Chapter 11: Shadows in the Saint-Quentin Aisle
The sound of boots on the stone floor grew sharper, echoing against the vaulted ceiling like rifle cracks. I slammed the leather-bound register shut, the leather binding scraping against the oak reading table. Alessandro was already moving, his hand slipping inside his dark wool coat to grip the cold steel of his shoulder holster. His dark eyes locked onto the small stained-glass transom above the vestry door.
"The side exit," Alessandro said, his voice dropping into a low, flat register that brooked no argument. "Now."
We didn't hesitate. I grabbed the heavy ledger, clutching it against my ribs like a shield, and followed him through the low wooden door into the sacristy. The air in the small preparation room smelled of melted wax and old linen. Outside in the main nave, heavy voices bounced off the stone walls. They were speaking in rough, clipped tones, asking questions of someone near the baptismal font—the elderly parish caretaker, no doubt.
Alessandro threw open the side door, revealing a narrow gravel alleyway flanked by high brick walls dripping with melting winter frost. A gray delivery van blocked the mouth of the alley, its engine idling with a deep, low rumble that rattled our teeth. Two men in black coats stood by its rear doors, scanning the street with cold, professional detachment.
"Head down," Alessandro muttered, catching my elbow and pulling me hard against his side as we slipped past the end of the stone buttress.
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We reached the passenger side of a battered sedan tucked into a recessed loading bay. Alessandro shoved the key into the ignition, the engine catching with a harsh roar. As we tore backward out of the bay, gravel spraying against the brickwork, a figure stepped out from the church alleyway, raising a gloved hand in a sharp, arresting gesture. Alessandro didn't slow down. He threw the transmission into drive, stomped the gas pedal, and we rocketed down the winding county lane just as a loud pop—the distinct crack of a silenced pistol—pinged off our rear quarter panel, leaving a neat, dark dent in the gray metal.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild bird trapped in a cage of bone and muscle. We raced past frost-blackened beet fields and bare poplar trees, the sky above us pressing down like a sheet of lead. The ledger sat heavily on my lap, its pages holding the key to every lie I had constructed over the past decade. Alessandro kept both hands on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked rhythmically beneath his stubbled cheek. We were alive, but the margin for error had just shrunk to zero.
