Tess Gerritsen - The Mephisto Club

Her beauty was her misfortune. That’s what he’d meant.

“A year and a month,” he said. “That’s how long she survived in a cell without heat, without light. Every day, another session with her torturer.” He looked at Maura. “I’ve seen the instruments from those times. I can’t imagine any version of Hell that could be worse.”

“And he never defeated her?”

“She resisted until the end. Even when they took away her newborn baby. Even when they crushed her hands, scourged the skin from her back, wrenched apart her joints. Every brutality was meticulously recorded in Antonino’s personal journals.”

“You’ve actually seen those journals?”

“Yes. They’ve been passed down through our family. They’re stored in a vault now, with other unpleasant heirlooms from that era.”

“What a horrible legacy.”

“That’s what I meant when I told you we had common interests, common concerns. We both inherited poisoned blood.”

Her gaze was back on Isabella’s face, and suddenly she registered something that he had said only moments ago. They took away her newborn baby.

She looked at him. “You said she had a baby in prison.”

“Yes. A son.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was placed in the care of a local convent, where he was raised.”

“But he was the son of a heretic. Why was he allowed to live?”

“Because of who his father was.”

She looked at him with stunned comprehension. “Antonino Sansone?”

He nodded. “The boy was born eleven months into his mother’s imprisonment.”

A child of rape, she thought. So this is the Sansone bloodline. It goes back to the child of a doomed woman.

And a monster.

She gazed around the room at the other portraits. “I don’t think I’d want these portraits hanging in my home.”

“You think it’s morbid.”

“Every day, I’d be reminded. I’d be haunted by how they died.”

“So you’d hide them in a closet? Avoid even looking at them, the way you avoid thinking about your mother?”

She stiffened. “I have no reason to think about her. She has no part in my life.”

“But she does. And you do think about her, don’t you? You can’t avoid it.”

“I sure as hell don’t hang her portrait in my living room.” She set down her wineglass on the table. “This is a bizarre form of ancestor worship you’re practicing. Displaying the family torturer in the front parlor, like some kind of icon, someone you’re proud of. And here in the dining room, you keep a gallery of his victims. All these faces staring at you, like a trophy collection. It’s the kind of thing a-”

A hunter would display.

She paused, staring down at her empty glass, aware of the silence in the house. Five place settings were on the table, yet she was the only guest who’d arrived, perhaps the only guest who’d actually been invited.

She flinched as he brushed her arm and reached for her empty glass. He turned to refill it, and she stared at his back, at the outline of muscles beneath the black turtleneck shirt. Then he turned to face her, wineglass held out. She took it, but did not sip, though her throat had suddenly gone dry.

“Do you know why these portraits are here?” he asked quietly.

“I just find it…strange.”

“I grew up with them. They hung in my father’s house, and in his father’s house. So did the portrait of Antonino, but always in a separate room. Always in a place of prominence.”

“Like an altar.”

“In a way.”

“You honor that man? The torturer?”

“We keep his memory alive. We never allow ourselves to forget who-and what-he was.”

“Why?”

“Because this is our responsibility. A sacred duty the Sansones accepted generations ago, starting with Isabella’s son.”

“The child born in prison.”

He nodded. “By the time Vittorio reached adulthood, Monsignore Sansone was dead. But his reputation as a monster had spread, and the Sansone name was no longer an advantage, but rather a curse. Vittorio could have fled from his own name, denied his own bloodline. Instead he did quite the opposite. He embraced the Sansone name, as well as the burden.”

“You talked about a sacred duty. What sort of duty?”

“Vittorio took a vow to atone for what his father did. If you look at our family crest, you’ll see the words: Sed libera nos a malo. ”

Latin. She frowned at him. “Deliver us from evil.”

“That’s right.”

“And what, exactly, are Sansones expected to do?”

“Hunt the Devil, Dr. Isles. That’s what we do.”

For a moment she didn’t respond. He can’t possibly be serious, she thought, but his gaze was absolutely steady.

“You mean figuratively, of course,” she finally said.

“I know you don’t believe he actually exists.”

“Satan?” She couldn’t help but laugh.

“People have no trouble believing that God exists,” he said.

“That’s why it’s called faith. It requires no proof, because there is none.”

“If one believes in the light, one has to believe in the darkness as well.”

“But you’re talking about a supernatural being.”

“I’m talking about evil, distilled to its purest form. Manifested in the shape of real flesh-and-blood creatures, walking among us. This isn’t about the impulsive kill, the jealous husband who’s gone over the edge, or the scared soldier who mows down an unarmed enemy. I’m talking about something entirely different. People who look human, but are the farthest thing from it.”

“Demons?”

“If you want to call them that.”

“And you really believe they exist, these monsters or demons or whatever you call them?”

“I know they do,” he said quietly.

The ringing of the doorbell startled her. She glanced toward the front parlor, but Sansone made no move to answer the bell. She heard footsteps, and then the butler’s voice speaking in the foyer.

“Good evening, Mrs. Felway. May I take your coat?”

“I’m a little bit late, Jeremy. Sorry.”

“Mr. Stark and Dr. O’Donnell haven’t arrived yet, either.”

“Not yet? Well, I feel better then.”

“Mr. Sansone and Dr. Isles are in the dining room, if you’d like to join them.”

“God, I could really use a drink.”

The woman who swept into the room was as tall as a man and looked just as formidable, her square shoulders emphasized by a tweed blazer with leather epaulets. Although her hair was streaked with silver, she moved with the vigor of youth and the assurance of authority. She didn’t hesitate, but crossed straight to Maura.

“You must be Dr. Isles,” she said, and gave Maura a matter-of-fact handshake. “Edwina Felway.”

Sansone handed the woman a glass of wine. “How’re the roads out there, Winnie?”

“Treacherous.” She took a sip. “I’m surprised Ollie isn’t here already.”

“It’s just eight o’clock now. He’s coming with Joyce.”

Edwina’s gaze was on Maura. Her eyes were direct, even intrusive. “Has there been any progress on the case?”

“We haven’t talked about that,” said Sansone.

“Really? But it’s the one thing on all our minds.”

“I can’t discuss it,” said Maura. “I’m sure you understand why.”

Edwina looked at Sansone. “You mean she hasn’t agreed yet?”

“Agreed to what?” asked Maura.

“To join our group, Dr. Isles.”

“Winnie, you’re a bit premature. I haven’t fully explained-”

“The Mephisto Foundation?” said Maura. “Is that what you’re talking about?”