Page 66 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

I stare blankly at her. “He has offended my father in his own house.”

“He is a big-head.” Her eyes dart between her husband and me. “A little-cretin-man who lets the grape speak where the brain should be.”

“Rosa!” Vince bemoans his wife.

“You apologize, Vincenzo.” She waggles her finger at him. “Beg for forgiveness right now.”

Chaos ignites. Vince shouts about warrior angels. Marco demands order and logic, but I see the glimmer of confusion and betrayal in his eyes. Everyone seated at this table has always held their view about the curse. Why the change now? Why, when only hours ago I sent home two who dared to question the same thing?

They bicker over power and penance, but none of them gives me the truth. It all sounds like buzzing. Noise.

Silence them. Cut your losses and be done with them. Maybe the noise will stop.

I rub my temples with my fingers, groaning. The whispering is back.

Nonna slams her walking cane against the terracotta tiles. The sharp crack silences the warring men. She pulls her shawl tight around her frail shoulders and then casts her milky eyes on me.

“You ask for origins, Francesco, but you ignore the math,” she rasps. “The bitter blood demands a toll. Look at the history. The true curse never manifests alone. Always two. Two children born to the line.”

My lungs stop working. “What do you mean?”

“It requires absolute balance,” Nonna continues, pointing a crooked finger at my chest. “A devil born to do the violent work. An angel born to pay the spiritual debt. A living sacrifice to keep the beast from devouring the family entirely.”

“Stupid woman.” Nonno scowls at his wife. “That is an old wives’ tale. There is only one. What is the point of two?”

The sound of their bickering fades as I retreat into my thoughts. What if she’s right?

The wave crashes. Maria’s small hand is a white bone in mine. Black water fills her terrified eyes. My fingers grab nothing but the smooth line of the rosary around her neck.

I drove my sister into the water. My jealousy killed the angel. I shattered the bargain.

Mercy’s hand slips under the table, her warm fingers resting flat against my rigid thigh. She gives me a gentle pat, then changes the subject.

“Have you always called it the Bitter Blood?” she asks everyone at the table.

“It is a phrase Elena prefers.” Marco swirls the dregs of his wine. “A colloquialism.”

Nonno waves a dismissive, liver-spotted hand. “Yes, yes. I also remember a cousin . . . what was her name? Bah, it doesn’t matter.”

“Caterina,” Nonna replies.

“She was Norwegian. Or was it Swedish? Or wait, maybe⁠—”

“She was from Sicily, you old fool.”

Nonno huffs, offended. “What did she call it again? The sickness?”

“The mark,” Nonna replies.

“No, that wasn’t it.”

The mark.

In my mind, I see the glass-framed photograph in my bedroom upstairs. Sunburned skin. Sandcastles. Maria laughing. A dark, insect-like mark stamped onto her upper thigh.

My fingers trace the hard edge of my Roman collar, and I ask, “Have any women in our bloodline ever carried the curse?”

Marco goes deathly still. Silverware clinks against porcelain, then halts entirely. Nervous, darting glances bounce between the remaining aunts and uncles.