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Good ol’ Cardinal Tedesco, he was a hard one to shake. Not even the murder of the Holy Father, who bled out in his arms, right there, right at the entrance of St. Mark’s Basilica, affected him that much.
Or, the night before a certain autopsy report is released, Thomas Lawrence appears on Goffredo's front doorstep for a visit.
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“Goffredo. Let me in,” Tommaso said.
It was funny, the way he kept asking. Like a vampire, asking for an invitation. Let me in, let me in, so I can step inside your home and devour you.
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The last time Goffredo saw Tommaso, he had chased Goffredo out of Rome, away from the preparations for the funeral. “Goffredo,” Lawrence said, staring down his English aristocratic nose at him, “you caused him nothing but grief in his life, despite his many attempts to find something better in you than the rotting, maggoty creature that you always were at core. Let him rest in peace.” And so Goffredo went, but not before getting blindingly drunk and fucking a rentboy in the restroom of some degenerate club. Not that Tommaso needed to know that.
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