Ancient Inheritance. Rita Vetere
extricated his arm from Sammael’s grasp. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sammael, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, spoke in the priest’s ear. “She died, you know. Beaten to death by the husband you told her not to leave. I watched it happen. Of course, she should have left the man long ago, but she didn’t dare. You told her it would be a mortal sin to break the sacred vows of matrimony. But then, how were you to know such a thing would happen?”
“Who are you? Lascemi in pace, leave me alone.” The old priest pushed through the crowd to get away from him.
“Old man...” Sammael spoke softly, but the glance he flashed in the priest’s direction was incinerating.
The priest clutched his left arm and doubled over. He made the sign of the cross.
“Pray all you want, false priest. Your precious God won’t help you, or maybe he will. Let’s see, shall we?”
Striding away from the pilgrims, he could hear shocked voices rise above the crowd: “Dio mio, help him. He’s having a heart attack.”
Laughing, Sammael turned onto a narrow cobblestone street, walking with vigor until he spotted a tiny café he knew would be open for tourists, even on the holiday.
He entered, looking around. The place was packed. Removing the banker’s cellphone from his pocket, he dialed a number and spoke briefly. “I’m back. Bring the car around,” he said, naming the café.
He made his way to the crowded bar. “Cognac, per favore.” The sweet, burning sensation of the amber liquid on his tongue reminded him how pleasant certain mortal pleasures could be. He stood casually at the bar, scanning the patrons for someone interesting, when his eyes fell on an exquisite brunette sitting with an older, well-dressed man. Sammael watched as she crossed her long legs under a flowing silk skirt and leaned towards the man, the simple black top she wore revealing the barest glimpse of a lovely bosom.
He studied her regal profile as she tossed back her long, dark tresses and brought a cigarette to her plump, glossy lips. The man with her—not her husband, Sammael intuited—lit the cigarette with an expensive-looking lighter. Smiling in anticipation, Sammael moved towards the table.
“Thank you, Roberto,” the woman said, taking a deep drag on her cigarette. She looked up to find an attractive, well-dressed man standing over her. Instantly, a dreamy haze fell over her. Such eyes.
The man leaned in close to her, his hand lightly grazing her forearm, those piercing eyes drawing hers like a magnet.
His touch ignited instant arousal. A shameless, delicious heat began to build between her thighs. Her nipples turned hard beneath the filmy chemise she wore. When he extended his hand to her, she reached out to take it, captivated.
Roberto protested, but only for a second. She watched as the man turned to glare at Roberto, who immediately began to sputter and clutch at his throat. She was shocked when Roberto suddenly slumped back into his seat, but did nothing to assist him. The mysterious man had returned his gaze to her, and she found Roberto’s fate no longer concerned her.
“Shall we?” he asked.
She took his outstretched hand and he led her outside. With such a handsome escort, it was easy to ignore the stares of the other patrons, who whispered to each other about the drunken man passed out in the booth she had just vacated.
Once outside the café, he walked her to a sleek black Mercedes purring at the curb. Its uniformed driver stood by the car door.
“Where are we going?” she asked. Not that she really cared, she felt drunk with
desire.
“My place,” he said. “Don’t worry. You’ll like it.”
The woman could barely contain herself during the ride. Never had she felt such arousal. Subliminal scenes of erotica flashed through her subconscious, creating delicious shivers of anticipation. She did not know the name of the man with the astonishing eyes, eyes that could look straight into her soul and know her every desire, nor did she care. She knew only that she must be with him. Moaning with pleasure as he liberated her breasts from her flimsy top, she ran her hand up his thigh and stroked his rock-hard erection, while the car carried them along a hilly road.
When they pulled to a stop in front of an old mansion, she adjusted her clothing and exited the car. The view was spectacular from the vantage point of the hill upon which the Villa rested. A sea of terra cotta roofs capped houses carved into the hillside and burnt gold by the sun. To the west, the dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica in the heart of the Vatican glittered in the fading light.
He led her through a palatial entranceway and up a winding marble staircase to a sumptuous bed chamber. A myriad of candles had been lit, casting a soft glow over the room. She entered, taking in the lavish Florentine furniture and intricately-patterned Persian carpets overlaying the ancient stone floors. Yards of raw silk draped the tall, narrow windows, ending in a puddle on the floor. An enormous bed, dressed in pearly satin sheets, embroidered coverlet and plush cushions, dominated the room.
The man mounted the bed and reclined. She seductively stripped, then moved over to him, stretching out her hand. “What’s your name?”
He got up, turning her so her back pressed up against him. “You can call me D’Arcy,” he said, running his hands over her breasts and stomach, then traveling further down to the wetness there.
“Don’t move,” he whispered, pulling away.
She could hear the rustle of fabric as he undressed. He turned her to face him, his member fully erect.
As she stroked him with her hand, she looked down, startled. His erection appeared unnaturally large. Her insides tensed as she realized the experience of taking him into her body would be painful. She glanced up at his face. There was no charm in evidence now, only a malevolent sneer. Her lustful feelings withered as the spell vanished.
What am I doing here? Where was Roberto? Why was she here with this man she did not know? Another look at the man’s absurdly huge penis and knowing what he intended to do with it spurred her to action. She grabbed her clothes and made a run for the door, only to find Sammael suddenly in front of her.
What? How? She hadn’t even seen him move.
“Not so fast. We’re not done yet.”
She detected the veiled threat beneath his silky voice.
“No. Let me out.”
Those were the last coherent words she was able to speak.
* * * *
The door opened and old Massimo jumped back in alarm. On every occasion he had met with Sammael, he never looked the same twice. Except for his eyes. Massimo always recognized the eyes. Insanity, and something else, something old and decayed, lurked in those eyes. Trembling violently, Massimo bowed low, in spite of the arthritic pain that burned like fire deep in his bones.
Many years ago, in a sunny garden at the Villa D’esta, a dark man had approached Massimo with information about his wife’s infidelity. He’d shown him pictures of Massimo’s unfaithful wife with her lover. The dark man had tormented him with the images before offering to kill them both for a small price. In his rage, Massimo had not only agreed, he had begged him to kill them. In return, the dark man asked only for certain small ‘services’ from time to time.
It was a decision Massimo had come to regret, for he realized it was one that had damned his immortal soul.
“What news have you brought me?” Sammael growled.
Relieved the message he bore would undoubtedly please his dark lord, Massimo answered, his voice shaking despite his attempt to control his fear. “He has been found, Master. In America. Louisiana.”
After being summoned inside, he reluctantly disclosed all he had discovered about Alan Fairfield, knowing soon there would be more blood on his hands.
Once