Section I
The water was deep green as the Leviathan’s Kiss pulled into the Bay of Naples. Midmorning sun cut diamonds into the waves, and the faint scent of brine and rosemary drifted from the hills.
Captain John Overdeck stood at the prow, arms folded across his crisp linen shirt, watching the ancient city rise like a decadent mirage out of the sea. He licked his bottom lip slightly, as if savoring the city's arrival like an amuse-bouche. His sunglasses were vintage, his loafers scuffed from Monaco, and the gold chain at his throat shimmered like a secret.
Behind him, the ship creaked gently—an old vessel rebuilt, repainted, and reborn in scandal. Her polished wood gleamed in the light. Below deck, the crew stirred.
Naples. First port of the new lead. First temptation.
The Codex Leviathan had always been more myth than artifact. A relic of a forgotten order, said to be bound in fishskin and soaked in ink made from the crushed bones of saints. It wasn’t supposed to exist, and yet a single page—just one—had surfaced. Not in a museum. Not in an archive.
But in the hands of a private gastronomic society known only as La Fauce.
The page had gone to auction quietly, without fanfare. Sold to a bidder known only by a ring: a bronze seal with a mouth open wide, biting down.
John didn’t believe in coincidences. He believed in appetites. And Naples was full of them.
Below deck, Renée Underdeck sat cross-legged in the dark, her fingers dancing over the smooth surface of her tablet. The guest list to La Fauce’s private feast wasn’t online—but the shipping manifests of the catering company were. She cracked the encrypted folder in under three minutes.
She didn’t smile. She rarely did. The smell of engine oil, rosemary, and espresso seeped through the walls. Naples.
From the engine room, Gus yelled, “What’s that smell?! Is that the city?!”
“It’s garlic and capitalism,” Renée called back, not looking up.
Sebastian Starboard’s voice followed, flat and dry: “And gunpowder. They use it in fireworks. Or munitions. Or both.”
Renée sighed. “He’s in one of his moods again.”
Back above, John tapped the wheel and watched the harbor unfold. Ancient stone. New sin. The port glistened with yachts and old fishing boats, the chaotic traffic of luxury and necessity.
A city older than shame.
“Renée,” he said into the radio, “tell me you’ve found our way in.”
“Working on it. The feast is real. Private, invitation-only. Location changes every time. But this one’s underground.”
“Of course it is,” he murmured. “Beneath what?”
“A chapel.”
He smiled. “Gluttony beneath the saints. How tasteful.”
Section II – The Port, the Plan, and the Past
By noon, the Leviathan’s Kiss was moored in a private slip at Porto di Mergellina. A modest bribe to the harbormaster had bought them discretion, plus complimentary limoncello.
Overdeck disembarked first. Naples was heat on stone, laughter echoing off alleys, and the rustle of silk skirts and leather shoes. There was a pulse to the place—too much history stuffed into too small a frame, bursting at the seams.
He adjusted his sunglasses and turned to watch his crew filter onto the dock, eyes lingering a beat too long on Gus’s broad chest and Sebastian’s stormy gaze.
Gus stepped out wearing his "undercover" look: an open linen shirt that did nothing to hide his torso and sunglasses borrowed from a gas station display. He immediately pointed at a gelato stand.
“We’re not here for dessert,” Sebastian growled behind him, voice like gravel—and John didn’t miss the way it thrilled him a little.
Gus nodded solemnly. “Right. After the mission.”
Renée came last, wheeling a small black case behind her. Black-on-black sunglasses. A matte espresso-colored jumpsuit. Hair braided tight and sharp. She moved like a shadow pretending to be human.
John watched her approach, his gaze slow and deliberate. “Do I want to know what’s in the case?” he asked, voice dropping half an octave like a promise left hanging.
“You don’t,” she said flatly.
“Excellent.”
The plan came together over espresso and still-warm sfogliatelle at a table tucked behind a butcher’s stall. The map Renée pulled up showed a subterranean network of tunnels beneath San Lorenzo Maggiore—a basilica as old as the bones it stood on.
“La Fauce’s banquet is scheduled for tonight,” she said, drawing a line through the overlay. “They’ve converted the catacombs beneath the basilica into a… tasting arena. Entrance is invitation only, through the front—marked by a violet candle in the narthex.”
“Like a confessional,” John mused.
Renée continued. “Security is minimal. They rely on secrecy, not force. But the real danger isn’t guns. It’s what they serve.”
“Define ‘danger,’” Sebastian muttered, arms folded.
Renée pulled up a list: fugu heart sashimi, endangered bat consommé, human breast milk panna cotta.
John whistled. “Gastronomic blasphemy.”
“They believe indulgence reveals the divine,” she said. “The more forbidden, the more sacred.”
John smiled darkly. “Then we’re on holy ground.”
Gus was assigned to the kitchens—posing as a body model for a traditional “naked sushi” display. A role he seemed to accept with alarming eagerness.
“I’m good at staying still,” he said, mouth full of pastry.
“God help us,” Sebastian muttered, polishing his knife in a straight, precise motion.
“Renée, you’re our sommelier,” John continued. “You’ll move through the guests. Plant this—” He held up a sleek metallic disk. “It’ll scan the page and upload it to our cloud before anyone knows we touched it.”
Renée took it with a nod, slipping it into her bra without missing a beat.
“Sebastian,” John turned. “You stay dockside. Overwatch. If anything goes wrong, I want you on extraction.”
Sebastian didn’t argue. He never did. But his eyes flicked briefly to Renée, then away.
They had a past, John knew. Something in Berlin. Or Bangkok. He never pressed.
And John himself?
He’d do what he always did: walk through the front door with a smirk, a forged invitation, and no pants on by the end of the evening.
By nightfall, the bells of Naples rang in six long tones. The crew was in motion.
The basilica loomed ahead, flanked by limestone pillars and old secrets. A violet candle flickered at the base of the narthex, unattended.
John adjusted his jacket, slicked back his curls, and looked at his crew.
“This is just a party,” he said. “With very sharp knives.”
Gus beamed.
Renée rolled her eyes.
Sebastian murmured, “Don’t die,” before vanishing back into shadow.
John offered his arm to Renée, though his eyes flicked playfully to a passing server—a lean man in tight trousers—his smile hinting he could offer that arm elsewhere too.
“Shall we sin, chérie?” John asked, offering his arm with a practiced smile that had opened more doors—and more beds—than any skeleton key.
She took it.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Section III – The Feast of La Fauce
The basilica’s great doors creaked inward as they stepped across the threshold...
Incense hung thick in the air, but not the holy kind—something heavier, almost metallic...
John followed the scent toward the narthex, where a young man in a black waistcoat awaited them with a gilded tray.
Two masks rested on velvet: one of bone-white porcelain... the other, glistening black with a split tongue carved from obsidian.
“Choose your appetite,” the man said.
John reached for the white mask. Renée took the black. No one said a word.
They were led down a narrow spiral staircase... Somewhere far below, the echo of string instruments floated upward...
They emerged into a crypt transformed. Vaulted ceilings draped in velvet... chaos of indulgence.
John’s eyes caught the spread: raw quail eggs... spinal marrow, served with tiny eyedroppers of absinthe.
And in the center of it all: a raised platform where one long scroll lay unfurled in a glass case.
Renée slipped into character... John knew she’d find her mark. She always did.
Gus... was already shirtless, reclining on a serving board beneath sushi-grade cuts and edible orchids.
John winked... Then gave Gus a slow, appreciative once-over that made the poor man blush beneath the orchids.
A man in a leather half-mask approached... “You’re not on the guest list.”
John sipped without hesitation... “I rarely am. Yet I always seem to be where the pleasure is.”
“Careful,” he said. “This place devours the unprepared.”
“Then I hope it starts with me,” John replied...
A gong sounded—soft, resonant.
A woman in a crimson robe ascended the dais... “Tonight, we honor the divine right of hunger...”
Renée... a tiny hidden scanner blinked green. The page was being copied.
But—“That’s last year’s insignia.”
Renée didn’t flinch... drove the corkscrew into his thigh.
“I pair well with violence.”
Upload complete. But now? Escape.
John was already moving... every step a performance of seduction and escape.
“Darling! There you are—our table’s being devoured!”
Renée didn’t hesitate. “We’re burned.”
The crimson-robed woman blocked their path. “Leaving so soon?”
“I already feasted,” John murmured...
Renée... lit a match... kicked it into a spill. Flames roared up the wall.
Panic bloomed. Screams. Crashes.
John smashed the glass, yanked the scroll, and stuffed it into his waistband.
“Of course you’d steal the page,” said the British man.
“Of course I would,” John replied. “But you can keep the champagne.”
He dived through the flaming drapes.
Outside, Sebastian was revving the Zodiac.
Renée emerged first... then John, shirt singed, scroll in his teeth.
“Matteo sends his love,” he panted.
“You’re an idiot,” said Sebastian.
“But an effective one.”
Renée: “Clean yourself up before Gus gets back.”
Gus: “Already here!” Still shirtless, still covered in sushi rice.
“Did you get the page?”
John held it aloft.
“Why does it smell like truffle oil?”
Renée didn’t answer. Sebastian muttered, “I hate Italy.”