to arrive this very night with news as to the whereabouts of Alan Fairfield.
Suddenly, he laughed uproariously. He could only imagine the look on the face of his despised twin, the great Archangel Michael, when he learned what Sammael was up to. It would be Michael who the Creator would send to do battle once it was discovered what Sammael had gotten his hands on. And when Michael arrived, Sammael would be ready. He had a score to settle with his despicable brother, all right.
He checked the banker’s Rolex watch and found he had some time to kill. Turning abruptly to leave the procession, he came face to face with an elderly priest and barely managed to suppress a snarl at the sight of the crucifix resting against the black robe.
Sammael did not possess the ability to read minds, exactly, but if a mortal did not guard his thoughts well, he was almost always able to glean a clear impression or two to work with, as he was an expert on human nature.
The old priest nodded amiably at him. “Scusa, excuse me.”
Sammael locked eyes with the priest. The man took a small step back, his face suddenly pale.
“Please, allow me,” Sammael said, taking the priest’s arm as if to assist him through the crowd. He felt the man trembling in his grip and inwardly smiled. “Lovely day for a procession, isn’t it? Tell me, Father, have you seen la Seniora Carelli lately?”
“Seniora Carelli...”
“Yes. Surely you remember her. Such an attractive woman.”
“No,” said the priest after a moment’s hesitation.
Oh, but you lie, priest. Sammael noted beads of perspiration had sprung up on the man’s forehead.
“Come now, last month she came to you for confession, no? Told you she wanted to leave her husband. Surely you remember?” The priest extricated his arm from Sammael’s grasp. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sammael, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, spoke in the priest’s ear. “She died, you know. Beaten to death by the husband you told her not to leave. I watched it happen. Of course, she should have left the man long ago, but she didn’t dare. You told her it would be a mortal sin to break the sacred vows of matrimony. But then, how were you to know such a thing would happen?”
“Who are you? Lascemi in pace, leave me alone.” The old priest pushed through the crowd to get away from him.
“Old man...” Sammael spoke softly, but the glance he flashed in the priest’s direction was incinerating.
The priest clutched his left arm and doubled over. He made the sign of the cross.
“Pray all you want, false priest. Your precious God won’t help you, or maybe he will. Let’s see, shall we?”
Striding away from the pilgrims, he could hear shocked voices rise above the crowd: “Dio mio, help him. He’s having a heart attack.”
Laughing, Sammael turned onto a narrow cobblestone street, walking with vigor until he spotted a tiny café he knew would be open for tourists, even on the holiday.
He entered, looking around. The place was packed. Removing the banker’s cellphone from his pocket, he dialed a number and spoke briefly. “I’m back. Bring the car around,” he said, naming the café.
He made his way to the crowded bar. “Cognac, per favore.” The sweet, burning sensation of the amber liquid on his tongue reminded him how pleasant certain mortal pleasures could be. He stood casually at the bar, scanning the patrons for someone interesting, when his eyes fell on an exquisite brunette sitting with an older, well-dressed man. Sammael watched as she crossed her long legs under a flowing silk skirt and leaned towards the man, the simple black top she wore revealing the barest glimpse of a lovely bosom.
He studied her regal profile as she tossed back her long, dark tresses and brought a cigarette to her plump, glossy lips. The man with her—not her husband, Sammael intuited—lit the cigarette with an expensive-looking lighter. Smiling in anticipation, Sammael moved towards the table.
“Thank you, Roberto,” the woman said, taking a deep drag on her cigarette. She looked up to find an attractive, well-dressed man standing over her. Instantly, a dreamy haze fell over her. Such eyes.
The man leaned in close to her, his hand lightly grazing her forearm, those piercing eyes drawing hers like a magnet.
His touch ignited instant arousal. A shameless, delicious heat began to build between her thighs. Her nipples turned hard beneath the filmy chemise she wore. When he extended his hand to her, she reached out to take it, captivated.
Roberto protested, but only for a second. She watched as the man turned to glare at Roberto, who immediately began to sputter and clutch at his throat. She was shocked when Roberto suddenly slumped back into his seat, but did nothing to assist him. The mysterious man had returned his gaze to her, and she found Roberto’s fate no longer concerned her.
“Shall we?” he asked.
She took his outstretched hand and he led her outside. With such a handsome escort, it was easy to ignore the stares of the other patrons, who whispered to each other about the drunken man passed out in the booth she had just vacated.
Once outside the café, he walked her to a sleek black Mercedes purring at the curb. Its uniformed driver stood by the car door.
“Where are we going?” she asked. Not that she really cared, she felt drunk with
desire.
“My place,” he said. “Don’t worry. You’ll like it.”
The woman could barely contain herself during the ride. Never had she felt such arousal. Subliminal scenes of erotica flashed through her subconscious, creating delicious shivers of anticipation. She did not know the name of the man with the astonishing eyes, eyes that could look straight into her soul and know her every desire, nor did she care. She knew only that she must be with him. Moaning with pleasure as he liberated her breasts from her flimsy top, she ran her hand up his thigh and stroked his rock-hard erection, while the car carried them along a hilly road.
When they pulled to a stop in front of an old mansion, she adjusted her clothing and exited the car. The view was spectacular from the vantage point of the hill upon which the Villa rested. A sea of terra cotta roofs capped houses carved into the hillside and burnt gold by the sun. To the west, the dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica in the heart of the Vatican glittered in the fading light.
He led her through a palatial entranceway and up a winding marble staircase to a sumptuous bed chamber. A myriad of candles had been lit, casting a soft glow over the room. She entered, taking in the lavish Florentine furniture and intricately-patterned Persian carpets overlaying the ancient stone floors. Yards of raw silk draped the tall, narrow windows, ending in a puddle on the floor. An enormous bed, dressed in pearly satin sheets, embroidered coverlet and plush cushions, dominated the room.
The man mounted the bed and reclined. She seductively stripped, then moved over to him, stretching out her hand. “What’s your name?”
He got up, turning her so her back pressed up against him. “You can call me D’Arcy,” he said, running his hands over her breasts and stomach, then traveling further down to the wetness there.
“Don’t
