Scion

By Bryant R. Camareno

Fiorello.
What is the mystery behind this word, and what is its sinister connection that binds a terrorist hiding in the Middle East, a serial killer in London, and a deranged woman and her American companion on the run in Europe?
Fiorello.
The genesis of this word began in 1978, when a secret experiment within the confines of the Vatican walls set forth a chain of events that would either validate the tenets of Christian faith . . . or destroy it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664150522

Bryant R. Camareno

Bryant R. Camareno is a first-generation American of Costa Rican descent. He is a practicing attorney in Tampa, Florida, where he resides with his wife of thirty-plus years and their four children.

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Bryant R. Camareno.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 03/05/2021

Xlibris

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue I

Prologue II

Prologue III

Prologue IV

Book One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Book Two

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

Chapter Fifty-seven

Chapter Fifty-eight

Chapter Fifty-nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-one

Chapter Sixty-two

Chapter Sixty-three

Chapter Sixty-four

Chapter Sixty-five

Chapter Sixty-six

Chapter Sixty-seven

Chapter Sixty-eight

Chapter Sixty-nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-one

Chapter Seventy-two

Chapter Seventy-three

Chapter Seventy-four

Chapter Seventy-five

Chapter Seventy-six

Chapter Seventy-seven

Chapter Seventy-eight

Chapter Seventy-nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-one

Book Three

Chapter Eighty-two

Chapter Eighty-three

Chapter Eighty-four

Chapter Eighty-five

Chapter Eighty-six

Chapter Eighty-seven

Chapter Eighty-eight

Chapter Eighty-nine

Chapter Ninety

Chapter Ninety-one

Chapter Ninety-two

Chapter Ninety-three

Chapter Ninety-four

Chapter Ninety-five

Chapter Ninety-six

Chapter Ninety-seven

Chapter Ninety-eight

Chapter Ninety-nine

Chapter One Hundred

Chapter One Hundred One

Chapter One Hundred Two

Chapter One Hundred Three

Chapter One Hundred Four

Chapter One Hundred Five

Chapter One Hundred Six

Chapter One Hundred Seven

Chapter One Hundred Eight

Chapter One Hundred Nine

Chapter One Hundred Ten

Chapter One Hundred Eleven

Chapter One Hundred Twelve

Chapter One Hundred Thirteen

Chapter One Hundred Fourteen

Chapter One Hundred Fifteen

Chapter One Hundred Sixteen

Chapter One Hundred Seventeen

Chapter One Hundred Eighteen

Book Four

Chapter One Hundred Nineteen

Chapter One Hundred Twenty

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-one

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-two

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-three

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-four

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-five

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-six

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-seven

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-eight

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-nine

Chapter One Hundred Thirty

Chapter One Hundred Thirty-one

Chapter One Hundred Thirty-two

Chapter One Hundred Thirty-three

Chapter One Hundred Thirty-four

Chapter One Hundred Thirty-five

Chapter One Hundred Thirty-six

Chapter One Hundred Thirty-seven

Chapter One Hundred Thirty-eight

Chapter One Hundred Thirty-nine

Chapter One Hundred Forty

Chapter One Hundred Forty-one

Chapter One Hundred Forty-two

Chapter One Hundred Forty-three

Chapter One Hundred Forty-four

Chapter One Hundred Forty-five

Chapter One Hundred Forty-six

Chapter One Hundred Forty-seven

Chapter One Hundred Forty-eight

Chapter One Hundred Forty-nine

Chapter One Hundred Fifty

Chapter One Hundred Fifty-one

Chapter One Hundred Fifty-two

Chapter One Hundred Fifty-three

Chapter One Hundred Fifty-four

Chapter One Hundred Fifty-five

Chapter One Hundred Fifty-six

Chapter One Hundred Fifty-seven

Chapter One Hundred Fifty-eight

Chapter One Hundred Fifty-nine

Epilogue I

Epilogue II

As always, this book is

dedicated to my family. I do this for you!

Acknowledgements

I want to thank my publishers at XLIBRIS for allowing my story to be told. I would also thank Justin Jacobson and Darrell Curts for their input and guidance as well as the encouragement of my true friends John DeGirolamo, Jeff Morris, and Mike Giasi. Finally, my heartfelt thanks to my wife Raquel and my kids Bryant-Christopher, Alexa-Cristina, Michael-Anthony and Nicolas-Andrew for allowing me to run my ideas by them.

The purpose of all wars is peace.

— Saint Augustine

Prologue I

The Fourth Crusade

Constantinople, Byzantine Empire

1204 AD

The Crusades were a time of savagery and death, all in the name of the Christian God. The Fourth Crusade had been inaugurated by Pope Innocent III in an attempt to recapture Jerusalem from its Muslim captors. By the second year though, the divine purpose was gone; the pope’s men had been corrupted. The Crusaders made their way through Egypt toward their new goal, the capital of the Christian-controlled Byzantine Empire, Constantinople. The Crusaders were turning on their brothers in faith.

The Crusader knights began the siege in April 1204. After capturing a section of the city, the invader army, driven by lust and greed, set the city on fire, nearly destroying it. For three endless, bloody days, the men of Constantinople were slain, and the women were desecrated. The massacre rivaled only that of the First Crusade in its raid of the small city Ma’Arrat al Numan. The Siege of Constantinople was the culmination of the Fourth Crusade.

In the midst of the conflict, a solitary knight traversed the bloodstained streets. He forced his way past the clashing armies toward the last of the great libraries of the ancient world: the Imperial Library of Constantinople. The solitary knight was a virtuous man, not corrupted by greed and true to his oath. He had his mission, one given to him personally by Pope Innocent III, one that he proudly accepted. Inside the library of Constantine the Great, he knew, despite the mayhem outside, the entrusted scribes were arduously copying the volumes from the papyrus rolls to the more stable parchment and vellum in a vain attempt to preserve these pieces of literature for all posterity. He removed his sword as he began to enter the great library.

With great force, the knight pushed open the heavy doors and was suddenly confronted by two elderly librarians. Being the scholars that they were, they took one look at the warrior’s sword and backed away. One of the other librarians hurriedly closed the large door behind him, silencing the screams from the massacre outside. The knight marveled at the ornate design of the interior columns and at the countless scrolls and codices neatly placed upon the many large shelves built against the walls. Knowing what the champion was seeking, one of the two elderly confronters pointed to an area in the far right-hand corner of the building. The knight, intent on fulfilling his goal quickly, hastened past the volumes of papyrus texts and went directly to his goal. Before he could reach for the item, he heard a loud boom coming from behind him; it was the sound of the great door to the library being torn off its hinges as his fellow Crusaders burst in.

The valiant knight hid from their view as he watched in horror as his brothers-in-arms murdered the librarians. When the chance came, the knight quietly grabbed the relic he sought, carefully rolled the item, and placed it into a piecemeal satchel. The soldiers were reveling in false glory as they began to set the place on fire. This was the end of the imperial library.

The knight casually walked toward his brethren as they joyfully destroyed the various texts. He feigned the same sense of joy as he headed out the door. Before making his way through the threshold of the door frame, he felt the full strength of an arm grabbing his own.

Where are you going? the commanding voiced asked in between bursts of laughter. His breath smelled of poor wine.

The knight recognized his aggressor as a member of a rich family, bestowed with the title of a general by virtue of his power and wealth. The good knight’s voice was stammering in fear. I need some air. The smoke is making it difficult to breathe.

The rich man laughed as he released his grip. Go and take part in the revelry.

The good knight sighed with relief and turned to leave when the nobleman grabbed the satchel.

What have you there, young man?

The knight reacted by snatching the satchel back. The general, visibly angry, unsheathed his sword. The knight removed his own sword and placed it to the general’s neck before the general could even lift his arm. The champion’s sacred vow was paramount; he would die if needed, but more importantly, he would commit the mortal sin if warranted.

You will die for this! the nobleman raged. He then screamed out to his soldiers. Seize him!

The good knight carefully paced backward, sword in arm, making his way out the door, clutching the satchel ever so tightly. One of the general’s dutiful soldiers took out a knife and lunged at the knight. He first struck him with his fist about the head and face before plunging the knife into the good knight’s chest. Despite his serious wound, the knight’s skills still outmatched his attacker, and he was able to thrust his own sword into his opponent’s chest.

The virtuous knight sobbed in distress as he pulled out his sword. His victim appeared to be only about seventeen years old. The knight raised his sword again and paced backward, while the general and the other soldiers stood at bay. The knight made his way into the street and entered the mass confusion of the ongoing massacre. He ran toward his steed. The nobleman angrily ordered his men to take pursuit, but the knight was soon lost among the ensuing chaos in the streets. He was gone.

By nightfall, the entire city was aflame, and the sacking of Constantinople was complete, but the general’s own personal crusade to capture the insubordinate knight had only begun.

The Dream

The good knight raced across the torrid desert on his sacred mission. He had been riding for hours, stopping only intermittently to give his horse a brief respite. The sun was about to rise, and heat, only in its infancy, would come with it. The ebony steed scurried across the sand, strenuously carrying the valiant knight on his back. The horse and rider struggled as they continued on their course. The knight bled from the mortal wound to his chest as dry air made it harder for him to breathe. The knight firmly held onto the reins with his left hand and tightly held onto a large satchel with his other. He screamed at his horse, urging the beast to go faster. The blood and sweat from his brow combined into stinging streams for his eyes. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing nothing but sensing danger in the distance. Worried that the enemy would soon be upon him, the champion turned his gaze to the horizon, hoping his destination would soon appear.

Al-Jawf, Yemen

Present Time

Inside a tattered tent, in the outskirts of the town of al-Hazm, the young man awoke from his dream. Even though it was in the middle of the night, the young man would not be able to return to his slumber. This reoccurring dream of a crusading knight racing toward an unknown destination had been the same since Yousef Malik Hasan was a child. When he was a young boy, the dream would cause Yousef to cry in the middle of the night, bringing his doting mother, Aamilah, to his bedside to provide him comfort.

Most of Yousef’s teenage years were spent sleeping during the day and sleepless at night in a failed attempt to avoid the recurring nightmare. A decade of sleepless nights brought only angst to a teenaged Yousef. In his twenties, the sleep-deprived young man became despondent and turned to self-study to keep himself distracted and to hopefully garner some relief. He would read of American imperialism and the atrocities it committed upon innocent people throughout the world. He was bitter and angry at having been born into a violent world. At twenty-five, he would leave the comfort of his mother and join various militant groups throughout the Middle East. Yousef had never quite found the one group that he thought was sincere in changing the world.

Yousef was a man without a country and without a home until he found the man who would be the father figure whom he never had: Imam El Fazazi. The imam took Yousef under his wing and into his new home in Yemen. For the last five years, Imam El Fazazi had been grooming Yousef to be the leader of a new movement that would strike horror in the heart of the West.

Yousef had a newfound happiness that would only be short-lived once he started having the dream again. He would no longer fight sleep or avoid the dream; instead, with the help of his imam, Yousef would sadly learn to embrace it. The dream, they determined, could only be interpreted as a Crusader embarking on a mission intent on destroying Muslims throughout the globe. This nightmare drove Yousef to become a threat to the world.

Prologue II

Leonardo da Vinci–Fiumicino Airport

Rome, Italy

1978

A team of ten scientists disembarked down the mobile stairway out of the National Airlines Boeing 747 and were greeted by three Catholic priests. The smiles on the priests’ collective faces did not give away the fact that they had been impatiently waiting for the scientists on the tarmac for nearly an hour. Of the three priests, one stepped out and greeted the scientists.

Signore Allison, it is a pleasure to meet you, the senior priest said, his near-perfect English hiding his native Italian tongue. He extended his hand. I am Padre Silvio.

Mathew Allison, the lead scientist, returned the handshake. The pleasure is mine. Are the others waiting?

Yes, they have been here for several weeks, but—

Excellent, Mathew Allison said excitedly. I want to get started right away.

There is a problem. Padre Silvio was visibly nervous. We might not be able to begin just yet.

Why? How long are we talking about? A few hours? A day?

Perhaps . . . indefinitely, the priest replied.

You’ve got to be kidding me. Mathew Allison glanced back at his team and inquired emphatically, We had the pope’s permission. We came all the way here from America.

"That is correct, but you had his permission before his death. The new pope . . . Padre Silvio paused as he lowered his head in grief. The new pope has been convinced to put an end to your efforts."

Nothing should have changed. I need to meet with the pope immediately, Dr. Allison demanded.

"Meeting with the Holy Father is impossible. Besides, I don’t think that would make a difference. There is a movement within the church that is against this whole . . . well, that is, against your experiment."

"This is not an experiment, and it’s certainly not mine, Dr. Allison said angrily. It’s meant to be a validation of our—"

Padre Silvio interrupted. "I do not think that calling it a validation makes your current situation any better."

Please, Padre. You have to help us accomplish this task, Dr. Allison begged. We have waited so long. This project is intended to reaffirm our faith.

You do not have to convince me. The new pope knows of the benefits behind this endeavor, but there are forces even beyond his control. The priest paused and extended his hand. Let us at least let our driver take you to your rooms while I will continue to do what I can.

Dr. Allison objected. There’s no way that I can go with you? Perhaps I can make a stronger case.

Impossibile! Padre Silvio exclaimed. Please forgive my outburst, but I too am under pressure. So please come with me. Let me take all of you to the hotel so that you can all rest. I give you my word that I will continue to do all that I can.

Mathew Allison reluctantly agreed.

Padre Silvio and the other priests led the group of Americans into the airport.

Since the Holy Father died, there has been a growing force within the church to put a stop to your project. Padre Silvio resumed once the group was inside. "When the conclave discovered that the artifact had been secretly moved to the Vatican, there was a surge of protest. The others demanded that it be sent back. They are trying to convince the new pope to cancel this whole operation."

"Cancel the whole operation? Dr. Allison blurted. We have spent nearly a decade just to be where we are now."

The priest continued to lead the way. I beg of you not to be angry. Anger will not get you where you need to be.

Please don’t quote me James 1:19, Dr. Allison quipped.

You know your Bible, the priest said, impressed.

We’re all Catholics here, Dr. Allison emphasized. We may be scientists, but we have not lost the faith. We were carefully selected because of our faith. We’re not here to discredit the relic but to only validate it.

You are preaching to the choir, as you Americans say. Padre Silvio chuckled. I am here to help you, not obstruct you.

Forgive me, Father—

Is this a confession? the priest joked.

They both laughed.

I’m sorry, Mathew stated sincerely. I know that you’re here to help us. Please forgive me.

The priest jovially made the sign of the cross. You are forgiven.

Neither man realized that Mathew Allison’s group was listening to their conversation until the scientists laughed—with the exception of one man.

After collecting their luggage, the entire group of men eventually made their way into a large van.

Padre Silvio turned to the driver. All’hotel. Standing adjacent to the vehicle, Padre Silvio once again made the sign of the cross, this time more sincerely. May God bless these men and their endeavors.

Mathew Allison smiled and made a silent prayer, hoping that the good Lord would grant his request.

As the vehicle made its way into the capital, the scientists gawked in awe from behind the van windows at the splendor that was Rome. As they drove into the heart of the city, they marveled at the dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica in the distance. As young Catholics, they had only dreamed of visiting the outskirts of the Holy See, but if it all worked out, they would soon be inside the most secretive part of the Vatican. The jet lag did not deter them from feeling the surge of adrenaline of being in the Eternal City. The busy pedestrians mindlessly walking up and down the streets, coupled with the reckless maneuvering of the sports cars and scooters, only added to the uniqueness of the city. The scientists were awestruck by the monumental Il Vittoriano as the structure passed them as the van made its way to Via Nazionale. The sight of street panhandlers and beggars was juxtaposed with the vast richness of the Vatican, which was just a few miles away. Within a few moments, the scientists were dropped off at the Hotel Artemide.

Mathew Allison opened the sliding door to the van and led the other scientists out.

Please make yourselves comfortable, and I will notify each of you as soon as I can confirm the pope’s approval, Mathew said to his team of learned men.

The scientists said their farewells and checked into their separate rooms.

*     *     *

Among the group of scientists, there was one man who remained stoic and appeared to be the loner of the group. The lonely American entered his room and elected not to turn on the lights. He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Despite the exhausting, nearly ten-hour flight, he could not sleep. After several hours of mindlessly gazing into the darkness, the lonely American finally reached for the room’s telephone. He dialed a number he had committed to memory. It was a local call. The voice on the other end spoke with an accent that the scientist could not discern. The lonely American’s voice trembled with trepidation.

It . . . It . . . It’s me, Connolly. There’s a problem.

The other voice remained silent.

Connolly continued. The . . . The new pope has, uh, put a temporary stop to the operation.

The other voice screamed in anger.

What do . . . what do you want me to do? Connolly asked.

There was more silence. Finally, there was a command.

The lonely American listened patiently. I’ll do as you say. I’ll wait.

*     *     *

For the next three weeks, the team of scientists either remained in their rooms or explored the Eternal City. They were bored out of their minds. They had come to Rome to be scientists, not tourists.

At the end of September, there was an announcement that shocked the world: Pope John Paul I had died. He died thirty-three days after his ordination.

*     *     *

Mathew Allison was enraged. He had been screaming at Padre Silvio through the phone. We’ve been here for a month! And it has been a week since the new Pope’s ordination—and still nothing.

You have been very patient, Father Silvio agreed, his voice clearly excited through the speaker. But I finally have good news for you. The Holy Father has granted your request. You will begin this afternoon.

Mathew was overjoyed. Excellent! I’ve got to go. I’ve got to tell the others. Mathew disconnected the call and immediately called the rooms of each of his fellow scientists.

*     *     *

Upon receiving the news from Mathew Allison, Connolly, the lonely American, made his own call. The man on the other end of the call listened as Connolly spoke.

We are ready to proceed.

Il Vaticano

1978

Mathew Allison proudly led his team of American scientists through Saint Peter’s Square into the basilica. The men were disciplined scientists but could barely contain their own excitement. This was a momentous occasion for them all. They were astonished by the grandiose architectural sculpture, the lavish marble, and the extravagant artwork. The amount of wealth that had to be put into this sublime ornament of the earth was overwhelming. How many mouths could have been fed with all this wealth? they each, in their own way, wondered. The scientists were led down into the scavi, the necropolis, beneath the basilica, into a vast hall of the inner sanctum of the Vatican. The group of men waited patiently for several hours in the large anteroom next to the various sarcophagi until Padre Silvio finally exited an inner room.

You have been approved, the priest said to loud cheers. But the Holy Father has only given you five days to complete your research.

Five days? The scientists collectively mumbled in protest.

We’ve been here for over a month, and that’s all the time we get? Mathew said angrily.

The priest nodded. And not a moment later. And you must hurry before His Eminence changes his mind.

Well, then let’s get started, Mathew directed the others.

Padre Silvio proceeded to lead the scientists to a larger room where there was a group of men waiting. These other men were made up of Vatican scientists and several more priests. The men assembled around a large glass encasement. The item itself was fourteen feet by three, but the enclosure gave it the illusion of being massive. Everyone stood and gaped at the relic, mesmerized by its appearance; even the lonely American was in awe. There was stunned silence in the entire room. Mathew Allison broke this silence and ordered everyone to work.

*     *     *

During the ensuing days, the team of scientists worked both diligently and tirelessly, examining the item, sleeping only in shifts of an hour or two. The excitement of their task had the effect of energizing the men to the point that sleep was not of any major concern.

Amidst the endless examination and the exhaustion, the lonely American worked as relentlessly as the others, but staying true to his nature, he worked alone. His colleagues had no idea that the lonely American was accomplishing his own sinister plan.

*     *     *

After five eternal days, Padre Silvio entered the inner sanctum. He was shocked by the scientists’ dreary appearances. All the humor had left the priest, and he appeared grim.

Mr. Allison, you have overstayed your welcome by several hours. You and your men must leave, Padre Silvio entreated.

We need more time—

You must leave—now. Padre Silvio was surprisingly earnest.

Mathew knew enough not to protest; moreover, he was tired. Despite wishing we had more time, my men and I are forever grateful for the opportunity we have been given.

Before exiting the inner room, Mathew Allison stopped to have one last look at the relic. He became emotional and fought back his tears. He knew his research would not have been in vain, and while it would take many more months before his results would be published, he knew in his heart that his beliefs would be confirmed. He looked at his team and thanked them individually.

Padre Silvio escorted the scientists into the van, and they were all driven back to their hotel. Flight arrangements had been made by the church; some were scheduled to leave that night, others the next day. The lonely American offered to take the latter flight.

*     *     *

That last evening, the lonely American, despite his exhaustion, once again had no desire to sleep; he had his mission to complete. He had not even bothered showering and had been wearing the same clothes for the last five days. His reflection, when he finally looked, disgusted him. He appeared frail, sullen, and unrecognizable even to himself. Connolly had been so distracted by his apparition that he had not heard the phone ringing.

The voice was disturbed by the lonely man’s failure to quickly respond. Connolly did not bother to explain. He just listened. He was given a new set of instructions.

Understood, Connolly said. No, I won’t be late.

*     *     *

About an hour later, the lonely American exited his hotel, making his way down Via Dei Serpenti. Connolly wandered about for an hour, practically walking in circles.

Suddenly, as if on cue, he changed directions and walked over to a side street, Via Cimarra, and walked straight into a little café. The café had been closed for hours, occupied solely by a single server, but the employee acted as if he had been expecting the lonely American. The scientist sat at a table, waiting patiently, saying nothing, until he noticed there was a man hovering behind him. The man was dressed in a black suit. He was a man in black—an MIB, as they would come to be known in popular culture.

The lonely American realized that the café server was no longer there.

It was past three-thirty in the morning, late even by European standards. Both the café and the streets of Rome were now empty. Connolly reached into his jacket and removed a large manila envelope. He slid the envelope across the table into the hands of the MIB. Very good work, young man, said the MIB, with his very strong British accent. In turn, the stranger attempted to hand Connolly a large white envelope. It was clear that inside the envelope was payment for services rendered.

The lonely American waved it away. No, you keep it. I don’t want it.

My employers will insist that you be paid. We had an agreement. Agreements must be honored. Otherwise—

"I don’t care what they think . . . or what they do. The lonely American was adamant. Take it. I’m done." The lonely American walked out the door and meandered through the streets.

*     *     *

Hiding in the recesses of the night were two other MIBs, watching him silently. They did not bother following him. They knew his destination.

*     *     *

Mark Connolly had every right to be angry at the church. The Connolly family had been a well-known and well-respected family in the Archdiocese of Baltimore, and Mark had always been the good boy. He was the second youngest of seven children, and despite him feeling that he was lost in the mix, his parents knew that Mark would be the most successful of the Connolly children. They put a lot of pressure on him as a child, but they only wanted the best for him. Mark had been active in the church since he learned to walk and had always wanted to be an altar boy since he could remember. He dreamed of being a priest when he was thirteen years old and studied under the tutelage of Fr. Danny Markle.

Father Danny had been the youngest priest the parish ever had. The people of the parish had the privilege of watching the young priest grow old and become a father figure to the boys. At the age of sixty-two, the priest had somehow lost his faith, or maybe he never had it at all. He had become a slave to the desires of the flesh. He had become a monster. He