Ancient Inheritance. Rita Vetere

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      Giorgio worked quickly, but meticulously, in his frescoed office on the top floor of the centuries-old bank, going over last-minute paperwork from one of the many stacks of documents covering his elaborate mahogany desk.

      Disgruntled, he pulled the next pile towards him. The deal was an important one, and the Spanish clients were scheduled to sign up at commencement of business next week. Still, if his assistant had not come down with the flu, the tedious task of proofing the voluminous documents would have fallen to her, and he would be at home now preparing to enjoy a fine seafood dinner on this Good Friday holiday.

      He alone occupied the ancient building and the silence of the place, usually such a hub of activity, unnerved him. The vaulted ceiling and stone walls amplified even the slightest sound. The din of traffic from the street below reminded him there were other places he’d rather be. Shaking off the solitary feeling that had come over him, he returned his attention to the documents.

      A rush of air from the open window behind him sent papers fluttering about in disarray. Annoyed, he turned around just in time to see a dark blur streak toward him, a cloud of black particles spinning and churning in the moving air. It was the last thing he saw. He slammed back into his leather chair once, and it was over.

      Sammael was in. In spirit form, he was quick as lightning, as the banker had just learned in a fatal lesson. The entry had been straightforward, without physical damage to his host as sometimes happened. He sat in the chair for a moment, acquainting himself with his new body, bringing it under control, while he looked around the office through the banker’s eyes.

      He was more or less trapped in the physical plane now, bound by corporeal limitations for as long as he remained in the body, but he had business to conduct on earth and needed to remain inconspicuous. Besides, he would not have to suffer such restrictions for much longer. Even the powers of Lucifer himself would be no match for his own once he got his hands on what he had come for.

      Moving to the oversized gilt-framed mirror on the opposite wall, he fingered the lapel of the fine Italian suit, studying his reflection. The banker kept himself fit. He admired his new tall, brawny build. Not bad. He combed his fingers through the dark, neatly trimmed hair to give it a less formal look. Faded blue eyes stared back at him—a pleasant surprise, contrasting as they did with the Mediterranean complexion. Sammael thought the overall look was sensuous, mysterious. Just his style. Not bad at all.

      Sammael spent the next few minutes rummaging through the man’s desk and cabinets. He found a security box containing a passport, which he pocketed, and a copy of a Last Will and Testament, which he unceremoniously tossed aside, chuckling. In the inside pocket of his suit jacket, he located a kid-skin wallet containing credit cards and a wad of cash. Grabbing the man’s cellphone from the desk, Sammael strode briskly out of the office and exited the building.

       Chapter 1

       New York City – Present Day