Page 8 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

“You wonder?” I keep my voice quiet and measured, the way I do when I want a man to see that his next words must be chosen carefully.

To his credit, he doesn’t flinch. Just cocks his head.

“I wonder about lots of things. Like, why my teammate, my brother, was sent here on a secret fucking mission separate from ours. I wonder if he’s been gathering confessions only to weaponize them.” He steps into my personal space. “But most of all, I wonder whose side he’s really on.”

“Same side as always.”

“The Vatican’s.”

“God’s,” I correct, exasperated, and point at the night sky. “Dio.”

He scoffs. “Right. ‘Cause God is the one making the decisions here.”

“We are not here to judge,” I remind him. I left that life behind me long ago. “Our job has always been to come in, assess, and if necessary, dismantle.” I pause. “To destroy evil, wherever it hides.”

That last bit no longer feels black-and-white. While parts of this organization are bad, others are good. Unfortunately, more is in the grey, and the problem with that is like mist at the foot of a hill, hiding a lake. When there is no clarity, one must tread carefully.

“Things are different now, Cisco. You’ve read the prophecy.”

“Ezekiel,” I snap, gesturing to my Roman collar. “When it’s on, I am Father Angelotti.”

“Sorry. My bad.” He clears his throat and salutes. “Father.”

“Bene.” Good.

“But why fight it?”

“Fight what?”

“The prophecy?” He plucks his T-shirt. “We’re all here telling you to go for it, no judgment, get your jollies⁠—”

“Basta!” Enough. “I am a priest. I am not one of the Saints who will fuck the Sinners.”

“Whoa.” He shows his palms. “No need for the language.”

I scrub my hand down my face.

Does he think I do not wish for a different life, that the collar is not a noose I tighten every morning? I am not simply a man. I am a convicted monster walking a razor’s edge.

From the moment we joined the Team Saint ranks, we had one directive: Destroy evil. That’s it. No room for distractions. No mercy for the wicked, not even when the wicked looks back at you from the mirror every morning. There is no room for error or temptation. Not for me. I must keep my head down, my vows ironclad, my hands fucking clean.

And very, very far away from a certain red-headed Sinner who seems to like pushing my buttons.

Zeke blinks at me like a wounded puppy. Perhaps my tone was a little harsh.

“I am not one of the chosen Saints,” I insist, voice softened. “Because if I were, then I would no longer be an exorcist. We”—I gesture between us—“would no longer be a team.” He tries to interrupt, but I hold up my finger. “And most importantly, if I were not a priest, I would not have friends in Rome. I would not be able to keep my other, closer friends safe. Capito?”

I let that sink in for a moment.

The only reason I have been able to avoid punishment for Wesley’s treasonous act is my elevated position. If I were to lose my clerical state, I would lose that advantage … among other things.

“Okay.” His eyes search mine. “Forget about falling in love with a Sinner. What about the dismantling part of our mission? The nuns here are innocent, faithful, and devout. Even if they’re not exactly sanctioned, they need this sanctuary. You saw what Thea and Wes … what Leila and I … you saw what we did, how she healed me, how we gave a demon prince a soul. So I’ll ask again. Whose side?”

A muscle in my jaw jumps.

“The men in Rome are not here,” I grind out. “They don’t see what I see. They don’t … understand … the board as it is now.”

“That’s not an answer.”