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I will either be dead or captured.
“Have you ever considered leaving this town, Father Luciano?”
His discomfort drifts to my half of the confessional. People do not leave Devils Ridge because people do not leave the mafia.
Father Luciano is not a Made Man, but in this town, everyone is, at most, one degree away.
“No,” he finally relents, and I hear it.
The lie.
If priests can lie, where is the sanctity of confession?
“If you were to leave this town, Father, how would you do it?” A provocative question, but most would argue I am a provocative person.
“I would not leave Devils Ridge.”
“Humor me.” I dip my voice the way I know men like. “Please.”
At his silence, I continue, voice smooth like silky sex hitting all the right spots. “I’m your child, Father. Your flock.”
My lips part as I lean closer to the grating.
I know he can see them as I whisper like I am begging for his cock, “Lead me.”
He bristles again. “The airport—”
“Will leave a trace.”
“The church ships supplies through a discreet entrance on Echo Street. I would use it to slip into the cargo hold of an outbound plane.”
It’s a long shot, but a better chance of escape than I had ten seconds ago.
“Thank you.”
Not bothering to wait for my penance, I stand and gather the little belongings I own. A passport and wallet with a faded picture of me and my sister.
Father Luciano meets me outside the confessional, his eyes not distracted by my pretty packaging for once. “You cannot leave this town, my child.”
“You just showed me how, Father.” My lips curve into a smile. “You showed me, step by step, and I never would have known about the church’s access to the airport had you not shown me the way.” I toy with the top edges of my shirt until a flash of cleavage blinds him. Then, I fix his collar until he sucks in a breath at the touch of my fingers against his pulse. “A way only you and your brethren know of.”
When I leave the church, it’s to the sound of silence. I hop into my dinky car and take off with the feel of my Devil patting me on the back.
Well done, my Devil praises.
Self-preservation, I protest.
And because bad requires the balance of good, I stop for the man waving on the side of the road. His tire is flat, its bottom the shape of a pancake.
I recognize him as I step out of the car Angelo bought me and our eyes connect.
I may fear Angelo De Luca, but I know this man deserves my fear more. Except I don’t feel fear.
“Miss Ricci,” he drawls in that Yankee accent, not offering his name. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard wonderful things.”
I pat my belly on instinct. The movement betrays too much. His eyes dip down.
He knows.
