The Archbishop leaned back. I will pray for your continued good health, he said with a thin smile. And that you will soon share with me more learned insights into this cruel affliction.

Chapter

Nine

Marcello Zanetti studies Don Arturo, the retired abbot of the former San Giovanni Monastery, from the threshold of the seminary’s library. Zanetti suspects he, himself, must be even older than the abbot, but there is no question which one of them is more vital or relevant. Don Arturo sits alone in the library, dressed in a black tunic while reading the morning newspaper, even though it’s almost dinnertime. So this is what utter defeat looks like? Zanetti thinks without feeling an ounce of pity for the man.

Don Arturo greets him with a beatific smile, but Zanetti isn’t fooled. When he was mayor, he found it easier to deal with the local crime families than with representatives of the Church. The gangsters were more trustworthy than all those priests, despite their benevolent smiles.

“Ah, Signore Zanetti, to what do I owe this unexpected honor?” Don Arturo asks as Zanetti sits down across from him.

“The honor is mine, Don Arturo. Besides, I feel duty-bound to keep you informed of developments at the San Giovanni site.”

“How very thoughtful.”

“Also, I wanted to share this with you.” Zanetti extracts from his briefcase the glossy brochure that his marketing team had drawn up. He flips it open to show Don Arturo the renderings of the lobby.

Zanetti taps the richly colored drawing with a forefinger. “Here. The memorial to the old monastery. We will plaster the whole wall with photographs and old paintings. Glass cases for a few of the relics—alarmed, of course.” He moves his finger to the center of the page. “And right here, a most detailed replica of San Giovanni that will stand three feet high.”

“It will be as if the monastery were never demolished.”

Zanetti hides his irritation behind a somber smile. “We would have saved her if we could have. The engineers, they would not allow it. They say it would never have been safe.”

“We were lucky it hadn’t collapsed on our heads anytime in the past eight hundred years. Still, sometimes even those of us in my line of work must defer to science.”

Zanetti slides the brochure toward the abbot. “Please, for you.”

“Thank you.” Don Arturo pushes it back. “It is wasted on me. I am not in the real estate market. The Church provides for all my worldly needs here at the seminary.”

Unperturbed, Zanetti gathers the document and slides it back into his briefcase. “One of your monks continues to spend much of his time at our construction site.”

“My monks? Even when I was still the abbot, they were never my monks.” He glances skyward. “Only His. And now that I have been retired . . .”

I can play this game all day, you cagey son of a bitch. Zanetti nods solemnly and says, “Yes, of course. A Brother Silvio.”