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“I think God would forgive you if you ate breakfast.” I pour her a mug of coffee.
She takes it, adds a little sugar and a generous amount of cream. “Thank you,” she says, taking a sip.
I reach for the toast and butter a slice. “Are you seriously not going to eat for religious reasons?”
She smiles. “No. I never eat breakfast first thing. Just coffee.”
The toast crunches when I bite into it. “Suit yourself.” A text comes through. I shift my attention back to my phone but feel her watching me.
“Both properties are secured.”
I reply with a thanks, finish my toast, and turn to her. “Ready?”
She takes another sip of coffee, then nods and stands.
Vincent is already waiting with the car. A few minutes later, we’re on our way to her apartment.
“Do you really go to mass every Sunday?”
“Yes. Why is that so strange to you?”
“Well, you’re…the mafia.”
“I thought you’d have had a strong religious upbringing.”
She shakes her head. “Nan, the woman who raised us, would take Alessandro and me to church now and again, but my dad never went. Said it was pointless. Said if there was a God, what happened wouldn’t have happened.”
“What do you think?”
She startles at my question. I guess she’s surprised I’m asking it. But when she answers, it’s very matter-of-factly. “I think he’s right.”
I don’t really like her answer. No, not so much her answer, but more how she answered. But I drop it when we pull up to her apartment a few minutes later.
“I don’t have my keys,” she says, as if just remembering we didn’t stop to pick up her bag after the incident at the club.
I take out mine. “I have mine.”
“Why do you have keys to my apartment?”
“Aren’t you glad I do?” I answer and open the front door, gesture for her to enter.
She mutters something under her breath and heads up. I follow her up the six flights of stairs and unlock her door.
“You’ll give those back when this is finished?” I know she wants it to sound like a statement of fact, but it comes out more a question.
I give her a smile and reach for my phone. “Hurry up. I don’t like being late.”
When she emerges fifteen minutes later, she’s wearing a pretty pink sleeveless dress and matching pumps. She drops a lipstick into the clutch she’s holding, and her hair is in its usual, perfect bun.
“You look good,” I say. It’s awkward.
“Thanks.” She clears her throat.
“Let’s go.”
The chapel I go to is closer to the Lincoln property, but I make the trip every Sunday. My mom used to bring us here when we were little, and although there are a hundred churches in the city, this is the one I want to be at.
We arrive at the small stone structure forty-five minutes later. It’s old and beautiful and the scent of incense already permeates the air as we near the arched wooden door. A nun walks in ahead of us, looking over her shoulder to pass the door to us. She gives a nod of acknowledgement but not quite a smile. I guess she wonders, too, why I bother. I’m hell bound. There is no god willing to forgive the likes of me.
But when we step inside, the familiar notes of the organ soothe me, make me forget the nun. I don’t care what she thinks. What anyone thinks. I am who I am, and if they don’t like it, they can go fuck themselves. Besides, if it weren’t for my generosity, this church wouldn’t still be standing.
I dip my fingers in holy water and make the sign of the cross, the music already carrying me back in time. The sensation is almost tangible.
Emilia follows my lead with the holy water, surprising me. Only about half of the pews are occupied. I guide Emilia to one near the back. Father Germain, the ancient priest, is at the pulpit. I remember him from when I was little.
The mass is said in Italian, which I know surprises Emilia, but she is silent. I watch her watching the priest, listening intently. I wonder if she can follow or if this is meaningful for her at all.
It’s not until much later, when she walks down the aisle and toward the altar for communion, surprising me again, that the church door opens. It isn’t until then that the feeling of well-being dissipates and is replaced by something cold.
I hear Vincent say something, hear a woman reply. Then I hear him.
I turn to the entrance, and I know Emilia is coming back down the aisle without having to see her for myself. I know because my father’s eyes are tracking her. They take in every inch of her. They fucking devour her. His lecherous gaze makes my hands fist. I feel how my face hardens, how my jaw sets. Janet’s looking at me, her expression one of trepidation, of anxious anticipation. He made her bring him. I know it instantly.
