The Name in the Archive

Rome, 11:47 PM

She wasn’t sure why she had come.

Jessica stood just outside St. Peter’s Square, hands deep in the pockets of her jacket, staring up at the ancient walls of the Vatican. The city hummed around her, the low murmur of late-night conversations, the echo of footsteps on cobblestone, the distant growl of motorbikes slipping through narrow streets.

She should have ignored the message. She should have let it go. And yet, here she was.

Somewhere beyond those walls, beyond the layers of stone, locked doors, and secrets older than the nation itself was an answer she had no reason to look for. Except for the fact that her name was on it.

She glanced toward the rows of security cameras, tucked discreetly into the architecture, watching, always watching. The Vatican had been keeping secrets for centuries. What was one more?

Jessica exhaled, adjusting the strap of her bag. She had no backup this time. Just a gut feeling that whatever she was about to find would make her wish she had never come.

One Week Earlier

“You’re not going.”

Leanna’s voice was sharp, her arms crossed as she leaned against the counter in Jessica’s apartment. Olivia, perched on the windowsill, didn’t say anything. But the disapproving look on her face said enough.

Jessica ignored them both, stuffing another shirt into her travel bag.

“Jess.” Olivia finally spoke. “It’s a trap.”

Jessica zipped the bag closed. “Of course it’s a trap.”

“Then why the hell are you walking into it?”

She hesitated. She could have said curiosity. Could have said unfinished business. Instead, she told the truth.

“Because my name is on a document from 1352.”

Leanna shook her head. “No. A name that looks like yours is on a document. That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s close enough.”

“Is it?”

Jessica met her gaze, something tight curling in her chest.

“I just need to see it.”

She didn’t say the rest. That this wasn’t just about a name. That it was about every moment she had spent wondering if she was real, if she had ever been real. And if the Vatican had recorded her existence centuries before she was born, then she had to know.Even if she wouldn’t like the answer.

* * *

The café was tucked away on a quiet street near the Passetto di Borgo, the ancient escape route used by popes under siege. Jessica thought the irony was fitting.

She arrived ten minutes early, picking a table near the back. The air smelled of espresso and old stone. The kind of place where secrets were meant to be spoken in whispers.

Her contact arrived exactly on time. Dark coat. Sharp features. The look of a man who had spent his life carrying knowledge too dangerous to share. Jessica studied him as he sat down, placing a worn leather folder between them.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

His Italian was smooth, effortless. The kind spoken by men who understood the weight of history.

Jessica leaned back. “Then why send for me?”

A small, humorless smile. “I didn’t. Foscari did. And now he’s dead.”

She had already read the reports. Dr. Alessandro Foscari, Vatican archivist, found in an alley near the Tiber River, throat cut. Officially, it was a mugging. Unofficially, it was an execution.

Jessica flicked her gaze to the folder. “And you?”

“I’m trying to prevent the next body from being yours.”

He slid the folder toward her. Jessica didn’t move. The Vatican wasn’t just a church. It was a nation. A government. A vault of secrets guarded by men trained in deception.

She glanced around the café. No security teams. No backup. Just him. Which meant he wasn’t here to threaten her. He was here because he wanted her to leave. Jessica pulled the folder closer, flipping it open. And stopped breathing.

The parchment was old. Yellowed. Fragile.The ink was Latin, sharp and precise. It was written in the kind of script that belonged to monks and kings, not a woman born in the 20th century. She could barely read the full translation, but she didn’t have to. Because her name was there.

Jessica Sanchez.

Dated 1352.

She traced her fingers over the edge of the page, barely registering the text surrounding it. But the details were just as impossible. There was a reference to the Templars. There was a sigil, one she recognized from Vanguard’s Lazarus files. Some words that roughly translated as “Transference of the soul.” But what stood out most to her was the inscription at the bottom, a final notation.

“Identity is not the body. It is the memory.”

Jessica’s breath came slow and steady, but something in her chest tightened like a vice. She had seen those words before. In the files Whitaker had given her. In the records of Project Lazarus. And now, here. Centuries before it ever existed.

She closed the folder and looked up.

“Where did this come from?”

The man hesitated.

“Some things are better left buried.”

Jessica clenched her jaw. “And yet Foscari died trying to dig this up.”

Silence. Then, a quiet sigh. “There’s another archive. One not listed in any official record. Foscari believed it contained the missing pieces.”

Jessica didn’t blink. “Where?”

His gaze flickered toward the Vatican walls.

“Not here.”

Jessica exhaled slowly. Of course not. Nothing worth finding was ever easy. She exhaled slowly, it was a Warning She Wouldn’t Heed

The man stood. “Leave, Sanchez.”

Jessica lifted an eyebrow. “Not going to happen.”

A long pause. Then, he nodded, as if he had already known. Then watch your back. Because if your name is in those records…”

Jessica held his gaze. “Then someone else already knows I’m looking.”

He nodded once. And then he was gone.

Jessica sat there for a moment, fingers still resting on the worn leather folder. Her name. A war that had started long before she was born. And an archive that held the truth.

She pulled out her phone and dialed Olivia. The line clicked.

“Tell me you didn’t just agree to do something incredibly stupid.”

Jessica smiled faintly. “I’m going to need your help.”