I glance down at him, irritated to note he’s armed. His reputation tells me that it’s a dagger. Talk of Corelli and his knife skills go hand in hand in the city, but that he’s brought a weapon to church?
I’m even more disgusted.
And things aren’t exactly improved when, after settling in the box, for some reason, I’m taken right back to goddamn Oran.
For a second, the tiny walls, the cramped space, and the pressure of my injured back against the chair, is like being thrown in time to another day, another age.
I can scent blood in the air, mine, and I can feel the same cold sweat that would cover my brow whenever I’d been beaten. It didn’t matter how hot it was, I always felt cold. The stench, the screams, the click of guns being assembled—nightmare. A true bad dream.
Two things get me through it, stop me from having a panic attack.
One, the faint lemon and beeswax scent of the polish the cleaners use.
Two, the scraping of the door after me. The way Corelli’s feet shuffle into the confessional, and the chair creaking under his weight.
The overwhelming smell of pine-scented aftershave comes next, and each action is a prompt, a reminder that I’m not in Oran.
This isn’t Algeria.
I’m no longer helpless.
I could act.
Fuck that, I can act.
Shivers run down my spine, not helped by the fact I’m bleeding again. I’m always weaker after I’ve taken the lash, but after last night? I guess it makes sense that I’m feeling it more than usual.
Normally, I just sleep. Last night, I didn’t do enough of that.
Not that I’m about to complain, but still, it explains why I’m shaky. Purging my sins to her, and dealing with the emotional volcano that erupted probably didn’t help much either.
I run my finger over my upper lip, hating that there’s sweat beading there.
The hatred for this booth, this act, this man, and this life overwhelms me. It’s such a stark contrast to how free I felt earlier this morning when I was flying in Andrea’s arms...
God, is she heaven sent?
Maybe she’s the only slice of paradise I’ll ever feel in my miserable life, and the desire to act, to make a change, bombards me.
This will be the last confession I ever take.
I knew that was coming. I’m no hypocrite. I’ve broken my vows, and I have to resign my post, but I was intending on sticking around, letting the new priest come, take over the parish, show him the ropes.
There’ll be none of that now.
I want out.
I need out.
And I want Andrea.
At my side.
Glued to me.
The crazy, out-there, life-changing decision made after barely twenty-four hours of knowing her?
Insane.
But maybe she infected me with her kind of nuts, because I can deal with that.
Can deal with it so long as she’s there.
What I can’t deal with?
This man.
This life.
This world.
“Father,” Corelli greets, when I say shit to him. “The roof looks like it might need patching up.”
“It doesn’t,” I tell him abruptly, well aware of his game. “The food bank needs filling though.”
Silence falls, and I know he’s still surprised about my lack of ass-kissing. There’ll be none of that from me.
“I’ll make sure the shelves are filled then. Nice and tight.”
I hum. “That donation will be appreciated. You may begin your confession.”
He clears his throat. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been fifty weeks since my last confession.”
A regular priest might chide him for that. But, as I’d ascertained last night, I’m not a regular priest.
Andrea couldn’t have rammed that truth home to me more.
I don’t say a word, just let him carry on digging his own grave as he reveals just under a year’s worth of sins in a handful of minutes.
“Things got a little out of hand last night,” he rumbles, and I can tell he’s getting to the real sin. He mentioned fucking around on his wife, and what sounds like some kind of art theft, but the way his voice deepens?
I know this is why he’s here.
He killed someone.
That’s the only reason these types come to church—when they’ve got blood on their hands, and it’s tainting their soul.
“They tried to break into my place.” He clears his throat again. “You know Remo’s, don’t you, Father? Over by Piazza del Popolo?”
What did he want? A review on TripAdvisor?
I grunt. “Yeah, I know it.”
“Come in tonight. I’ll make sure you eat well.”
I narrow my eyes, and not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, because that invitation might come in handy, I murmur, “Thank you, my child.”
Because I took the ‘bribe,’ I can hear him soften up, like his world has righted itself once more.
He didn’t know how to handle someone who wasn’t waiting on his every word, but now that I’ve taken that particular offer, I know he figures I’ll be open to more.
Some priests do this.
I never did.
It’s one of the reasons why I’m not popular with my flock. You’d be surprised how many people think they can still buy their way into heaven, and even more surprised by how many priests allow that perception to reign true.
Rubbing my bottom lip between my fingers, I murmur, “Continue.”
“Well, last night, there was a situation. I ended up pulling my weapon and a few people got killed. They shouldn’t have come into my territory though.” His attempt at justification has me rolling my eyes, even though he can’t see me do that. “I had to protect my territory.”
“How many died?”
“Six.” He clears his throat.
“All their blood is on your hands?”
My nostrils flare at just the thought.
“Si,” he mutters grimly. “It was a bad night.”
“Your soldiers aren’t here. Was it all you?”
Silence.
I take that as a yes.
Which, not unsurprisingly, means he gave me the cliff notes of a confession.
Anger fills me. It throbs inside me to the point it pulses in my ears.
Because I can’t stand to be near this bastard anymore, I mutter, “Four Hail Marys and two Our Fathers along with the Act of Contrition are all I ask of you today.”
“Really?”
That he sounds cheerful tells me I’ve gone too easy on him. My jaw aches from grinding down on it so hard, and I don’t breathe easily until he gets out of the booth and heads for the pews.
Something about his confession gets to me.
I’m not sure what.
But the need to escape from the booth hits me more.
I clamber out, taking a deep breath the second I can, and when I see her, it’s like the light peering through the clouds.
I take a deep breath, one that helps calm me, and her eyes soften at the sight.
She’s beautiful.
So fucking beautiful that I don’t even know what she’s doing here.
Unless...
My throat closes.
Maybe she is an angel.
I already figured that she’s heaven sent, but maybe that’s more than just a play on words.
Maybe she really, truly is.