Page 49 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

Everything stops. The engine, the Vespa, the headlight . . . my heart. Cisco didn’t even blink. He just saw something coming and jumped in front of me.

As if he couldn’t care less about getting hit.

Now he’s prowling around the tipped bike, its tires spinning, the riders scuffling off it. He’s too relaxed even to bring his fists together. He cracks his knuckles at his sides. The white square at his collar is bright in the shadows. Everything else feels darker than the encroaching night.

He watches the teenagers with the patience of a saint . . . or that of the devil about to take his dues.

Oh shit. This is the enforcer, not the priest. This is the one version of him I glimpsed in the steam room before the curse came out. It’s like he’s flipped a switch.

A warning prickle travels up my spine, and I pray it’s not the Beatific Vision picking up Cisco’s curse, deciding he’s now lost enough of his soul that he counts as being demonic.

The teenage rider pulls his helmet off, opens his mouth to shout in anger, but then freezes. The helmet slips from his fingers and rolls along the ground.

“Cristo—Francesco?” He makes a hasty sign of the cross.

Cisco grows still. “Enzo?”

“Am I dead?” the female exclaims in Italian, also making the sign of the cross. “Is this you?” She pats her chest. “It’s me, cousin Viola. Do you remember? I was maybe ten when you last visited.”

She’s about Enzo’s age, has long brown hair, and wears a flowing, expensive-looking dress. It’s not the sort that should be worn on a scooter. Enzo is also dressed in designer attire—a suit with rolled-up sleeves. He has big eyes, a crooked nose, and a gap tooth. I know because he’s grinning from ear to ear.

“Everyone said—” Enzo sputters, still white as a ghost. “They said this time, you were gone for good. After Paolo . . . nobody knew. Your parents never—and now—” He gasps. “Have you heard? Is that why you’re here?”

Viola punches Enzo on the shoulder. “Of course, that’s why he’s here. He’s the Judge. He won’t let Paolo fuck us up.”

Cisco glances at me with a flash of helplessness. It’s gone in an instant when Enzo whips his head to me, and his eyes grow wide.

“Mamma Mia,” he mutters. “Who are you?”

Cisco is quick to introduce me.

“This is Suor Mercy,” he clips. “She is a nun visiting from the American convent.”

The way Enzo’s smile drops at the word “suor” makes me want to laugh. It also hasn’t escaped my attention that Cisco’s standing there, scowling like he wants to snap the boy’s neck.

“American?” Viola asks. She’s more vigilant than her brother and surveys our scattered belongings with growing suspicion. My veil. The sword.

I smile politely and return the greeting, then quickly wrap the sword in my veil.

Cisco recovers Enzo’s lost helmet and hands it to him. “We will meet you at the osteria.”

Seventeen

Cisco

Romans bury their dead and build tourist attractions directly over the bones. Paint the plaster terracotta, hang ivy from the wrought iron, and refuse to speak about the executions that funded the architecture.

My family mastered this exact survival tactic. They fled the Naples syndicate to open an osteria near the Piazza del Popolo. The glass is immaculate. They scrub these cobblestones every morning. They plate fresh pasta, pour wine for tourists, and refuse to acknowledge the sangue amaro pulsing in their history. They demand a clean reality.

It’s summer, so the neighboring establishments are filled to the brim, their guests spilling into the courtyard with all their revelry. Jazz music floats in and out of earshot. Lights twinkle in my periphery. None of it comes from here.

I’m with Mercy, staring at the closed, painted green door of my family’s establishment, struggling to find a reason to enter.

The usual menu on the chalkboard is rubbed clear except for the words, Today: Scarpetta, scarpetta—clean your plate or shame your mother. Under that, smaller: Closed today for family.

I nearly laugh. Real family. The kind you can’t just exorcise.

Beside me, Mercy clutches her veil-wrapped sword, disheveled red hair sticking to her pale cheeks. Her robe is covered in catacomb dust and chalk, tired, and hungry because of me.