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My punishment? I couldn’t go to seminary school. Da wouldn’t support me being a priest.
“Do you know what I did to get you out of trouble? You owe me. You’re good with a gun all of a sudden? Taking a man’s life without permission, dispensing justice without fearing the repercussions of the police, God, or me? This is your calling and your penance, Lachlan, my boy. You’ll work for me. You’ll get those hands bloody for our family. And you will follow orders. My orders.”
Then he sent me off to Dunbar Valley. I was failing at Fordham anyway.
After listening to my gory confession about killing the eejits, Father Patrick is no doubt hitting the bottle in the rectory. I smile, having the entire church to myself. Sitting in the back, I enjoy the quiet after a night of blood-curdling adult male screams ringing in my ears.
I take out the antique rosary I purchased in a silent auction. Spent almost one mil for it. I have more money than I know what to do with. My brother, Kieran, is the head of our family now. With Riordan his underboss, Eoghan the consigliere, and Balor our hacker, we share profits equally. Then give cuts back to our parents, and our sister, who lives in East Hampton.
Eoghan sends allowances to my twin brothers, who live in Seattle. They’re doctors and don’t want to work in the family business. But they are still O’Rourkes and entitled to a cut of my family’s money.
I run through my prayers, fingering each bead on the rosary. The Hail Mary murmurs off my lips as I pray for my family. Particularly, my new sisters, Isabella and Priscilla. Kieran’s wife is heavily pregnant with twins, and Riordan treated us to a case of the world’s most expensive scotch, announcing his wife is pregnant as well.
After the rosary, I start my daily Irish novena of fifteen prayers directed toward my ma, who’s battling MS.
Hail and blessed be the hour and moment in which the Son of God was born of the most pure Virgin Mary, at midnight, in Bethlehem, in the piercing cold. In that hour vouchsafe, I beseech Thee, O my God, to hear my prayer and grant all my desires for Ma through the merits of Our Saviour Jesus Christ, and of His blessed Mother.
Amen.
When I finish the third prayer, I feel someone watching me. I open my eyes and reach for the gun inside my jacket, the one I promised Father Patrick I wouldn’t bring to confession.
My heart stops when I see a woman lingering outside the candle room. A whisper of a woman with blonde hair in a long braid captures my attention.
“Katya,” I mutter, uncocking my gun. I’d not spoken to her since the night of her sister’s 21stbirthday party.
Stasia disappeared a week later.
Katya’s eyes widen when our gazes lock right before she hurries out the side entrance near the altar.
Not so fast…
It was over two years ago, but like the ink indelibly etched into my skin, I’ve not been able to erase Katya Koslov from my mind, the way she danced and the sound of her sweet voice. I’ve kept her on my radar, keenly watching from the shadows. Her father makes an appearance with her here and there. Even though she walks several beats behind the ruthless pakhan, like she means nothing to him, she’s been the starandtormentor of my dreams.
Shoving the rosary into my pocket like it means nothing, I push off the pew kneeler. The dark green cushion top sighs in relief from my massive weight of over three hundred pounds.
I hike up the side aisle, and not the center one out of respect. As the stinging smell of frankincense from the candle room fades, another scent grabs me by the throat. Floral perfume lingers in the doorway where Katya watched me.
Why was she watching me?
Seeing her always unravels me. Which is why I kept my distance after she enthralled me that night. When I’m too wound up to sleep, and no amount of coming in the shower exhausts me, her face in all the photos I’ve snapped calms me.
I’ve been struggling to understand why. Although, knowing every verse of the bible, I’m a believer of not questioning the unanswerable. Like the emerald beads in my pocket, Katya’s become a source of serenity for me.
A pleasure with absolutely no guilt, unlike my other activities, murdering and beating people to a pulp. I had no choice to be who and what I am. My humor is a defense mechanism to fight the darkness in my soul. Choice… When was the last time my decisions were my own, really my own? I kill for my family. I fuck for my body. What have I done for my soul?
I halt in the small vestibule, breathing in her scent, realizing I can’t remember the last time I got laid. Damn, it wasbeforethat night of Stasia’s party. Katya has infected my brain to the point I haven’t even wanted to fuck someone else.
Wait, do Iwanther? That way? The way I roughly fuck women who are brave enough to invite me into their beds?
Hell, no.
I have to get out of here before I need extra time praying tonight for jerking off in a church.
The strong July sun blinds me when I push the door open. The rays seep into my body even more ferociously thanks to my black jacket.
I cover my eyes, but nothing can keep my brain from finding Katya. Like a heat-seeking missile, my gaze tracks her down.
She sits on a bench at the entrance to the modest cemetery beyond the grounds of St. Agatha’s. I’m thrust back to the night, seeing her alone in the gazebo. The memory of her voice, and how she looked at me, washes over me like a drowning wave.
