He fills the doorway, bullies the light out of the room. “Prepotente,” people call him: high-handed, overbearing, bullying. A man the size of two men, with the ego of three. I rise from my chair. A cardinal always presents himself to inferiors for a bow or a kiss of his ring. I don’t want to start this conversation groveling, but it would be worse to ignore protocol. Yet Boia doesn’t bother. He walks straight to the table, lowers a stack of papers and a tape recorder, and says, “The exhibit begins in twelve hours. If your brother wants my help, the window is closing.” “Eminence, I won’t help you unless I can see him first.” Boia rakes a hand through the air, waving my words away. “My offer is this. Give me what I want, and I protect your brother from prosecution. Anything less, and I see to it that he’s dismissed from the priesthood.” I don’t know what to say.
