“Can you really know for sure without—”

“What the hell, Byron? You asked me to dinner just to sell me on an ex?”

Byron laughs. “Mea culpa.”

Alana bites her lip. “Don’t start in on the Latin now, charmer! I will lose it.”

The server approaches with a bottle of house wine to top up her glass, but Alana waves him off. She rises from the table, pulling Byron up by the hand with her. “It’s crazy late. Pay the bill and take me home.”

As soon as they step outside into the cool night air, Alana spins and leans into him without another thought. Her lips find his and she kisses him. She feels his arms wrap tighter around her. Warmth runs from her chest to her thighs. She kisses him more urgently, sliding her tongue between his teeth, expressing a need she didn’t even realize she had.

As soon as the cab pulls up to the curb, Byron fumbles for the door without releasing her from his grip. They maneuver themselves into the backseat. As the taxi pull away, she climbs onto his lap and kisses him ferociously. His warm breath excites her. He squeezes her breast. She grinds her hips into his. His hardness presses between her legs, and it arouses her more. She strokes him through his pants.

Just as the cab pulls up to her hotel, her phone dings with multiple new text notifications. She’s tempted to ignore them, but she recognizes the unique chime for the one she has assigned to Sergio. Still straddling Byron, she digs the phone of out of her purse.

A grainy photo pops up on the screen. It’s a close-up of a clean-shaven, nondescript young man. His face is tilted but his features are clear, particularly the smallish eyes and square jaw. She scrolls down to see a second, wider-angle photo of the same man taken from above, undoubtedly by a surveillance camera. He’s standing beside two women. Even though the taller woman is only caught in profile, Alana recognizes her immediately for the transgendered Juliet.

Below the photos, Sergio has written: “The religious lunatic?”

Chapter

Fifty-One

Today is the third day of March. I write with a heavy heart and a conscience laden with guilt, for yesterday I committed more sins in a single day than a virtuous man might in a lifetime.

I was awoken at dawn by a pounding at my door. I opened it to find two soldiers at the threshold. Before I could say a word, the bearded of the two grabbed hold of my arm. The other, stouter one announced that, by order of the Archbishop, I was to accompany them. I had to plead with them for time enough to gather my cloak and hat.

The soldiers marched me on foot up the hill. Inside the palace, the stout soldier shepherded me roughly down a narrow dark hallway in the opposite direction from the Archbishop’s quarters. I assumed he was leading me to the dungeon or the stockade, and my breathing quickened with trepidation. However, the chamber he shoved me inside was no prison. The room bore no windows and was lit only by torchlight, but I recognized it for an infirmary of sorts, with four straw mattresses spread out across the stone floor. Each was occupied.