Page 10 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

“If I appear unable to manage one nun who is my guest, the trip is over before it begins.”

“Mm. Good point.” Her mouth curves. “The sooner we get the job done, the sooner we can fuck.”

“What?”

Mercy doesn’t answer. She’s already walking toward the exit, somehow making a habit look indecent with her swaying hips.

I collect both of our bags and follow her, my lips curving.

I am in trouble.

This woman just told me she intends to have sex with me, and I am smiling about it. Even when she slows, waits for me to catch up, and links her arm with mine, I am still smiling. It holds all the way to the taxi rank, where I stop short at the sight of my name on a sign held by a man in a dark suit and the nun in blue beside him, her seething stare fixed on Mercy.

More precisely, at how Mercy holds my arm.

At how I’m smiling.

Four

Cisco

Mercy eases her bag from my hand as if she can undo the damage, but it’s too late.

“Welcome back to Rome, Don Angelotti,” the nun says in Italian. “We hope you had a pleasant flight.”

She doesn’t so much as glance at Mercy, and something rabid coils low in my gut.

“I did not realize a car had been sent for us,” I say.

“Two cars.” Her tone is clipped and cool. “You will go with Signor Bellandi. The American will come with me.”

I go still. Behind us, two large men in suits have appeared as if they had been standing there the entire time, simply waiting for me to notice them.

My grip tightens on the handle of Mercy’s bag, but I’m too late. One of the suited men is already taking it.

“Shall we?” The nun gestures down the path toward the parking lot and turns without waiting for an answer.

I don’t move. “Mercy.”

She looks at me.

“Are you okay with this?” I ask in English.

“It’s fine,” she says lightly. “It’s nice that they offered to pick us up, don’t you think?”

The brightness in her voice does not match the look in her eyes.

It says, Keep the masks on, do as they ask, we will speak later.

I hold her gaze a moment longer, then incline my head and allow myself to be herded away from her. But the greater the distance, the heavier the stone sinks in my stomach. By the time I’m ushered into the back of the black car, it feels like I’ve swallowed it whole. The door shuts. The man beside me says nothing. Neither does the driver.

And then we are off.

Rome moves past the window in brief flashes of ocher walls, traffic, and laundry strung between old buildings. I barely notice. My pulse is too loud. My hand is already tightening around the beads of my rosary inside my pocket, thumb catching against the crucifix.

Mea culpa.

We skirt the outer Vatican walls, the crowds lining up to visit, and pass through a side gate after a brief exchange with security. The guard peeks in at me, then away again, as if he has been told not to stare too long.