THE BLACK CAR, with its headlights partially veiled by the early morning mist, parked discreetly in front of the Basilica of Santa Maria in Aracoeli just before five a.m. The silence of the eternal city felt heavier at that hour, as if even the church bells feared to ring.
Tito, in the passenger seat, внимательно observed the outline of the baroque façade emerging from the shadows and, with a tense expression, grabbed his phone. He called Raphaniè, let it ring three times, and hung up before anyone could answer.
It was the agreed signal.
A few minutes later, a faint light appeared behind the columns, and the church's side door opened with a metallic, ancient, almost ritualistic creak. Tito remained outside, on alert, watching the surroundings and the slow movement of a sleeping Rome, where only cats and penitents crossed the empty streets.
Fabrizzio, the other man, followed the priest in silence. Under his arm, he carried a package wrapped in waxed fabric, heavy and rigid. As he entered the exorcism room, the ex-convict felt the weight of the place fall upon his shoulders — the air was dense, saturated with incense and ancient fear.
His eyes were drawn to the image of the Virgin Mary, patroness of the place, whose serene face seemed to judge him in silence. Ashamed, Fabrizzio lowered his head, overcome by a guilt he had been trying to suffocate since the previous night.
— Do it quickly — ordered Father Raphaniè, his voice deep and impatient, echoing like a sentence.
Fabrizzio nodded without answering. His trembling hands pulled a roll of grayish plastic from his pocket and spread it over the cold stone floor. Every movement echoed through the room, accompanied by the distant crackle of candles burning on the altar. He untied the leather straps that held the woman to the red chair. Her body, once tense and convulsive, now seemed like an inert and heavy burden. Her face, once beautiful, was unrecognizable — deformed by spasms, wounds, and something that defied human explanation.
With a sigh, Fabrizzio carefully laid her onto the plastic, sweat running down his forehead despite the biting cold. The priest's gaze followed him, distant, cold, like that of a doctor observing a procedure without emotion. He then pulled the other side of the plastic and, in a mechanical motion, completely covered the body.
— It is time to say goodbye, Father — murmured Fabrizzio, his tone laden with sarcasm and resentment.
Raphaniè, motionless, replied only with a weary voice:
— I will not accompany you to the door. Tell Tito he must arrange the burial. I will be praying for her poor soul.
Fabrizzio stared at him with contained rage.
What a bastard, a son of a bitch dressed as a saint... — he thought, adjusting the body bag over his shoulder with effort.
As he left, he crossed the dark corridor lined with imposing columns. The shadows of the side naves stretched like stone arms trying to stop him. He did not dare look to the sides — not at the altars, nor the relics, nor the image of the Virgin. Every step echoed like a heartbeat of guilt within the basilica.
When he finally pushed the door open and felt the cold dawn air touch his face, he had the sensation that something — or someone — was still watching him from the temple's darkness.
— DO EXORCISTS KILL PEOPLE? — Tito asked, his voice trembling, still breathless, as the icy dawn wind cut through the silence hanging over the steps of Santa Maria in Aracoeli.
Fabrizzio adjusted his jacket collar, looked back, and saw the imposing shadow of the church rising through the mist.
— Since when does a criminal become someone who questions the power and authority of the Church? — he shot back, his tone dripping with irony.
Tito snorted, irritated.
— Since they choose a pervert to represent it.
The ex-convict stopped walking. The tension between them was palpable.
Tito turned to face him:
— Let me teach you something, Fabrizzio. Perversion is letting your daughter starve while you rotted behind bars. The Church took care of her when no one else even cared to remember your name, so don't come playing the false moralist with me. Just do your damn job without questioning — and everyone walks away happy. Do you understand me?
Fabrizzio nodded, but inside, rage boiled. He bit his lower lip, trying to contain the response he wanted to give. Staying silent was the only way to survive in that world where faith mixed with fear and guilt.
A FEW METERS AWAY, a tall Black man wearing a long dark coat stopped in front of the staircase. His gaze slowly rose, fixing on the two men. A metallic glint flashed in his hand, but within seconds he disappeared around the corner, like a shadow swallowed by the gloom.
Tito caught the movement from the corner of his eye.
— We need to get out of here before more people start snooping around.
— You think we're drawing attention? — Fabrizzio mocked. — Just because we're leaving a church at five in the morning carrying a dead woman?
— Did you know this staircase was completed in 1348 to commemorate the end of the Black Death? — Tito commented, distracted, trying to ease the tension.
— To hell with this damn staircase! To hell with you and that cursed priest! — Fabrizzio shouted, his face red with fury. — That girl was alive when we left her in the church. I don't know what that man did to her, but it wasn't anything good.
Tito took a deep breath and turned his face away, impatient.
— My father always told me not to trust priests.
— You don't know what you're talking about. — Tito slammed his hand on the dashboard. — Father Marin is a man of faith, a loyal servant of the Church.
— He keeps a skull in his closet, Tito, and honestly, anyone who sleeps peacefully beside death cannot be considered a holy man.
The seminarian looked at him with contempt.
— Do you remember the place where we found that girl?
Fabrizzio nodded reluctantly.
— It was a camp of devil worshippers.
— Man, she was just a prostitute! — Fabrizzio shouted. — She ran from an orgy and fell into the hands of a lunatic!
— You're insane! — Tito shot back, furious. — You make up stories in your head and then think you have the right to judge what you don't understand. Do your job and shut up!
Suddenly, the car braked hard, and Tito's body lurched forward.
— What is it now? — he yelled, grabbing the dashboard.
But before Fabrizzio could answer, the headlights of another vehicle cut across the street, blinding them. A black sedan blocked them from the side, completely cutting off their path.
The windows were dark, and everything fell silent until a door opened and a man stepped out holding a chrome automatic pistol, gleaming under the pale glow of the streetlights.
Tito felt his stomach twist and said:
— Step on it, Fabrizzio… for God's sake…
But Fabrizzio didn't move. Fear had petrified every muscle in his body. His hands trembled on the steering wheel.
For a moment, the world seemed to stop. He thought of his daughter. On that cold morning, she might still be asleep, dreaming of a better future.
I love you, my little one… — was the last thought that crossed his mind.
The first shot echoed like thunder, and the glass shattered.
Tito tried to open the passenger door, shouting a desperate prayer:
— My God, protect us!
But it was too late. The second shot came true, and the Roman night swallowed the sound of the screams, leaving only silence and the smell of gunpowder lingering over the sacred steps.