LaVey slid off the wooden bench and moved down the central aisle, carrying himself with the same predatory calm of someone who had rehearsed that gesture a thousand times. He stopped in front of Gregory Evans, who remained still for a second, measuring the man's presence. LaVey removed his glasses with a slow, almost theatrical motion and, with an ironic smile curling his lips, inclined his head slightly in greeting—a gesture that carried the promise of violence. Without saying another word, without prolonging the moment, he left Temple Church through the main door, disappearing into the soft light filtering through the stained glass, as if he were just another spectator leaving the theater after the end of an act.
Gregory Evans pulled the tablet from his pocket, his fingers already automatic from so much practice. He immediately plugged in an earpiece, as if every second might hold a vital clue.
On the screen, he tapped the cross-shaped icon that monitored Raphaniè's room; the video signal flickered on, shaky images sharpening into focus. In another tab, he activated the GPS tracking on Saul's car—maps, routes, an electronic trail winding through the city. He didn't know from which side the enemy's blow would come; the margin for error could be fatal. He stared at the screen, narrowed his gaze, and mentally noted possibilities, vectors, openings.
The priest is protected. I doubt that weirdo will try anything against him here... he thought, weighing probabilities with the coldness of a strategist. I'll go after the journalist... he decided, as if sealing a pact with himself.
He got into the rental car, a silver BMW gleaming under the light rain that had begun to fall, and connected the tablet to the onboard system; cables and icons aligned in a technological ritual. He checked the trajectory of the black Tesla Saul was driving—points, speeds, changes of direction—and mentally calculated arrival times.
Possible destination: Hampstead. The route seemed consistent with the latest signals. He switched the bugged audio feed from the priest's room to speakerphone and followed Saul's path, guided by maps and intuition, by electronic echoes and a raw sense of duty.
"...Cardinal, I don't like bearing false witness, but someone leaked that I would come to London for this mission..." Raphaniè said into the phone, seated at the small table in his room, his calm voice betraying contained tension.
Gregory turned up the volume until it almost hurt his ears, as if he could extract more truth from it.
"I know our brotherhood is secret, which is why I believe we've been betrayed..."
The words came slowly, measured, each one heavy with meaning.
"What makes you think that?" came the distant reply.
"I am being threatened..."
"Do not fear facing the Enemy..."
"I would never give up... but if something happens to me, Josefo, have another card up your sleeve..." His tone shifted, almost a confession.
— You're quite brave for a priest — Gregory Evans commented aloud, listening as Raphaniè concluded:
"I'm close, Josefo. If all goes well, tomorrow I will know who the human instrument of the devil is, and I will take the necessary steps to neutralize him..."
Words of faith and warning, blended with the conviction of someone who believed he was serving something greater.
Someone knocked on the priest's door. The sound was sharp—hand against wood, discreet but enough to interrupt his thoughts.
It must be Edwald calling me for dinner... Raphaniè assumed, saying goodbye to the cardinal and ending the call. He turned the key and pushed the handle down.
Routine. Habit. The sense that the night would remain predictable.
But predictability collapsed in an instant.
The handle gave way, and he was met with a violent blow that hurled him against the wall, his body crashing into the plaster, his head ringing like a struck bell. He immediately tasted blood in his mouth—metallic, warm, alive. The door clicked shut with a sinister finality; he was no longer alone in the tiny room.
The intruder wore a dark cloak, his figure outlined in the dim light. For a second, he seemed startled to recognize the priest, as if the familiar face was less expected than a stranger.
— What are you doing here? — Raphaniè shouted, his voice trembling between pain and disbelief.
— Returning an offense — LaVey replied without hesitation, driving a concentrated punch into the right side of the priest's face. The impact sent Raphaniè crashing to the floor, his breath knocked out, vision blurred, his body obeying laws he could no longer control.
— You can kill me, murderer! They will send another in my place — the priest echoed, a protest of faith that sounded fragile amid the chaos.
— Doesn't your stupid religion tell you to turn the other cheek? — LaVey asked, as if delivering a twisted lesson. Then he kicked the left side of Raphaniè's face with calculated contempt.
The priest heard a dry crack, the bones of his skull grinding under pressure. A sticky liquid ran down his face, as though something inside him were erupting outward. Memories spun inside his mind: a child's scream, warm blood on his hands, lifeless eyes, the image of a Brazilian model printed in the newspaper—visions blending into a condemned flashback.
My God, forgive me... he murmured in the depths of his thoughts, a prayer that barely reached his lips.
—I failed to fulfill my mission...
— You are weak. Why doesn't he come down from the cross and save you now? — LaVey challenged, his voice low, cruel, like that of a trained executioner.
— Because he already saved me when he conquered the cross... — Raphaniè whispered, clinging to a truth that seemed useless in that moment.
— Don't talk nonsense... — the attacker snapped.
Raphaniè heard a distant, distorted voice, the words dissolving, and then felt another heavy blow to his stomach. Pain surged through his body in waves; every breath was a risk, every gasp a hammer strike.
I can't die... I have a mission... he pleaded silently, clinging to purpose like someone gripping the edge of a cliff. His body faltered, his senses narrowing, but his mind refused to yield.
His tormentor stared at his bloodied face with a mixture of contempt, pleasure, and rage; his eyes gleamed with sick satisfaction.
— I'm sorry, Ipsissimus, but I don't like doing a job halfway. Besides, I hate priests — LaVey muttered to himself, a cold confession, as he raised his right leg and calculated the exact force needed to crush Raphaniè's skull.
The final gesture—terrible, decisive—hung in the air like a verdict.