worked security for a grow operation in northern California—weed, marijuana. We were way out in the woods, tucked away from everything. Somehow word got out though, and one night the Sinaloa Cartel paid us a visit. Things got heated—a couple of their boys never made it back to Mexico. I buried them in the woods…”

  Cato chuckled without a hint of humor, and glanced away.

  “You’re the first person I’ve ever told about that. Even Corallina doesn’t know. Sometimes I see their faces—looking up at me from that hole in the ground. One of them, this kid about my age, he was kind of—smiling. He must’ve missed me in the tree line—never saw it coming.”

  Falling silent, Cato dragged on his cigarette.

  “Cato,” said Louisa, reaching for his hand. “What they did to you—what they turned you into—it isn’t right. You’re not a natural killer, I can tell.”

  Cato nodded, but said nothing.

  “And—” Louisa went on. “And I’m sorry for hitting you earlier. That was wrong of me.”

  “Don’t apologize for that,” said Cato dismissively. “I was way out of line.”


  “So was I. Forgive me?”

  Cato smiled.

  “Of course.”

  A long beat passed wherein only the softly sputtering embers of their cigarettes could be heard.

  “Here,” said Cato, breaking the silence. “I think you should have this.”

  He removed his hand from Louisa’s and reached into his jacket. Producing the Kimber Compact .45, he held it out.

  “You probably noticed it’s loaded with Adamantine. If something happens to me—I want you to be able to defend yourself. Here—take it.”

  “Cato—”

  “You’re going to say you think this is Leta’s weapon aren’t you?” Cato interrupted. “I know. I guessed as much too. Look at the engravings here along the slide—beautiful aren’t they? My Springfield has the same thing. The Benefactor certainly has a style, doesn’t he?”

  Pressing the .45 into Louisa’s hand, Cato withdrew before she could give it back.

  “Why don’t you try to get some more sleep?” He said. “I’ll keep watch.”

  Louisa shuddered at the thought, and shook her head.

  “No,” she said. “I prefer the monsters of the waking world to those in my dreams. I’ll stand guard with you and keep you company.”

  She moved to Cato’s side and puffed on her cigarette.

  “Besides,” she smiled. “I’ll have plenty of time to sleep when I’m in the grave.”

  XXXIX

  Mr. Hannity awoke with the clarity of the transcended. Rising, he pulled on a sweatshirt to cover his welts, and went to the foot of the bed. As expected, a large wooden box sat waiting for him on the floor. Deathly black, and polished to the point of reflection, it shown with negative light.

  Opening the lid, Hannity peered inside. Five suits of elegantly contoured body-armor lay in separate stacks. Designed to protect the trunk, arms, and thighs of the wearer, each one was like a nickel-plated exoskeleton. Picking up a breastplate, Hannity weighed the thing in his hand. It was lighter than balsawood, and thin enough to be worn beneath clothing. Smiling at the remembrance of a distant dream, he closed the lid, and hefted the box onto his shoulder.