HE KNEW THAT JESSYCA VOLPI had already checked into that same hotel, in a suite almost next to his own — the kind of coincidence fate arranged only when it wanted to test men's faith.
Will she remember me? — he asked himself for the hundredth time, feeling his heart beat with the same irregular rhythm as it had years before.
The answer he feared most was precisely the one he secretly desired: that she would recognize him, that she would realize their roles had been reversed and that now he was the judge, not the guilty party. Yet he prayed that it would not happen. The memory of that encounter long ago still burned his soul, like a brand made with a red-hot iron.
At first, he considered avoiding the confrontation. Perhaps he could move to another floor, perhaps leave London before the press conference, but he understood that running away would be the same as denying his mission. Duty called him — and if she truly was Babalon, the incarnation of the cursed woman of the prophecies, there was no alternative but to face her. Evil could not be defeated through silence.
Sitting in the anteroom of his suite, the priest took a deep breath. The walls seemed to be closing in on him, as though they wanted to push him back into the past. Then he remembered the voice of the journalist Saul Nolland, sharp as a blade:
"Either your confessor is part of the Satanic cult, or he has some other ulterior motive in this conspiracy."
That sentence had haunted him ever since dinner at L'oscar.
I need to do something. I can't just sit here with my arms crossed! — he thought, clenching his fists.
The weight of his own doubts was suffocating him. Feeling slightly dizzy, he rested his head against the back of the sofa and stretched out his legs, trying to calm his weary body.
— If I hadn't done that, other innocent people would have been sacrificed... — he murmured softly, trying to convince himself that the decision he had made the previous night had been the right one.
A dull pain began to throb in his forehead, directly over the triangular scar he had carried since his days at the seminary, when he had been wounded during the initiation ritual. The sensation was familiar — as though something invisible, sharp, and metallic were slowly pressing against that spot.
He took a deep breath, trying to control the discomfort.
It will pass... It will pass... — he repeated mentally, as though invoking a sacred mantra.
But he was mistaken. In the following seconds, the pain intensified until it became unbearable, radiating throughout his head. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and his entire body contracted in brief spasms.
— My God, help me! — he exclaimed through clenched teeth, clutching the crucifix hanging around his neck.
He squeezed his eyes shut, and for an instant, he had the impression of hearing a high-pitched buzzing, as though dozens of bees were flying inside his skull. The image of Jessyca — her cold blue eyes, her serene yet cruel smile — formed clearly before him, and he understood that the real confrontation was yet to come.
The press conference with Jessyca Volpi would take place at eight o'clock that evening. He had a little over three hours to prepare not only his body but also his heart. He needed to purify his mind, calm his thoughts, and drive away the poison of doubt.
Having traditional afternoon tea seemed like a good place to start. It was not merely an English ritual — it was a way of bringing order to the spirit, of restoring a little of the harmony that had been lost to his routine.
He would put on his dark overcoat, adjust his clerical collar, and go down to Bar Boulud at L'oscar London. There, among fine porcelain, rising tea steam, and discreet conversations between businessmen, he would decide his next move on the chessboard.
AT A TABLE IN THE BAR at L'oscar London, Meggie checked the square dial of her Cartier Santos 100 for the third time. Her watch showed that Jessyca was exactly fifteen minutes late. Nothing unusual, she thought. Jessyca had never been a model of punctuality — especially after an intercontinental flight and with a press conference scheduled for that very evening. Even so, a sudden pang of uneasiness ran through her body.
She took a long sip of sparkling water, set down her glass, and gazed at her reflection in the mirror opposite her. That luxurious golden room, with its yellowish lighting and soft background music, seemed more like the setting for an espionage operation than a simple hotel bar. Her cell phone vibrated on the table. A familiar name appeared on the screen: Saul — The Sunny.
"... Hello, Meggie, can we talk?..." — It was the firm but restrained voice of Saul Nolland, her editor-in-chief.
— Of course, Saul. Go ahead.
"... Sorry to interrupt your afternoon tea, but I need your help to resolve a rather delicate situation..."
Meggie smiled faintly.
— Jessyca is late, so you're in luck. You can talk as much as you want.
"... All the better..." — Saul replied, then began explaining the problem in detail, his voice sounding urgent and meticulous, as though he were dictating military instructions. He spoke of sources, deadlines, and an article that, if published without proper confirmation, could compromise the newspaper.
— I understand. I'll try to talk to her about it — Meggie assured him, adjusting the earpiece in her ear while watching, out of the corner of her eye, a man who had just entered the restaurant. A tall man with gray hair and a serene expression was escorted by the maître d' to a nearby table.
"... And call me as soon as you're finished, Meg. I need to finalize the article as quickly as possible..."
— Saul... — she interrupted, her voice suddenly dropping. — What's he doing here?
"... Who, Meggie?..."
— The Italian priest... He's just sat down a few meters from my table.
"... He's staying there. Have you greeted each other?..."
— Not yet. He's sitting with his back to the room. I don't think he saw me.
"... Perhaps he's there to make peace with his past. Good luck with Jessyca. Talk to you later..."
Meggie ended the call but remained motionless for a few seconds, processing the coincidence. She checked her watch again. Thirty-five minutes late.
She picked up her phone and scrolled through her contacts, but before dialing her friend's number, she raised her eyes toward the entrance. A tall, broad-shouldered Black man was staring intently at her. His face was unmistakable. He greeted her with a slight nod. The Black Angel, as Jessyca had nicknamed him. A former soldier, he had once worked as a bodyguard for Meggie's father before being hired by the model.
He murmured something she could not make out, but the gesture was clear: a silent warning. She followed his gaze toward the priest and understood the message.
The only danger Jessyca faces here is being exorcised... — she thought ironically, concealing her nervousness with a sip of water.
A few seconds later, Jessyca crossed the room at Bar Boulud. Despite her broad smile and warm embrace, Meggie noticed what the cameras would never reveal: her friend was exhausted, worn out, her eyes sunken and her skin as pale as someone who had not slept in days.
THE NOTEPAD LAY OPEN on the nearby table. Father Raphaniè Marin was scribbling lines in Latin in his precise, slanted handwriting. The steaming coffee in front of him remained untouched. He had the strange sensation that someone was watching him. His instincts told him not to look around — it was better to appear focused, invisible. But when he wrote the final word of the prophecy, a shiver ran down his spine.
— Non faciam hoc... — he murmured. I will not do this.
He clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white, as though struggling against something invisible. Then he saw a shadow pass across the light falling on the table. He thought it was the waiter bringing his coffee. It was not.
— Are you the priest who spoke funny? — said a soft female voice, laden with memories.
Raphaniè hesitated, and his heart began to race. That phrase — that exact intonation — could only have come from one person.
He slowly raised his eyes, and Jessyca Volpi stood before him, an almost hypnotic presence. She was no longer the little girl in a pink dress and white bow whom he had known years before — she was now a stunning, self-assured woman with eyes that concealed secrets and wounds.
— Are you the priest who spoke funny? — she repeated, this time in Portuguese, with a faint, inquisitive smile.
He remained silent.
— Didn't you understand my question? I'd like to know if you're the person who gave me this — she insisted, switching to English as she took a Bible with a worn leather cover from her handbag and placed it firmly on the table.
Raphaniè froze.
He had been discovered.
— I think you're mistaken, miss. My name is Ítalo Mannieri — he replied, rising quickly, trying to conceal the tremor in his voice.
— I'm sorry... You look so much alike — Jessyca insisted, putting the book away. — Perhaps you're distant cousins.
She turned on her heels, ready to walk away, when she saw Meggie approaching.
— What a coincidence! I see you two know each other as well? — she said in surprise, setting her handbag on the chair.
Raphaniè recognized her immediately. Meggie, Saul Nolland's personal assistant.
— Excuse me, but I have to go — the priest murmured, taking a step back.
— Where are you going in such a hurry, Father? — Meggie shot back sarcastically.
— You mean... that you... — Jessyca stammered, turning pale. Her legs began to tremble.
— Do you know Father Raphaniè Marin, Jess? — the journalist insisted.
— My name is Ítalo Mannieri — he retorted, now with his teeth clenched, ready to flee.
— How did you two meet? — Meggie pressed, making no attempt to conceal her investigative tone.
The priest was already moving toward the exit.
— You abandoned me when I needed you most! — Jessyca shouted, tears welling up in her eyes. — You're the one who pushed me into this dead end I'm trapped in!
Raphaniè quickened his pace, his heart pounding, but before he could reach the corridor, he found himself face-to-face with the Black Angel. The bodyguard intercepted him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
— What do you think you're doing, you idiot? — the priest exploded.
The bodyguard smiled with calculated irony.
— Never turn your back on a lady... especially if she happens to be — he paused, looking him up and down — Jessica Volpi.
Raphaniè turned pale. The words echoed like thunder in his mind.
— Let go of me before I smash your face in! — he growled, wrenching himself free with difficulty and disappearing down the corridor.
A FEW STEPS FROM THE ELEVATOR, the priest staggered. He felt his legs giving way and leaned against the marble wall, breathing deeply. Jessyca's words reverberated in his head.
"You pushed me into this dead end..."
Guilt gnawed at his chest. He closed his eyes, and a soft, ancient voice echoed in his mind:
Your feet do not obey your mouth, Raphaniè. You no longer walk the same path...
For an instant, he had the impression that someone was whispering those words into his ear. But they were only memories, or perhaps the beginning of something much deeper.