Broken

13. Savio

CHAPTER 13

Savio

Drops of Jupiter (Tell Me) - Train

“ N ow, my children, don’t forget about the food bank. We’re running low on stock, so any donations will be most appreciated.” As expected, I lose their interest, but I persevere, gaze drifting from pew to pew. “We’re helping a side of our community which is suffering greatly now thanks to the drop in tourism?—”

That’s when I see her sitting in the back corner.

She didn’t come for communion because she wasn’t waiting in line for the sacrament.

I’m not sure when she arrived.

The church is small in size, but the cavernous nave is dark, and the altar is bright thanks to its south-facing position.

If I’m in a pool of light, I can’t see the back of the church without difficulty.

So, she’d either watched the service or sneaked in.

And yes, I use that word on purpose.

Sneaked .

She doesn’t belong here.

Every instinct in my body screams at me that she doesn’t as her presence alone is a temptation I can’t face.

She’s. The. Woman.

Andrea Jura.

The latest the gossip rags had on her was that she was still being treated. But that’s a lie for here she is.

In. My. Church.

And she’s watching me.

Looking at me with those eyes that struck my soul over a year ago through a TV screen.

I freeze as they drift over me. The wash of heat her path leaves behind has my hands tightening around the lectern to the point where the edges dig in, the metal sharp enough to sting.

The arc of lightning striking between us, the self-inflicted pain, has my body reacting shamefully.

I want to ignore her, want to completely cut her off, but I can’t.

I’ve sinned many times in my life, but the one vow I haven’t broken, one that means something to me, is that of rejecting the sins of the flesh.

But she represents so much more.

Arousal? Lust?

Hatred?

Fear?

Repugnance?

Curiosity?

No, fascination.

She doesn’t look like she did back on the TV. Her hair is short, and considering she had brain surgery, I guess that fits. And while it remains that beautiful shade of sandy blonde, it’s somehow darker thanks to the new cut.

A part of me wants to scrub my hand over her head, to feel the curls against my palm, but another part of me wants to avoid her like she has the plague.

A slow smile curves her lips—it’s jarring. Enough that it breaks the connection between us, even as my brain fixates on her presence.

Blurting out the final words of my sermon, I try to shove my inappropriate thoughts of her aside, but only forcing myself to leave the pulpit and wandering to the first pew, shatters the strange spell she ensnared me in.

Each step reinforces how pitiful my imagination is.

Why would Andrea Jura have a connection with me?

Lara Ricci grabs my hands as I reach for hers. Her bony knuckles squeeze my fingers. “You look brighter this afternoon, Father.”

Do I?

Why?

Because Andrea Jura is here?

“Thank you, my child.” Taking note of the bruises under her eyes and the bright yellow of her skin, I glean that today is not a good day. “And you?”

“I’m well enough to attend service.”

I tut. “You’re always well enough to attend service.”

She grins, her wizened face puckering into a semi-toothless smile that always makes me wonder why she doesn’t have false teeth. Unlike a lot of my parishioners, she’s wealthy. A chauffeur drops her off at church so she never misses a service.

Her fingers are frail in mine, and every day, they seem to grow more brittle.

We both know she doesn’t have long left on this Earth, but neither of us mentions it.

Her soul will soon be liberated, a fact she takes comfort in.

I’m glad she has the security of her faith.

In truth, being around people like her, good people, has re-instilled some of my own beliefs.

Rome, this past year, has surprised me by being a salve.

But I’m still going through the motions. The only time any of it makes sense to me is when a service ends and I walk down the aisle of pews and greet the worshippers.

It amuses me that, during my time here, numbers have increased despite the fact I fulfill more of the traditional canonical hours than ‘recommended.’

The Church doesn’t know what to make of that, and neither do I, in all honesty.

Every other parish I’ve been assigned to has ended in disaster. No one has particularly liked me, and I haven’t particularly liked anyone there.

Here, I fit.

Strangely, I’m home. Not because this is the capital of my faith but because this is my father’s homeland. I was born in my mother’s, and now I live in the land that forged Giuseppe Martin.

This is where I have roots—I’d just never been here long enough to let them take to the soil before.

I give Lara’s hands one last squeeze. “I’ll send your chauffeur for you.”

Her eyes twinkle. “Thank you.”

She refuses to walk down the aisle with her mobility aid so she uses her driver as a cane instead. Her stubbornness amuses me, especially when she sits on the front pew where her family’s name is engraved.

The Chiesa di Santa Cecilia is in her blood in a way that it isn’t in mine, yet I’ve found a home here. Some days, that’s enough.

Others, such as today, with the weight of Andrea Jura’s regard, I feel the lack.

Continuing on my path, I come across Carlo DiRittano. As usual, his expression is sheepish and he’s fidgeting under his dad’s firm hold on his shoulder.

“What did you do, Carlo?” I chide, knowing he’s here, midweek, for a reason.

The DiRittanos come every Sunday, without fail, but rarely during the week.

Carlo has ADHD and he keeps acting out, so their attendance on a Wednesday means he’s ‘misbehaved.’

“Nothing, Padre ,” he mutters glumly before he stares at his feet.

His sneakers squeak over the ancient stones, and his toe digs into them, kicking a loose piece of gravel that someone has traipsed in after the cleaners came.

“He’ll be waiting to give confession,” his father promises, and I cut him a look, wanting to shake my head but refraining.

It isn’t my place to parent the boy, nor to parent the parents, but I truly do think they are too hard on him.

Coming from a man who believes sinners should pay with their lives? That says a lot.

What would you expect from a boy his age, though, when the doctors prescribe him medications and they refuse to give them to him?

Though the tut is silent, I move on, greeting worshippers whose faces I’ve come to know, whose names trip off my tongue like they’re old friends.

But as I approach the last pew, my heart pounds as if I raced down the aisle. My palms grow clammy. Perspiration dots my upper lip. And that’s nothing to…

What on earth is happening to me?

I can feel her attention. Wherever the touch of her eyes lands, it burns.

The pain is excruciating.

The pain is delicious .

“Lead us not into temptation,” I rasp under my breath, the prayer a silent susurration. “Deliver us from evil; For thine is?—”

“ Padre ?”

I jerk in surprise at the soft voice and twist to see Junia Lorenzo staring at me with concern.

As usual, the faint lingering of bruises mars her cheeks.

Her husband is someone I’m keeping my eye on. He’s dancing on the knife’s edge and he doesn’t even know it.

Neither does she.

Junia’s gaze is limpid as she studies me worriedly. A gentle woman, too good for that bastard of a spouse, I grace her with a kind smile even though my body almost rebels. “All is well, my child.”

It isn’t.

Nothing is well.

Andrea is there and she is watching me and I want to press my mouth to those faintly smiling lips, want to run my hand over that silken hair, taste that?—

No .

Balling my hands into fists until my knuckles ache, I move on, lest I cause any more curiosity. Despite the incessant urge to watch Andrea, I forge ahead, not stopping until I’m at the doorway.

The intense cold from inside the church is brisk, and bracing. Outside, though, it’s still technically winter, but the sun has been hot, so I know Lara’s driver must be melting in his formal suit and cap.

When he sees me, he dips his chin, eyes darting over the small crowd as he makes his way inside and helps his mistress back to the car.

Standing by the door, I give my parishioners thanks for their attendance as they leave and wish them well until the next time we meet.

Six wait for confession.

My gaze darts over the pews, taking note of the familiar faces, and while Junia remains behind to deal with some flower arrangements, her husband stays seated.

Inwardly, I sigh—I hate my time with him.

And she is still there, sitting relatively close to the confessional too.

But she’s American, and from my experience, they never speak other languages.

The booth is far away enough for me to have no fears over privacy, but the beast inside demands to know why she’s here, in my church.

As far as I can tell, she seems to be doing nothing.

Just sitting.

Perhaps I imagined the intensity of her regard because her eyes appear almost closed. I’d go so far as to say she’s napping.

Is that because of her illness?

For a second, I wonder if I should go over and help her, but I’m hesitant to do so.

I don’t want to approach her.

I really, truly don’t.

And I know that’s the exact opposite of being Christian, but getting close to her would be like shoving my hand into an open fire.

So I step away from the flames, refuse to look at her, and pretend she isn’t there.

I sense her as I pass, even though I do my best to ignore the temptation she represents—and trust me, I’ve become pretty adept at ignoring things, people, as well as situations that make me uncomfortable.

I instantly fail.

Lord help me, she’s magnetic.

Andrea Jura is impossible to evade.

Her scent hammers into me. Sweet and light—like her. I want to roll in it. Bathe in it. Glory in her ? —

NO!

The bizarreness of my situation has me hiding in the confessional. After seating myself, I take a deep breath, the burden on my back lighter once I push my spine into the ungiving wooden wall behind me.

Today, I even find comfort within the booth that’s as much of a prison to me as the cage back in Oran. Its shadows provide me with a sense of security as I go about my afternoon chore.

It’s here where I find the sinners, and it’s here where I loathe the calling I’ve taken.

I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I must.

If they prey on an innocent, I can no longer sit idly by and wait for them to escalate. I’ll accept no more blood on my soul.

Unless I’m the one shedding it.

A tap sounds at the door, and I grow tense, expecting to hear her voice after I rasp, “Enter.”

“Thank you, Father.”

The voice is sweet. Young. Innocent .

Well, his parents would disagree, but I don’t.

My lips curve of their own volition as I greet Carlo and begin the Sacrament of Confession. Relief settles on my spine, allowing me to relax. Something he exacerbates with:

“I didn’t mean to.”

His morose start has me grinning, and I take a second, close my eyes, and force my voice to behave—even if I find his antics hilarious, his parents don’t.

“Let me decide if what you did is a sin.”

“Mama said it is. That’s why I’m here.”

Carlo, not unsurprisingly, doesn’t appreciate being dragged to church every time he misbehaves.

He’s only twelve, and his parents are older. He was a late baby, and they never seem to know what to do with him. His mother often wails about the sins she must have committed for him to have been born with ADHD.

Tone deaf is an understatement.

“Tell me. Let me decide,” I coax.

“It was an accident. I never meant for all the glue to get wasted.”

Glue? “Start at the beginning.”

“My teacher’s a bitch.”

I sit up straight. “That’s a sin right there, Carlo. Did you just use profanity under God’s roof?”

Glumly, he mourns, “I just made it worse for myself, didn’t I?”

“You certainly did.”

But I make a mental note to talk to his father on Sunday. Carlo, who’s always a cheerful boy even if he’s due to confess, is having issues with his teacher.

“She was picking on me. Trying to make me look dumb in front of everyone. So I knocked over the glue on her seat, painted it so she wouldn’t notice, and then let her sit on it.”

My brows lift as I try to ascertain what kind of testament that broke which required him being dragged to church on an afternoon, and then it clicks.

“You were suspended?” That’s the only reason I can think he’d be here mid-week.

“Yes. For two days.” He huffs. “But she’s mean, Father.”

“I can imagine, but did you have to be mean to her? Is that what you’ve been taught, Carlo?”

“No, we have to turn the other cheek, don’t we, Father? Even if someone sucks.”

I clear my throat to obfuscate my laugh. “We do. But it isn’t the end of the world, Carlo. Don’t tell your mother or father this, but I was suspended when I was a boy too.”

“You?” He sounds so stunned that, on this occasion, I can’t hide my amusement.

“ Si , I wasn’t always a priest.”

“I knew that. But... what did you do?”

“I’d get into fights.”

“Why?”

“Does there have to be a reason?”

He hums under his breath. “I think so. I mean, did you like fighting?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I was very angry, and the only way I could stop feeling like that was if I hit something.” Sometimes I grew tired of being bullied, and had to defend myself…

“Why were you angry?”

“My teachers weren’t very nice to me either.” They never listened.

“Why not?”

“They just weren’t. They thought I was the troublemaker because, in class, I got bored really quickly.”

“I know how that feels,” he commiserates. “I find it hard to concentrate.”

I could only imagine. “Maybe speak with your parents about it.” Surely then they’d realize that was why the doctors gave him medicine in the first place.

“I hate school,” he mutters.

“Only six more years of it,” I reply, trying to cheer him up.

“That’s a long time. I mean, I’m twelve. That means I have to do half my life again of school.” Another huff escapes him. “Life sucks.”

“It can suck sometimes, but I’m sure there’ll be a lot of times you have fun. You have friends there, don’t you?”

“Yes. But I can see them at home.”

I smirk at his logic. “Carlo?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why your parents brought you to me?”

“Because they say you’re the only one who’ll make me listen?—”

I never expected him to say that, and despite myself, I’m actually touched.

And, God help me, choked up—this cheeky little boy finds as much camaraderie in me as I do in him.

“Well, be that the case, you know why you have to atone, don’t you?”

“I guess.”

“That doesn’t sound very sure to me.”

“I didn’t mean to?—”

“Don’t lie in God’s house.” I purse my lips. “You know very well you meant to. Why would you do it if not?”

“I-I suppose.” His voice is small now.

“Are you sorry for what you did?”

“I’m sorry I wasted all that glue,” he grouses. “And I’m sorry I’m here.”

“Well, that’s a start,” I retort, amused again, and then, because I have others waiting outside, I give him his penance.

When he heaves a huge sigh, like I made him atone by walking the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, my smile widens.

And, mood buoyed, I see the next two people and manage to forget about the woman and Lorenzo who’s waiting outside.

Until, of course, he enters, stinking of garlic and cheap wine.

Suddenly, she’s at the forefront of my mind, a better subject to focus on than Paolo Lorenzo and the shadow of sin around him.

“I did it again, Father.”

And just like that, my mood sinks and Andrea Jura fades into the background.

Even as I cringe at his confession, I know that my time to act is approaching.

Lorenzo just tugged on a tripwire, and it doesn’t even register with him.

But he’ll learn soon enough.