Broad. Tense.
Every inch of him coiled like a weapon waiting to be used.
On my right—
General Marco Rossi.
Italy’s most decorated active commander.
His presence alone carried weight.
His uniform was immaculate, every line sharp, every medal precisely placed.
Neither man spoke. They didn’t need to.
The three of us walking together said everything.
The effect was immediate.
Whispers spread through the nave like dry leaves caught in a sudden wind. Heads turned. Conversations died mid-sentence. Eyes followed.
Wide. Curious. Uneasy.
The organ faltered.
Just for a second.
A single broken note hanging awkwardly in the air before the musician corrected, lowering the volume instinctively.
Respect.
Or fear.
Sometimes they looked the same.
We didn’t head toward the altar.
Not yet.
Instead, Renzo guided the path toward a narrow corridor off to the side—shadowed, quieter, away from the crowd and the spectacle.
The sacristy.
Converted into something more useful.
The door closed behind us with a soft, final click—sealing in privacy, as close as I ever allowed myself to get.
I crossed the stone floor without hesitation, each step echoing faintly, until I reached the wardrobe standing against the far wall, framed in dark walnut.
I stopped in front of it, opened it, and stared at the suit I would be wearing before stepping to the altar.
I glanced over my shoulder.
Renzo and General Rossi stood by the door, their backs turned but their attention fixed on it—guarding the space, giving me privacy without ever truly stepping away.
Half-privacy.
Enough.
