VICE PRESIDENT ADAMECK FARADDAY was, incredibly, pleased—almost proud—of Gregory Evans's performance. The Vatican special agent, now disguised and installed under a forged identity in one of London's most prestigious hotels, moved through the world like a fish in murky waters; he possessed charm, method, and, inevitably, human weaknesses.
Faradday knew that.
He knew that a man with refined tastes and a luxurious room could, at any moment, succumb to the temptations of the world—and those temptations were especially dangerous for someone living a double life.
The Ipsissimus's lackey—a man devoted blindly to secrecy—had believed the deception surrounding Gregory Evans's departure and, for now, was neutralized, blind to what was truly happening behind the scenes.
Everything had unfolded according to the original plan.
It felt like a restrained victory—the kind one savors in silence before deciding the next move.
The next step was obvious, yet delicate: bring the journalist closer to the priest without arousing even the slightest suspicion.
They needed surgical discretion.
One mistake and the entire structure would collapse.
Faradday examined every possibility, measured every risk, reviewed countless mental routes, and finally concluded that the meeting had to appear natural—a chance encounter, a carefully orchestrated assignment, a journalistic interest that felt entirely legitimate.
Yet something troubled him.
An uneasiness that prevented him from breathing freely.
One mistake.
Just one.
And his head could very well roll.
He thought about the price of failure—not merely his own life, but the collapse of an entire web of influence and secrets.
The responsibility weighed upon his shoulders like molten lead.
He had been uneasy ever since that phone call earlier that day.
The leader of the Invisible Sovereigns had demanded an emergency meeting in New York, at the top of the GE Building in Rockefeller Center.
It sounded like a summons to rearrange the most delicate pieces on the board.
He had arrived in Manhattan fifteen minutes early.
Enough time to observe.
Enough time to think.
Enough time to take a drink and reconsider every scenario.
He sat inside the nearly empty Rainbow Room, a floating island of glass and velvet suspended above the city, sipping a Manhattan cocktail while gazing at the glittering immensity of the metropolis below.
Every light was a decision.
Every window a story.
The city seemed indifferent to the intrigues of the men who controlled it.
That comforted and frightened him in equal measure.
Could there have been a change of plans?
He repeated the question quietly, as though trying to banish an omen.
Had someone, somewhere in the proper corridors, revised the orders?
He could still abandon this insane operation.
He could erase the calls.
Pretend none of it had happened.
But retreat was not an option when one became entangled with forces greater than flesh itself.
If anyone ever discovered who had orchestrated everything, they would all be ruined.
Rich.
Powerful.
Invisible.
Condemned to social exile and financial destruction.
The specter of exposure hovered above him like a sharpened blade.
Then he noticed the man entering the room.
A man in his fifties, impeccably maintained.
His gray hair was trimmed with surgical precision.
His dark suit was perfectly tailored.
His blue shirt flawless.
His golden tie gleamed beneath the dim lighting.
He walked with the calm confidence of someone who understood the world.
Every step measured.
Every gesture controlled.
He was a banker of commanding presence—a man for whom power was not merely useful.
It was aesthetic.
His smile came effortlessly.
— Do you know why we will never be ruined, Faradday? — the banker asked, extending his right hand.
The gesture deliberately displayed the thick gold ring on his index finger.
The ring was more than jewelry.
It was a signature.
A symbol of belonging.
— Why? — Faradday replied, his voice steady despite the uneasiness stirring in his chest.
— Look out the window.
The banker gestured toward the nighttime panorama.
— The view from here is incredible.
Faradday obeyed.
The city stretched beneath them like an illuminated chessboard.
Skyscrapers.
Avenues.
Rivers reflecting neon light.
The lights carried a burning certainty:
Up here, they stood above everyone and everything.
The banker smiled.
Satisfied.
— We are above everyone else — he continued. — We move the pieces on the board. We direct the destinies of people, and no one can touch us. We play gods on a planet full of humans.
The words fell like a sentence.
Faradday felt the weight of the arrogance behind them.
For a moment, he thought he might vomit.
That same arrogance had elevated men to greatness and destroyed them in silence.
Yet here, in that room, it sounded like undeniable truth.
— But a murder, sir... — Faradday murmured.
— Thousands of people die every day — replied the banker indifferently, as though discussing the weather. — At least, that's what they believe. During many critical moments in history, we shaped deaths in order to control populations.
The statement hung in the air with the cold precision of a scalpel.
Faradday held his breath.
Suddenly, he understood that the narratives governing the masses had been designed long ago.
Not by chance.
By intention.
— Like the Coronavirus? — he asked bluntly.
The banker nodded almost imperceptibly.
— Do you know the meaning of sacrifice? — he asked, raising one eyebrow.
— That depends on the context.
— I thought vice presidents were more intelligent.
The banker settled into his chair with the confidence of a man who created rules rather than followed them.
— But we are surrounded by intelligent people — Faradday replied. — Is that what you mean when you talk about playing gods?
The banker smiled.
There was pleasure in it.
And a trace of calculated cruelty.
— The word comes from Latin: Sacrificium.
He spoke like a professor reciting an ancient lesson.
— Sacred duty. A holy work.
— Exactly.
— We are not talking about murder — the banker corrected him. — We are discussing a special offering to our master.
Faradday's expression hardened.
The polished language concealed intentions that no court would ever accept.
Euphemism was moral armor.
— The Ipsissimus?
— No.
The answer came gently.
Almost softly.
— Someone above him. I assumed that was already clear to you.
Faradday swallowed hard.
There were always more layers.
Every name concealed another veil.
The summit of power remained hidden behind codes and omissions.
— Forgive me — Faradday said. — There are so many directives every day that sometimes a detail gets lost.
— Yes... forgetting the essential details.
The banker sounded mildly irritated.
Almost affectionate.
— After all, without us, you would be nothing.
The statement landed like a cruel reminder.
— I know that.
— And you know you can rise even higher.
Temptation lingered in the air.
An invitation to power beyond anything he already possessed.
— I know that too.
— Good.
The banker's tone shifted.
— There has been a change of plans.
The words carried unquestionable authority.
— The Ipsissimus contacted me. He received a premonition that your life is in danger.
Faradday froze.
A premonition?
Danger?
The words sounded like a storm warning delivered to sailors who believed their maps were flawless.
— Do you want the Archangel to eliminate the threat?
— It cannot be eliminated.
The banker remained calm.
— The Ipsissimus has temporarily placed the organization under my supervision.
— Perfect.
Relief escaped Faradday before duty reclaimed him.
— This means we no longer need to operate exclusively in the shadows. We will combine our forces.
— What do you mean?
— The Archangel must find the bastard and deliver the apparatus that will perform the sacrifice.
The statement transformed theory into practice.
Provide the weapon.
Guide the victim.
Keep the true architects untouched.
— That way we cannot be directly implicated in the crime...
The words escaped Faradday before he could stop them.
— Who said anything about a crime?
The banker's voice turned cold.
He merely renamed things.
Violence became vocabulary.
— I mean... the sacrifice.
— Better.
The banker smiled approvingly.
— There is one condition attached to this agreement.
— What is it?
Faradday already sensed the cost.
— After the sacrifice, the bastard must be removed from the board.
The words were delivered elegantly.
Coldly.
Like a business decision.
— In other words...
The silence completed the sentence.
— Literally sacrificed.
The banker emphasized the word.
— But... isn't the bastard his son?
Faradday's question carried genuine disbelief.
— He is a damned bastard who has lost control and is endangering our organization.
The banker's voice contained no trace of paternal feeling.
— And you know what happens to traitors.
Faradday felt his stomach twist.
He knew.
Traitors received no mercy in their world.
Humanity became a corrupted currency in the vaults of those wealthy enough to spend it.
— I'll call the Archangel and pass along the new orders.
The decision was practical.
Merciless.
Faradday obeyed because obedience was the currency of the game.
— Excellent, Faradday.
The banker raised his glass.
— Before we begin dinner, tell me the most important lesson you learned tonight.
Faradday took a deep breath and stared once more at the city.
It seemed closer now.
More intimate.
As though understanding had finally descended upon him.
— Sacrifice is not murder.
The answer emerged carefully.
Like a statement of faith.
— No.
The banker pointed toward the window.
— Just look outside, Mr. Vice President.
His calmness lent authority to every uncomfortable truth.
— We direct the destinies of people, and no one can touch us.
Faradday repeated the lesson like a prayer.
Like a sentence.
— We direct the destinies of people, and no one can touch us.
The conformity changed him.
The ambition consumed him.
Slowly.
— Let's call the maître d'.
The banker smiled.
A smile of satisfaction.
A smile that blended triumph with restraint.
The smile of a man signing a contract called destiny.