God's Lions: The Secret Chapel Read Online Free
still have to go out to dinner with Father Morelli.”
“I am so happy to see you, Father Leo. It has been such a long time.”
“Yes, too long, my friend, too long.”
“You must come and have dinner with my family while you are here. We have much to tell you.”
Because of the hotel’s proximity to the Vatican, Arnolfo was a great source of local gossip and delighted in telling Leo funny and lurid stories during his stays.
Leo gave him a sly wink. “I’m looking forward to it.” Carrying the well-worn briefcase, he crossed the lobby and took the ancient wrought iron elevator to the third floor. The priest walked down the familiar red-carpeted hallway and used a large brass key to enter his room. He knew that, within minutes of his arrival, a bottle of red Tuscan wine would appear mysteriously outside the door. It was a tradition begun by Arnolfo when a young Father Leo began staying at the hotel in the seventies.
Leo loved the Amalfi. It was the only hotel he stayed at when visiting Rome. Run by the Bignoti family since 1939, Arnolfo and his wife had been the sole owners since his parents had passed away a decade earlier. The rooms were painted a pale yellow with blue and white carpeting. Below the high ceilings lined with ornate crown molding were tall, white-shuttered windows framed by thin white draperies. There was a large mahogany-colored armoire facing a king-sized bed, and the bathrooms, Leo noted, had been redone in a beautiful green marble, a luxurious touch for such a small boutique hotel. He heard the clink of glass outside his door and quickly opened it to find a silver tray on the floor of the hallway, holding the Tuscan wine and two glasses. No one was in sight.
Leo poured a small glass and walked out onto the covered balcony. It was late afternoon, and the rain continued to fall while the sky turned golden over the Eternal City. Across the way was the Vatican, a country unto itself. The towering dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica, the largest church in the world, marked it as the very epicenter of power for the Catholic Church. Leo always smiled when he heard Saint Peter’s referred to as a cathedral, for contrary to popular belief it is not a cathedral, as it is not the seat of a bishop. Instead, it is a papal basilica. The Basilica of Saint John Lateran is the cathedral church of Rome.
Caught up in the majesty of the setting, Leo slowly began to feel his body relax. He had been coming here for the past thirty years, yet he never failed to be completely awed by the beauty of this special place. He watched the pedestrians hurry by on the street below, wondering if they had become immune to the ancient grandeur and baroque art that surrounded them.
Father Leo looked anything but a priest. An amateur boxer in high school, his scarred left eyelid and blunted nose gave him the appearance of a longshoreman after too many alcohol-fueled, rowdy Saturday nights. Raised in a large Catholic family with five brothers and two sisters, Leo had worked in the coal mines of Pennsylvania with his father and uncles before being accepted to Georgetown University. He was tall, six feet two inches, and at the age of fifty-eight, he still retained a muscular build and a full head of dark, gray-streaked hair worn long over the ears and in the back. In spite of his jagged looks, the fire behind the green eyes divulged the quick mind and academic enlightenment he had attained through years of study and teaching.
The phone rang on the bedside table. “Leo, are you ready?” It was the voice of Father Morelli.
“Give me an hour, Anthony.”
“OK, my friend, but no longer. I’m starving.” Leo hung up and smiled as he thought of his free-spirited friend speeding around Rome in his new sports car. He could afford it, of course. The man had a knack for the stock market, and although it was rumored that Father Morelli had accumulated a small fortune, Leo knew that most of his money went to charity. In addition to the
“I am so happy to see you, Father Leo. It has been such a long time.”
“Yes, too long, my friend, too long.”
“You must come and have dinner with my family while you are here. We have much to tell you.”
Because of the hotel’s proximity to the Vatican, Arnolfo was a great source of local gossip and delighted in telling Leo funny and lurid stories during his stays.
Leo gave him a sly wink. “I’m looking forward to it.” Carrying the well-worn briefcase, he crossed the lobby and took the ancient wrought iron elevator to the third floor. The priest walked down the familiar red-carpeted hallway and used a large brass key to enter his room. He knew that, within minutes of his arrival, a bottle of red Tuscan wine would appear mysteriously outside the door. It was a tradition begun by Arnolfo when a young Father Leo began staying at the hotel in the seventies.
Leo loved the Amalfi. It was the only hotel he stayed at when visiting Rome. Run by the Bignoti family since 1939, Arnolfo and his wife had been the sole owners since his parents had passed away a decade earlier. The rooms were painted a pale yellow with blue and white carpeting. Below the high ceilings lined with ornate crown molding were tall, white-shuttered windows framed by thin white draperies. There was a large mahogany-colored armoire facing a king-sized bed, and the bathrooms, Leo noted, had been redone in a beautiful green marble, a luxurious touch for such a small boutique hotel. He heard the clink of glass outside his door and quickly opened it to find a silver tray on the floor of the hallway, holding the Tuscan wine and two glasses. No one was in sight.
Leo poured a small glass and walked out onto the covered balcony. It was late afternoon, and the rain continued to fall while the sky turned golden over the Eternal City. Across the way was the Vatican, a country unto itself. The towering dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica, the largest church in the world, marked it as the very epicenter of power for the Catholic Church. Leo always smiled when he heard Saint Peter’s referred to as a cathedral, for contrary to popular belief it is not a cathedral, as it is not the seat of a bishop. Instead, it is a papal basilica. The Basilica of Saint John Lateran is the cathedral church of Rome.
Caught up in the majesty of the setting, Leo slowly began to feel his body relax. He had been coming here for the past thirty years, yet he never failed to be completely awed by the beauty of this special place. He watched the pedestrians hurry by on the street below, wondering if they had become immune to the ancient grandeur and baroque art that surrounded them.
Father Leo looked anything but a priest. An amateur boxer in high school, his scarred left eyelid and blunted nose gave him the appearance of a longshoreman after too many alcohol-fueled, rowdy Saturday nights. Raised in a large Catholic family with five brothers and two sisters, Leo had worked in the coal mines of Pennsylvania with his father and uncles before being accepted to Georgetown University. He was tall, six feet two inches, and at the age of fifty-eight, he still retained a muscular build and a full head of dark, gray-streaked hair worn long over the ears and in the back. In spite of his jagged looks, the fire behind the green eyes divulged the quick mind and academic enlightenment he had attained through years of study and teaching.
The phone rang on the bedside table. “Leo, are you ready?” It was the voice of Father Morelli.
“Give me an hour, Anthony.”
“OK, my friend, but no longer. I’m starving.” Leo hung up and smiled as he thought of his free-spirited friend speeding around Rome in his new sports car. He could afford it, of course. The man had a knack for the stock market, and although it was rumored that Father Morelli had accumulated a small fortune, Leo knew that most of his money went to charity. In addition to the
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