Page 67 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

She teased me in the reliquary about her conquests.

What, like it’s hard?

Her pain is a tangible thing in the air, buzzing between us, drawing me in like a fly to honey. Slowly, one foot in front of another, I quietly cross to the bed and sit beside her.

“What happened to him?” I ask, even though I know.

Her muscles contract. She inhales sharply, and then the armor is back on. “This isn’t my confession, Padre. It’s yours.” Sharp eyes dart down to the rosary in my clenched fist. “Start talking if you want me to trust you.”

Twenty-Three

Cisco

Abitter laugh escapes my lips. She talks about trust, but knowing all there is to know will have the opposite effect. “I tell you this, and you will fear me.”

“I’m going to be real here, Padre.”

“Stop calling me that,” I growl. “Father is okay. I am in your country. This is fine.”

The only sign that she hears my request is a raising of her brows. “Jasmine is my sister. Not in blood, but our bonds as a Sinner are stronger. Every soul within these abbey walls is under my protection. There’s nothing I won’t do to keep them safe, and I sense the same is true for you and your team.”

I nod.

“So, for me to believe my enemy over my sister, I must understand why.”

“Then you may as well tie a noose around my neck.”

She winces, and I think about the story of the priest in the belfry. An apology is on my lips when she says, “You must think I’m stupid.”

“What?”

“I might look like a bimbo, but I’m not stupid.”

“I have never thought this. Not once.”

“Then have faith in me.” A plea enters her eyes. “Have faith that I can hear your story and judge whether to trust you on my own accord.” She glances at the closed door and points. “It’s when others tell your story for you that shit gets messed up.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Sì.” I frown. Feel sick. But nod. “How much do you know about my past?”

“You were born in Naples, grew up between there and Rome. Joined the Angelotti family business in your late teens after your sister died. You were a killer. An enforcer, they tell me.” I nod, so she continues. “But you got caught and went to prison in your early twenties. A decade later, the Vatican secured your early release and sent you to the seminary. You dicked around with your own parish and then hunted demons with your team for another few years. And now here you are.”

Wow. Okay. “That’s it?”

“Give or take a little.”

“You don’t know about how I … about my…” Cristo, it’s hard to admit.

“About your evil-sensing gift?”

“It is no gift,” I growl. “But a curse.”

She stills. “I’m listening.”

Every ounce of me wants to keep this a secret, to shove it down and pretend it doesn’t exist. The rosary stings my palms, and I force myself to relax my fist. I stare at the swinging, click-clacking beads, at my scarred and tattooed hands, and remind myself—Maria is dead. Mercy is not.