Read Chapter 32: The Confrontation

Marchetti’s boots crunched on scattered straw as he crossed the threshold of the Vilna cathedral. The air inside was thick with candle smoke and the cold breath of stone. High above, the stained-glass windows caught the distant orange glow of the burning city, casting fractured light across the pews like blood on snow.

Rapp stood at the altar, calm as a man at prayer. His greatcoat was unbuttoned, his pistol holstered, his hands resting on the rail. He didn’t turn when Marchetti entered.

“You’re faster than I gave you credit for, Sergeant.” Rapp’s voice echoed, smooth and unhurried. “Most men would have stopped to mourn their dead.”

Marchetti raised his rifle, the barrel steady despite the trembling in his shoulders. “I don’t mourn yet. I collect debts.”

Behind him, he heard the scuff of boots—Girard, Pascal, Lefebvre limping badly—fanning out through the pews. Anya lingered near the door, a shadow against the firelight.

Rapp finally turned. His face was handsome in the way of old portraits—fine bones, a disciplined mouth. A man who had eaten at the Emperor’s table. He smiled at the sight of the squad.

“Four soldiers and a peasant girl. This is what remains of my pursuers?” He shook his head slowly. “The Emperor sends his best to die in the snow, and his worst to undo him.”

“You’re the one who’s undone.” Marchetti stepped forward. The rifle didn’t waver. “Montbrun. Tell me what that name means, and I’ll make your death quick.”

Rapp laughed—a genuine, bright sound that didn’t belong in a church.

“Montbrun,” he repeated, tasting the name. “Of course. You heard the prisoner speak it. You think it’s a man. A single traitor in Paris, perhaps. A general with ambitions.” He spread his hands. “It’s a committee, Sergeant. A name for a hundred faces. We are everywhere—Paris, Vienna, Madrid. And now Moscow, or what’s left of it.”

Marchetti’s jaw tightened. “The Emperor will hang every one of you.”

“The Emperor is dying in a frozen palace, surrounded by ghosts.” Rapp’s voice dropped, almost kind. “He’s lost an army. He’ll be lucky to lose a throne. Do you think he can stop us? Do you think anyone can?”

Girard shifted behind Marchetti. “Étienne, enough talking. Put a hole in him.”

But Rapp raised a hand, and something in his manner made Girard hesitate.

“Wait.” Rapp’s eyes locked on Marchetti. “You were a printer’s apprentice, weren’t you? Before the wars. You set type in Lyon. You know what it means to build something word by word.”

Marchetti felt a cold ripple down his spine. The secret was old, buried under fifteen years of mud and powder. No one in the army knew. Not even Lefebvre.

Rapp smiled at the recognition on his face.

“We know everything, Sergeant. We know your mother’s name. We know the debt you left behind in Lyon. We know the girl you abandoned there.” He tilted his head. “We know why you joined the army—not for glory, but to run.”

The silence in the cathedral was absolute.

“But we also know you’re a survivor,” Rapp continued, stepping down from the altar. “And survivors listen to reason. I’m prepared to offer you something the Emperor never will. A future.”

He reached into his coat. Lefebvre tensed, raising his musket, but Rapp withdrew not a weapon—a leather pouch. He tossed it to Marchetti’s feet. It landed with a heavy, clinking sound.

“Forty thousand francs in gold,” Rapp said. “Enough to buy a farm in Belgium, a house in the Americas. Enough to start over without a past.”

Marchetti stared at the pouch. His rifle remained level.

“The girl,” Rapp said, nodding toward Anya. “She can come too. I don’t care about her. I care about your silence. You and your men walk out of this cathedral with the gold. You say nothing of what you heard. Montbrun becomes a name you never knew.”

Pascal shifted. “Sarge…”

“Shut up,” Marchetti said.

Rapp’s voice turned silkier. “Or you can kill me, and spend the rest of your life running from every shadow in Europe. I told you—I’m a committee. Cut one head, another grows. And they know your face now, Sergeant. They’ll know your men’s faces. They’ll know the girl’s.”

He took another step closer. Marchetti didn’t back up.

“You’ve fought across a continent for a man who forgets your name,” Rapp said. “I’m offering you the only thing worth fighting for. A chance to walk away.”

The gold glinted in the firelight. Marchetti could hear Lefebvre’s ragged breathing behind him, Girard’s knuckles cracking as he gripped his weapon. The cathedral smelled of incense and death.

“What about the prisoner?” Marchetti asked quietly.

Rapp frowned. “What prisoner?”

“The one you strung up at Volkov’s stockade. The one who spoke your name.”

Rapp waved a hand dismissively. “A decoy. A madman who repeated what he heard. He’s nothing.”

“He’s a man,” Marchetti said. “And he’s still chained there because of your game.”

“Games, Sergeant. Everything is a game. I’m simply offering you better odds.”

Marchetti stood still for a long moment. The rifle was growing heavy in his arms. He could feel the weight of the gold at his feet, tugging at him like a current.

He thought of Lyon. The presses. The girl with dark hair who’d promised to wait. He thought of the frozen road, the boys who’d died in the snow for a name that was already crumbling.

He thought of Rapide. Of what Napoleon had cost him.

Rapp’s smile widened, sensing victory.

“Take the gold, Sergeant. Walk away.”

Marchetti shot him in the chest.

The crack echoed off the vaulted ceiling like a thunderclap. Rapp staggered backward, a look of genuine surprise on his face—not pain, not rage. Surprise. He glanced down at the spreading dark stain on his white coat, then up at Marchetti.

“You… understand nothing,” Rapp whispered.

Marchetti crossed the distance in three strides. He pressed the rifle muzzle against Rapp’s forehead, forcing the man’s head back against the altar rail.

“I understand one thing,” Marchetti said. “I’m not running anymore.”

He pulled the trigger.

Rapp’s body pitched backward, sliding down the altar steps and crumpling in a heap of wool and blood. The sound of it—soft, final—settled over the cathedral like snowfall.

Marchetti stood over him, breathing hard. The gold pouch lay untouched at his feet. Slowly, he bent and picked it up. It was heavier than he expected.

Girard moved to the body, kicked it once, then stooped to search Rapp’s coat. He pulled out a folded dispatch, sealed with black wax.

“What is it?” Lefebvre asked, limping closer.

Girard broke the seal and scanned the page. His face went pale.

“It’s a list,” he said. “Names. Officers in Paris who answer to Montbrun.”

Marchetti didn’t look at it. He was still staring at Rapp’s face—the fine bones, the disciplined mouth. Even in death, the man looked certain.

“We deliver it to the Prussian,” Marchetti said. “Let them sort out the heads.”

He turned and walked out of the cathedral, the gold still in his hand. He didn’t throw it away. He wasn’t a fool. But he would decide what it was worth later.

Behind him, Lefebvre leaned heavily on Pascal’s shoulder, and the squad followed their sergeant into the burning dawn.