Fratelli: The Awakening (The Vampire Cartel #1)

41. Padre Santiago

Chapter 41

Padre Santiago

T he Desert, Nevada

April 15, 2018

(7 Days Before Death)

Tristan wrenched the Bugatti’s steering wheel to the left. It sent the car spinning in a cloud of smoke, its rear tires painted black as tar streaks across the road. He floored the accelerator. The engine soared as the sleek sports car careened towards the desert. Behind him, three Kawasaki Ninja motorcycles sliced through the traffic—each machine capable of reaching speeds close to 295 mph. He had noticed them as he left the Bellagio, where he had stashed the young rapper and Dolly’s brother in an impenetrable, secured suite.

The black-helmeted riders maneuvered aggressively, dodging between cars trapped in the Vegas strip’s congested flow. Tristan recognized the sheer mastery performed by the riders—Raven, Shakespeare, and Phoenix taking the lead. The trio was relentless, threading through the blockade of vehicles with a predator’s precision.

Tristan pushed the Bugatti to its limits, the sleek machine hurtling from the expressway onto less-traveled side roads. It was a high-stakes game of cat and mouse, but Tristan knew the open desert would provide the anonymity required to confront them without collateral damage. As the cityscape faded into the barren expanse of sand and dust, Tristan’s heart pounded with the thrill of the chase and blood lust for the looming confrontation. His Draca was in full control. The desert’s vast emptiness was an unforgiving arena, perfect for what might come next.

He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the headlights of the pursuing motorcycles. It was a trio of relentless globes of light fading away in his wake. But as the road ahead stretched into the solitude of the desert, he saw a strategic opportunity. Tristan eased up on the speed just enough to bait his pursuers into closing the gap. Tristan suddenly cut the Bugatti’s lights and plunged his trajectory into darkness.

Moments later, he slammed on the brakes and swerved the car sideways. He blocked the road with the car’s broad chassis. As he jumped out of the Bugatti, the desert night erupted into chaos. The first motorcycle, ridden by Raven, swerved, narrowly avoiding a collision. Shakespeare and Phoenix, following closely, weren’t as lucky; they skidded, the harsh grating sound of metal on asphalt tearing through the silence of the desert as the two men tried to regain control before, they crashed into the side of the Bugatti. One vampire rider was thrown through the closed window as the other one was pitched several feet high over the top of the vehicle and crashed into the asphalt, skidding into a bloody mess on the other side.

Tristan didn’t wait for them to recover. He rushed quickly toward the wreckage. He positioned himself with weapon drawn, braced for the inevitable. As the crash smoke settled and the first of the vampires walked out of the wreckage, he faced an inconceivable choice—kill or be killed by his brethren. Tristan’s hand held tight to his weapon. It was locked and loaded, not of bullets, but of crafted silver—designed especially for engagements of this kind. Once upon a time, he could not fathom the thought of murder. Back when he had given his vow to the priesthood and got his training in the Vatican. Back when he believed demons belonged in hell. That was a long time ago. Tonight, he’d do what his master required. Tonight, his Draca had full control.

Vatican, Rome - Italia

April 22, 1956 (2 Years Before the death of Padre Santiago)

In the shadowed quiet of the Vatican’s lesser-known corridors, Padre Santiago walked with a sense of divine purpose, his cassock whispered as it brushed over the ancient marble floors of the quaint chapel. He was young, just 25, his life dedicated to God only twelve years earlier. Orphaned by his destitute mother when he was six years old in Italy, nuns took him to Spain to be reared. The benefactor of the orphanage was named Santiago, and thus that became his name, too.

It was a crisp evening in 1956, and Padre Santiago had stayed late in the chapel, lost in contemplation and prayer. He had completed his rounds. It was time to return to the presbyteries, to where he lived in a dormitory that was close to the church. He had his studies before bed. As he locked the doors, a chill brushed the back of his neck—not from the cool air of the coming night, but from a presence that seemed to thicken the shadows around him.

He turned to find a young man across the cobblestone street leaning against the stone archway of a closed store. The stranger’s appearance was odd: his clothes were of fine quality but a little dated as if he had stepped out of another time. His eyes, however, held the weight of centuries—dark and deep. They seemed to flicker with a hidden desire.

“Are the church doors closed for the night?” The young man’s voice was both curious and forlorn, an accent tinged with the rhythms of being both from Sicilia and a far-off place. It sounded clear despite the distance between them. Padre Santiago, ever the shepherd, could not turn away a soul in need. “The church is never closed to you. I am Padre Santiago. How may the church serve you tonight?”

“I seek...” The young man paused. He glanced into the shadowing streets and then back to the priest. “Can we speak inside?”

Padre Santiago bowed his head in consent. He unlocked the chapel door and pushed the wooden frame inward. When he turned to beckon the man to follow, he was nearly startled. The young man stood directly behind him. Not too close, but closer than he preferred.

“Your name?” Padre Santiago asked.

“I am Lucio Di Salvo, son of Vittorio Di Salvo, brother of Domencio, Sebastiano, Marcello, Di Salvo,” he replied.

“ Vieni dentro, per favore, ” said Padre Santiago.

The young man stepped inside. His gaze scaled upward, then swept around the sanctuary before returning to the priest. Padre Santiago felt a bit at ease. The age of the man had to be the same, or maybe a few years older than himself. Even so, he believed him to be older. Had he never been in a church before? How did he get into the Vatican?

“Where are you from?”

“Here, there, everywhere. I was born in the Americas,” Lucio shared.

“South? North?” Padre Santiago asked as Lucio walked down the aisle of the church, brushing his fingers over the tops of the bench seats. Lucio paused before the monument of the crucifixion. He stared at it in silence.

“What brings you here tonight?” Padre Santiago asked, suddenly feeling the need to hurry the conversation.

“Confession. I seek absolution. I must understand what happens to the soul if it is lost. I can’t trust those around me to advise me on what is best. And curiosity. My Padre told me my mother was catholic. I’ve always been curious about the men who turn to God instead of the Draca.”

Padre Santiago's brow wrinkled. “What is Draca?”

“Is there a confessional for me? A place to explain my sin?” Lucio asked.

Padre Santiago gestured to the confessional booths and started toward them.

“What is your name?” Lucio asked and did not follow.

The priest paused. “Padre Santiago, I told you.”

“Your name, not the name given to you.”

“Tristano,” replied the young priest, and he didn’t know why. It was as if Lucio had reached into his brain and made the answer come from his mouth.

“Tristan,” Lucio said. “I like Tristan better.”

“I prefer Padre Santiago,” Tristano replied.

The desert air crackled with tension as the trio of vampire consiglieri encircled Tristan. Their eyes gleamed with predatory moonlight. The car’s flames cast flickering shadows. Tristan stood defiantly, his weapon lowered, but his resolve was unwavering.

Phoenix, the oldest and most formidable among them, spoke with a voice that was both a warning and a plea. “We only want to talk, brother,” he said.

“He is no brother of mine,” replied Raven.

“An abomination. A weakling. A priest,” Shakespeare added with a disdainful spit.

“A text would have sufficed,” Tristan retorted dryly. “What’s with the dramatics, Phoenix? You and I speak the real all the time.”

The consiglieri’s halted, momentarily amused by Tristan’s audacity and bravery. They all knew the limitations of their existence. Without their masters to shield them, it was fair game. The Bugatti erupted in a secondary explosion, sending a shockwave through the night air, but the vampires remained unfazed.

“What is it you think you are protecting?” Phoenix inquired, his face regenerated from the earlier crash, his supernatural healing visibly outpaced Shakespeare’s.

“Who gives a fuck? What’s left of him is coming with us to feed to the Draca for the disrespect!” Shakespeare seethed. “You will answer for your sins, Padre. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? You’ll answer to the council. Tonight!”

“Fuck you.” Tristan’s challenge slung back at Shakespeare.

That was all it took for Shakespeare to react. He surged forward in a blur of speed. Tristan dodged, barely avoiding the first onslaught as they clashed with a ferocity that stirred the desert sands into a whirlwind. Tristan was assaulted with lightning strikes for blows. In return, he struck, slammed, clawed, and shredded his attacker with martial art supremacy taught to him by Phoenix when he entered the damned life. Everyone knew through Tristan’s training, he gained more than one-on-one combat. Shakespeare’s arm was broken in three different angles by Tristan’s hands. Raven joined his movements a blur, sweeping in to pin Tristan from behind, allowing Shakespeare a much-needed upper hand. He healed himself in time to deliver a deep gash across Tristan’s torso, and rip through the flesh cover of his throat, revealing arteries, and sprayed black blood across the desert sand. With one fluid motion, Raven hurled Tristan toward the blazing wreckage of the Bugatti. Tristan’s body thudded against the sizzling metal; his flesh singed as he rolled away from the flames to extinguish himself. His healing powers labored against the severity of his wounds, his lack of feeding, and especially a deep slash at his neck that closed slowly, painfully.

“Phoenix advanced rapidly, his expression a mix of rage and regret. He grabbed Tristan by his ravaged throat and lifted his battered form as he hissed through clenched teeth, “Don’t make us do this, brother. I raised you in the Draca, Priest. You took a new vow. You will bend. Your penance is your allegiance to the Fratelli , the order. Confess your sins to us, the sins of Lucio, to us, your real brethren. Don’t make me end you. Do it, now!” Phoenix commanded.

“I serve no God, and that includes you,” Tristan rasped, black tears streamed down his charred face. “I serve nothing but my curse. What is there to repent for? We are damned, no absolution, no penance, no nothing. Lucio is the only Master who can make me bend, and he did that years ago.”

“Wrong choice! “Phoenix snarled before flinging Tristan back into the inferno.

Tristan’s scream pierced the night as flames consumed him. Lucio, lying next to a sexed-out Darlene, eyes opened from his deep slumber. He evaporated into dark smoke and blasted through a forced-opened window into the night. Darlene sat up, startled. She rubbed her eyes and looked around for her lover. He was gone. She didn’t mind. She knew he would come back for her. Delighted, she dropped back onto the pillow and kicked her feet under the covers. He’d done so many wonderful things to her body. And she felt it all, not like when she was locked into Dolly’s soul and could only observe but felt nothing. He did it to her. He called out her name when he drank from her, climaxed, convulsed with pleasure—not Dolly! She turned over and kissed his pillow where his head had laid. She inhaled his scent all over it. Darlene grabbed the pillow and put it between her legs, crushing it up against her sex, and ground on it. She giggled again and threw the pillow aside. Instead, she ran her hand down to her clitoris and stimulated herself while re-living the lovemaking again and smiled. Everything felt so delicious to her now that she was alive and in control.

Tristan tried to escape the flames that licked at his body and burned away layers of his skin. The best he could achieve was to crawl out of it, still aflame, lying now in the street beyond the quick capacity of vampiric healing. He flopped onto his back and stared up at the starry sky. Death, the ultimate escape he had long contemplated, seemed imminent, yet an unexpected sorrow filled him—not for the end, but for the realization of how far he had fallen from grace—and only another eternal fire awaited him.