The One Who Remains

The plane descended through a sky streaked with the fading hues of sunset, the city of Rome stretching beneath them like a mosaic of history and shadow. Jessica sat by the window, watching as the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica came into view, a familiar silhouette against the deepening twilight.

She had left Rome days ago, telling herself she wouldn’t return. Now, she was back. Not because she wanted to be. Because Iacopo di San Luca had never left.

Leanna shifted in the seat beside her, arms crossed, her gaze locked on the seatback in front of her. She had barely spoken since Paris. Jessica didn’t blame her. They weren’t just chasing a name anymore. They were chasing a ghost. And worse, the ghost was chasing them back.

* * *

They didn’t go to the hotel first. Jessica had arranged a meeting. René, their contact from Paris, had given them the name of a former Vatican intelligence officer, someone who had worked on cases that didn’t officially exist. His name was Francesco Rinaldi. Jessica had reached out before they boarded the plane. The reply came quickly.

Ponte Sisto. Midnight.

So they went.

The bridge was quiet when they arrived, the soft rush of the Tiber below them, the glow of old lanterns casting long shadows. Rinaldi was already there, an older man, thin, his coat drawn tight against the chill of the night. His posture was careful, but his eyes were sharp.

He had the look of someone who had once lived a different life. Someone who had seen things he could never forget. Jessica stopped a few feet from him.

“Rinaldi.”

He inclined his head. “You must be Sanchez.”

Jessica held his gaze. “You know why we’re here.”

Rinaldi exhaled, glancing at the water.

“I warned René not to send you.”

Leanna muttered, “That seems to be a running theme.”

Rinaldi’s mouth twitched at the corner. Then he turned his gaze back to Jessica.

“You’re looking for Iacopo di San Luca.”

Jessica didn’t react. “You know the name.”

Rinaldi nodded slowly. “I knew the file.”

Jessica’s pulse ticked up. “Past tense?”

Rinaldi’s expression darkened. “Because it no longer exists.”

Jessica exhaled. Of course it didn’t.

* * *

Rinaldi spoke softly, his voice barely above the sound of the river. “The Vatican has erased many names in its history. But some names refuse to be forgotten.”

Jessica’s fingers curled against the railing. “Tell me about him.”

She didn’t move. Her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of her coat pocket, steadying herself against the hum of everything she wasn’t ready to name.

Rinaldi studied her for a long moment. Then a small nod. “The records go back centuries. A man, appearing under the same name. Sometimes as a scholar, sometimes as a prisoner. But always the same crime, memories that should not exist.”

Jessica inhaled slowly. There it was again, memory as a crime, or knowledge as threat. It wasn’t what he did, but what he knew. Or worse, what he remembered without asking to.

She felt a dull pressure beneath her ribs. Familiar. Like standing on a trapdoor she hadn’t realized was there until now.

“And in 1923?”

Rinaldi’s jaw tightened. “That was the last known record. He was taken to Rome.”

Jessica’s stomach twisted. “And then?”

Rinaldi hesitated. He glanced around them. A quick scan. A moment of hesitation.Jessica caught it. The paranoia. The instinct.

“What?” she pressed.

Rinaldi exhaled. “He didn’t die in 1923.”

An awkward silence fell on the conversation. Jessica felt the ground shift beneath her. She had suspected that, but hearing it. That was different.

She kept her voice even. “Then where is he?”

Rinaldi’s expression turned grim, “That’s what you don’t understand.” He turned slightly, gripping the railing, “He’s here.”

Jessica’s pulse slammed against her ribs. The streetlights seemed too bright. The night too still. She had expected riddles. Absence. Not presence. Not someone waiting for her, breathing the same city air.

“What?”

Rinaldi’s voice was low, urgent. “Iacopo di San Luca is still alive.”

* * *

Jessica’s breath slowed. She knew how impossible it sounded. But she also knew the truth didn’t care about what was possible. She had seen things in her own life that defied explanation. And now, a man who should have been dead for centuries was still walking the streets of Rome.

She exhaled. “Where?”

Rinaldi hesitated. Then, finally, he gave her a single name.

“Sant’Antonio.”

Jessica frowned. “The church?”

Rinaldi nodded. “It’s been empty for years. But some say what’s inside now… isn’t just a man.”

Jessica felt her heartbeat in her throat. For a second, it sounded absurd. It sounded like something out of a ghost story whispered to scare novices in the archives. And yet, the name hadn’t faded. The trail hadn’t ended.

She had chased men, ghosts, machines, and lies dressed up in science. But this… this was different.

She looked past Rinaldi, toward the dark stretch of the river beyond the bridge. Something was waiting. And whether it was myth or memory, it knew her name.

* * *

They left the bridge in silence. The city moved around them, tourists laughing, motorbikes humming down cobblestone streets. But Jessica barely noticed. Her mind was already in Sant’Antonio. Already picturing what they might find there. A man who should not exist. A name that refused to die.

She inhaled slowly. They were close now. And something in her gut told her that this time she wouldn’t be the one asking questions. This time, someone had been waiting for her.