“Later?” I asked.
“I have to take care of this.” He opened the back door for me.
“Oh.” Our wonderful weekend had been cut short. I tried to hide my disappointment because being so attached wasn’t a good look. “Okay, I’ll grab my things and head home.”
“I didn’t ask you to leave.”
“Well, I want to get out of your hair?—”
“I didn’t ask you to leave.”
I stilled at the power in his voice, the way he could change the intensity without changing his volume.
“I don’t know when I’ll be home. Tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“Okay.”
He nodded for me to get into the back seat.
Before I climbed in, he gave me a quick kiss goodbye. Then he shut the door behind me, like his driver would take me home, while he’d figure out another way to get where he needed to go. The SUV pulled away from the curb, and I turned in my seat to see him immediately head the opposite way and raise his hand to hail a cab.
24
LUCA
I checked in with the guards in the entryway of the church before I was granted permission to enter the altar and then the inner sector, a place steeped in ancient French history, a building as old as the Louvre. Statues of famous politicians and poets and grand thinkers were within. Artwork and sculptures and old records. The place was big enough and adorned enough to be a museum itself.
Marcus, the new head of the Aristocrats, met me in front of the grand fire, the hearth containing flames six feet high because of the gas mechanism installed below the grates. It created a distinct glow across everything and a heat I could feel on the back of my neck.
In his long-sleeved gold robe, he stared at me, hands together, neither hostile nor welcoming. “We have a problem, from what I understand.”
“You thought there would be no retaliation?”
A man as old as the Pope, he considered himself to be the equivalent even though their religion was elitism and their godwas Emperor Napoleon. Some of the richest in society praised the Aristocrats for their supremacy. Gave donations to their church. Even Bastien had donated some of the family heirlooms he had from his ties to Napoleon—his attempt at diplomacy. “Every item we took belongs in the French Republic. Crafted by French artisans, they belong here, not abroad.”
“Just because the artist was a French native doesn’t mean any painting he made in Italy is under French ownership. That’s not how it works.”
His eyes flicked back and forth between mine. “I respectfully disagree. They were consigned during the Renaissance to make Florence as beautiful as Paris. In the shadow of our artistry and perfection, they tried to build their own sun.”
Fucking lunatic.
“They even took our wordRenaissance—which means rebirth in our tongue.”
“The Renaissance affected all of Europe, not just us.”
His eyes sharpened slightly like he didn’t appreciate that. “We took only what belonged to us and spared the rest. None were hurt or killed in the infiltration. We have no ill will toward the Pope or the Vatican. We simply wanted our things back.”
“Why didn’t you just ask?”
“Ask?” He cocked his head. “Would youaskfor something that is rightfully yours?”
“It’s not rightfully yours?—”
“The French Republic is the greatest wonder of this world, and I will not succumb?—”
“Interrupt me again, and see what happens, Marcus.”
He hesitated, only briefly. “Father Marcus.”
