Far-off bells from Santa Maria Maggiore drifted over the Esquilino district, echoing through alleys where most residents were immigrants.
Signora Constanza Ahumada, a stout Filipina woman, climbed the stairs, breathing hard. The walls were smudged by generations of hands—people who preferred the marble to the wrought-iron railing.
Constanza reached the apartment door, knocked a few times, and let herself in.
The sitting room was dim and empty; the curtains were drawn. She threw open the windows to let in the Roman morning and chase out the strange, overripe-fruit smell that always hung in Father Santiago's home.
She headed for the bedroom, the door ajar. Inside, too, it was dark. As always—every third day—she began her routine. Apple and pear peels littered the floor. She was used to that. She hurried to unlatch the window and curtains, not noticing the shape hanging from the crystal chandelier in the center of the room.
Her phone rang. Constanza walked back under the chandelier—still snoring—arguing in Tagalog with a relative about a debt, broom in one hand, vacuum in the other, phone wedged between ear and shoulder.
Father Santiago, a camerlengo—and a vampire of the Amazonian kind who fed not on blood, but on fruit, the riper the better—cracked one eye open at the sound of Tagalog.
He blinked fully awake. The maid was right beneath him, oblivious. He'd fallen asleep. He should have been in his Vatican office an hour ago. Now he had two problems: being discovered by the maid… and facing his boss, Cardinal Karol Wozny.
He froze. One wrong move and the chandelier's crystal drops would sing out like rain.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Slowly, he curled up, caught a chain, and inched toward the ceiling. A faint tinkling—covered by the sudden roar of the street when Constanza shoved the window open.
Clinging with his claws, Santiago crept across the ceiling. The maid plugged in the vacuum without pausing her argument, and started it up with a roar.
Santiago exhaled in relief—Then his phone rang.
Mercifully, the vacuum drowned it out while Constanza shouted over the machine. Hanging upside down, he reached for the phone. It slipped, clattered to the floor—right at Constanza's feet.
She shut off the vacuum, frowning, and picked it up. The screen read:
"30 missed calls""Cardinal Wozny"
She straightened—and nearly screamed. Father Santiago stood right in front of her: tall, rail-thin, long solemn face.
"Holy Mary!" she gasped.
"Good morning, Constanza," Santiago said smoothly.
"I thought no one was home. It kept ringing. It was on the floor… I think," she said, calming down.
He took the phone, breathing deep to steady his nerves, and answered.
"Yes, Your Excellency? What's happened?" Santiago asked.
"WHERE THE DEVIL ARE YOU?" bellowed the Cardinal. "HAVE YOU SEEN THE TIME? I'M ABOUT TO SAY MASS!"
"My apologies, Your Excellency. I worked very late and fell asleep," Santiago said.
"YOU'D BETTER GET HERE NOW, BEFORE VERGOLO AND HIS GANG FALL ON ME—MOVE!"
Santiago dragged a hand down his face and yawned. "I'm leaving immediately," he said, resigned.
He said a quick goodbye to Constanza—no chance for her to recruit him into her troubles—and bolted into the street. Engines snarled, scooters honked, buses and cars rushed past, pedestrians pushed toward work.
Like everyone else, Santiago hurried to Vittorio Emanuele station, just a few blocks away. He took the stairs two at a time, wove through the corridor's obstacles, and reached the platform.
A glow bloomed at the end of the tunnel. People drifted to the edge of the safety line. The train roared in and braked hard. Doors slid open and the usual battle began—out, in, elbows, bags, muttered apologies, zero mercy.
In another age, Santiago's collar might have won him courtesy. In modern Rome, courtesy belonged to the cunning and the rough, indifferent to sex, creed, or cloth.
He muscled on with the rest. The doors closed. The train plunged into the dark.
