The Roman (The Florentine 3)

Raven inhaled sharply. “What about my sister?”

“If your sister learns that you are alive, your enemies will learn that too. And they will come for you.”

“I can’t even say goodbye?”

“I’m afraid not.” The woman gave her a sympathetic look. “If you choose to do this, we end your old life. Your family will believe you’re dead.”

Raven fell silent.

The woman looked at her watch. “It’s your decision, but you must choose quickly. Your presence puts me and many others at risk.”

Raven’s mind moved slowly from scenario to scenario. She knew she was still feeling the after-effects of the sedative, so her ability to feel strong emotions was somewhat depressed. Even so, she found it difficult to choose an action that would cause more pain to Cara.

“It isn’t my place to persuade you,” the woman interjected. “But you should know that your current identity poses a risk to your family.”

Raven lifted her eyes to meet the woman’s. “Someone wants to kill me?”

“Someone wants revenge that will probably end with your death,” the woman corrected her.

“Who?”

The woman smoothed the wrinkles in her skirt. “There are at least two creatures of the underworld who bear a lot of anger toward someone who was close to you. Let’s leave it at that.”

Raven caught her meaning immediately. “I could return to the Jesuit house and escape the creatures, but Father Kavanaugh will take away my memories.”

“You should also consider your family. Unless someone is willing to protect you and your family for the rest of your life, all of you are vulnerable.”

Understanding washed over her. Raven nodded.

“Time’s up.” Sarah stood. “If you’re prepared to do this, we must get ready now.”

Raven closed her eyes. She thought of her sister. She thought of her mother. She thought of her sister once again.

So much pain. So much death. Even if the Curia decided to send her back to Florida, the Roman might send someone to hunt her, just for spite. Without her memories of William and his world, she wouldn’t know how to protect herself. And she wouldn’t entrust her safety and the safety of her sister to the Curia.

“I’m ready.”

The woman led Raven down the hall and into a back room.

Less than an hour later, Raven climbed into a black Mercedes M Class. Her long black hair had been cut to her shoulders and dyed a dark red; her green eyes had been covered with blue contact lenses.

The male driver placed her luggage and her new wheelchair in the back of the vehicle while the mysterious woman handed her a very expensive handbag. “Your passport for your escape from Italy is inside. You’re Portuguese, from Braga.”

“I don’t speak Portuguese.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re staying within the European Union, so no one will check your passport at the border. You will be given your new identity before you reach your final destination.” The woman handed her a piece of paper. “Memorize this number. If you see someone from your old life, telephone this number and ask for Matthew. If you are threatened or your identity is compromised, travel to Geneva and report to the Trivium Bank.”

“A bank? What can they do?”

“Wear this at all times.” The woman looped a gold necklace over Raven’s head and pointed to the two items suspended from it. “The vial contains a small but powerful relic. Don’t take it off.

“The gold charm has a number stamped on it. Present the number at the Trivium Bank, and they will assist you.”

A few minutes later two young women entered the vehicle. One sat in the front and one in the back next to Raven.

“What’s going on?” she asked Sarah, who still stood next to Raven’s open door.

“It’s safer to travel in a group than to travel alone. Don’t engage in conversation with them. Your driver has instructions about what to do in case of emergency.” The woman extended her hand and Raven shook it. “Good luck.”

“Thank you.”

The emotion of the moment caught Raven unaware. She blinked back tears.

Sarah closed the door, and the driver started the car.

They exited the hidden garage at the back of the building and drove through the streets of Florence until they reached the highway, heading north.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

IN THE SPACE BETWEEN THREE WORLDS, two beings argued over a man’s soul.

“There’s nothing for you here,” the dark angel said, his voice like the scraping of fingernails against a chalkboard. “This soul belongs below.”

“It is not for you to determine the place a soul belongs after death,” the saint rebuked.

“This soul is ours.” The dark angel reached out his hand.

The saint blocked the demon, standing over the soul that lay prostrate between them.

The dark angel roared. “His soul is damned!”

“He repented at the end.”

“Repented?” The dark angel sneered. “He fully embraced the deadly sins. He abandoned hope and allowed Despair to own him!”

“The demon did not own him. The transformation was incomplete because he prayed for help.”

“That’s sophistry. Your brother priests dispatched his soul to hell.”

“Yet here we stand.”

The demon craned his neck to look around the saint and view the soul. The man’s chest lifted and fell, slow and steady, with human breath.

The saint smiled at the sight.

If the dark angel could have pushed the saint aside, he would have. He examined the soul more closely, leaning over him.

“You cheated,” he hissed. “The man was dead.”

“It is not for me to give life. But I have prayed for him for many years, that grace would take root in his soul.” The saint pointed down. “Go back from whence you came. There is nothing for you here.”

As soon as the command left the saint’s lips, the dark angel vanished, snarling and cursing as he departed.

The saint bent down and made the sign of the cross on his student’s forehead. He prayed in Latin, as was his custom, beseeching mercy and grace and thanking God for the man’s deliverance.

When he had finished, the student—who had been half-asleep during the encounter—fell into a peaceful slumber.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

THE SHOCK HADN’T WORN OFF.

Raven sat at an outdoor table at Café Mozart in the old town square of Prague, drinking coffee on a Saturday morning, still feeling numb.

She’d been a resident of Prague for two months.

She’d traveled from Florence to Austria with the young women and their driver. Once they’d entered Innsbruck, the driver had dropped off the other women at an opulent residence. Then he and Raven had switched vehicles at what appeared to be a safe house. They’d been met by a woman who changed Raven’s hair from red to a sandy brown with blond streaks, and cut the already-shortened strands into a bob. Raven switched the blue contact lenses for brown and exchanged her Portuguese passport for a Canadian one.

The driver had then taken her to Prague, to an apartment building behind the National Theatre, near the Vitava River. She’d been given the keys to a furnished one-bedroom apartment, an envelope filled with various currencies, and a set of instructions relating to her backstory and the job that had been secured for her at St. Vitus Cathedral.

Raven was now Cassandra MacDonald, who had a B.A. in English from Queen’s University in Kingston, Ontario, and was interested in history.

Her job at the cathedral wasn’t in art restoration. Presumably, showing her ability in that area would be too conspicuous. Instead, she had a position in an office, writing and editing materials in English.

The cathedral was incredibly majestic, as was St. Wenceslas Chapel, which wa

s housed inside the cathedral and featured priceless frescoes of the passion of Christ and the life of St. Wenceslas.

The chapel was home to several relics. But Raven continued to wear the relic Sarah had given her. She touched it absently as she stared at the astronomical clock on the tower opposite, waiting for it to strike and display figures of the twelve apostles.

Her pain over the loss of William was acute, but she had been able to push it aside as she tried to adjust to her new life. And that was how she knew she was still in shock.

She told herself the shock would wear off. When she wasn’t distracted by so many new things, she would be able to grieve properly. For now, she had difficulty fathoming the fact that William was gone. Forever.

Losing him was like breaking her leg. It took time for her to accept that she would never run or dance again, apart from the wondrous days after William had healed her. It would take time to accept that the Curia had murdered him, and she would never again be held in his arms.

She sipped her coffee, noticing a man skirting the crowd that had gathered to watch the clock’s display. The man was dressed all in black, his hair pale in the sun.

She placed her coffee cup on the table with shaking fingers. The figure looked so like William.

She left cash for the coffee and the untouched pastry and grabbed the brace she’d been using instead of a cane.

The figure was still visible, walking away from the crowd.

She moved as quickly as she could into the square, following him. She didn’t dare shout his name.

The clock’s bell began to ring and the man stopped.

Raven hastened her pace, ignoring the pain that shot up her injured leg.

The man turned around.