Broken

14. Andrea

CHAPTER 14

Andrea

I Follow Rivers - Lykke Li, The Magician

H is church is smaller than I expected, quainter, and more comforting than the ones back home. There’s no sharp lighting here, just shadows and candlelight, some electric, some natural.

My eyes don’t hurt in the chapel, nor does my head ache. The scents are ones I’m familiar with, ones that represent my childhood if I’m honest. I used to sing in the choir, even though I hated singing in public—Mom always asked me to and teasingly said my voice buttered her up for when I brought home my ‘projects’ which almost always resulted in a visit from the police.

The scents of incense, and even the beeswax candles on the altar and polish on the pews, all represent a homecoming to me.

And that this is his church is like a warm embrace I didn’t know I was lacking.

Having seen him in the flesh, I know this is meant to be.

He’s beautiful but hard. Cold. His eyes are obsidian in color, whereas before they were amber that the sunlight hit at sunset.

That first time I saw him, the picture of him fresh out of seminary flashing onto the TV, he’d been open. Hopeful . Like he knew he could make a difference and, so badly, wanted to try.

Now, he’s the exact opposite.

My fingers ache to stroke along the scars on his right cheek, to soothe the furrow of his brow. I want to trail a path over his square jaw and rub my nose against his.

I can’t.

Yet.

“Get out and go home. I won’t be back until late,” a man snarls at the woman who was arranging flowers. She cowers in the face of his anger. “Do not leave the apartment until I’m back.”

She tilts her head to the side, shielding her already bruised cheek as if expecting to be hit again. “B-But I-I have errands.”

“Stay. Inside,” he growls.

Throat bobbing, she darts away like a frightened rabbit.

As I narrow my eyes at the disgusting display, my cell buzzes.

Diana: What are you doing? Remember we agreed that I wouldn’t tell your folks where you are so long as you checked in with me

For the threat to count, they’d have to believe she actually existed. Still…

Me: I checked in with you last night!

Diana: It’s tomorrow now. Duh.

I look around the church and hedge my bets.

Me: I might be heading in for communion

Diana: Excuse you

Diana: HAVE YOU FOUND GOD AND DIDN’T TELL ME?

Me: I never lost God. I lost faith in the Church. *sniffs*

Diana: You’re the most confusing person ever

Diana: WHY ARE YOU GOING TO CHURCH THEN?

Me: Because

Diana: TELL ME

*Four minutes later*

Diana: YOU THINK I WON’T GET ON A PLANE TODAY? I’m on VACATION, Andrea. I can be there in two hours.

Diana: YOU UNDERESTIMATE THE LEVEL OF CRAZY GOING ON RIGHT NOW WITH MY HORMONES

Me: All right, all right. Making babies turns you nuts.

Diana: Damn straight

Me: Father Martin has a parish here

Diana: You’re finally going to meet him, huh? Your obsession?

Me: I’m not obsessed.

Diana: Yeah. Okay

Diana: You know they say you should never meet your idols…

Me: He’s not my idol

Diana: If You Say So

Me: Ugh

Me: You suck

Diana: Jason can confirm I suck really well

Me: I’m flipping you the bird so hard right now

Diana: ;)

Diana: I’m slow - this is why you discharged yourself against your doctor’s advice, isn’t it?

Diana: To meet him

Diana: I should never have sent you that damn article about him moving to Rome. Grr.

Diana: Here was me thinking you were a responsible adult!

*Three minutes later*

Diana: Fine, don’t answer. But… tell me how it goes.

Me: I might be here already

Diana: WITH HIM?

Me: Sheesh, I heard that shouty voice.

Diana: What’s he like?

Me: He cares

Diana: About?

Me: His flock.

Diana: Isn’t that his job?

Me: Pfft. You know as well as I do that not all priests engage with the parish or give a damn about the community.

Diana: True

Me: He speaks with the parishioners after a service.

Diana: Like they matter?

Me: Yes.

Diana: Did you talk to him?

Me: No. But he saw me. I think he might have recognized me.

Diana: Lol, Ms. Imposter Syndrome

Me: Shut up

Me: I can’t believe they recognize me here

Diana: You were a big news item for a while, honey

Me: Yeah, but it’s still crazy.

Me: I was hoping for more, tbh

Diana: More WHAT? He’s a priest, babe. What do you expect him to do?

I can’t tell her what I expected. I just know that the link I’d hoped for didn’t…

Ugh.

Did it?

He stopped talking mid-sentence when he saw me. After that, he seemed to go out of his way to avoid me.

Me: I’m nervous.

Diana: Why? Being back in church? I know your mom and dad weren’t happy when you stopped attending services.

Me: I went with them during the Holidays!

Diana: That’s pretty much the bare minimum lol.

Me: Are you in a mood or something?

Diana: You come to me for the harsh realities of life, babe. :P If you want someone to lick your ass, then look to one of your fans.

Me: Why do I talk to you?

Diana: See above

Me: He’s strange

Diana: Who? The priest?

Me: Yes. It’s like he’s going through the motions.

Diana: I guess the whole rigmarole gets a little tiresome after a while. My priests were always alcoholics when I was growing up.

Me: No, this is different.

Me: His words lack feeling.

I struggle to describe my read on this man who, as she called it, has been my obsession for years now.

Me: It wasn’t just feeling. His service lacked faith

Diana: Like, he was robotic?

Me: Yes.

Diana: Maybe that’s because of what he went through? I know his time in Algeria was a while back but that kind of thing doesn’t heal overnight, does it?

Me: You know too much about him

Diana: *rolls eyes* Because you talk about him all the time

Me: *sniffs*

Me: He could have sought clerical dispensation if he wanted to leave. He’s certainly not settled in a parish for long

Diana: Do I want to know how you learned that?

Me: No.

M y cheeks flush.

Diana: A part of me has known for a while that you’ve stalked him.

Me: I’m not a stalker

Diana: Sounds like it to me

Me: I mean him no harm

Diana: I’m sure you don’t

Diana: How are the wings?

Me: They’re okay.

A soft laugh from the booth whispers through me, making me shiver as my attention leaves my conversation with Diana. It’s so wrong while under God’s roof, but my nipples peak, and I close my eyes, relishing the husky sound.

I know it isn’t something he does often.

Of the many lines on his face, laughter didn’t cause one of them.

Strain, pain, fear, and rage did; he exudes each emotion. They flood out of his pores, making me wish I had the right to soothe him.

But I don’t.

Yet.

The boy who shuffled in after his father pushed him toward the booth seems to make Savio smile. I watched their interactions earlier and noticed he refrained from grinning.

Saw that he purposely ignored me as he crossed over to the confessional.

He just strode in like I wasn’t there.

It hurt.

A lot.

I’ll forgive him in time for not recognizing what I am to him. That he recognized something means more than he can even imagine right now.

A few laughs have escaped him since the kid went into the booth, and I can see the boy’s father grumbling under his breath every time he hears Savio’s amusement.

But when he shuffles back out, his father’s shoulders slump like he’s tired and in desperate need of a good nap, and then to wake up and for this day to be over.

I heard what the kid did—messed with his teacher’s chair. Seems tough to bring him to confession for something like that. Hell, I did much worse over the years and my folks were always a safe space. Sanctuary.

Guilt unsettles my stomach.

Knowing I just abandoned them to go on, what they’d consider, to be a wild goose chase breaks all the trust that’s grown between us over the years of my childhood and adulthood.

They wouldn’t understand.

Nobody would.

Diana barely does and she forgives me a lot for my crazy because I was the only one who saw what her father was doing to her when the whole world thought he farted gold dust.

That’s why I have to do this.

As I sit there, listening to the sacrosanct confessions that spill from people’s lips, I know it’s wrong to eavesdrop, but technically, I’m not.

I’m listening to him . Not to them. They don’t interest me.

Not until something shifts in Savio’s voice.

It goes from soft and almost caring to hard. Cold. The chill is enough to make me shiver.

It has me tuning into the confession, but it’s difficult to hear because the guy is speaking so softly that I have to strain my ears. Maybe it’ll give me a headache later, but it’ll be worth it. I crave knowledge where Savio is concerned—I want to know what makes him tick.

“I didn’t mean to.”

That’s like a running theme in confession, I think.

We never mean to do something, yet somehow, it happens. Sins occur, and souls get tarnished.

And now, this guy’s crying.

That’s when it registers that the bastard who terrified his wife is the man confessing.

“What happened, Paolo?” Savio bites out.

“S-She wore such a short skirt.”

Inside, I just die.

I know where this is going, and my heart pounds like I’ve been running a race.

At the moment, I can’t run anywhere, though. Never mind take part in a race. My body grows tense as I enter ‘flight or fight’ mode.

I’ve heard this story from the other side of the fence so many times that I recognize what I’m about to hear, and it sickens me before he even continues with his confession.

“Short skirts are not a crime,” Savio growls, and those words just fill up my metaphorical cup.

“If she dresses like a slut, what else am I supposed to think of her? She shouldn’t tempt me.”

A tense silence seems to charge the air, one strong enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand on edge.

“You dare use that word in my confessional?”

His words aren’t what I expected, but I wait for the guy’s reply with bated breath.

“Forgive me, Father?—”

“No. I won’t forgive you.”

The man falls quiet, then, his tone more modulated, states, “She?—”

“Before you carry on with that sentence, she can do whatever she wants, it is you who sinned. It is your sins I want to hear, not hers. And if she did sin, I’m sure she’ll come here and tell me herself. She can ask for forgiveness and I can grant her absolution.

“What she did has nothing to do with your actions, Paolo. So, before you utter another word, before I toss you out of this booth, you will stop right there and reconsider your confession. Coming to me without laying bare your heart makes this a waste of both my time and yours.”

The strength in his voice, the passion, they whoosh into being, making tingles shoot down my spine.

Where at the lectern he was wooden and almost lifeless as he invoked his sermon, now, he’s alive.

I withhold a gasp, trying not to be turned on by his strength, by the way he stated everything that needed to be said.

The sinner here is this Paolo schmuck.

Not the woman who dared to wear a short fucking skirt like that’s a goddamn crime.

Tension throbs through me as I wait for the bastard’s next words, and I can almost feel the jerk’s mind churning, trying to figure out how to make this right, how to say what he wishes to confess without making himself look too bad.

But there’s no prettying up what he says next:

“I took her.”

Three words.

A lie.

Took .

Euphemisms don’t cut it.

RAPE.

Me: Diana?

Diana: Yup?

Me: If I tell you something, you can’t hate me

Diana: Don’t think I could ever hate you, babe. You saved me a long time ago and you’ve been saving me ever since. (Even if you are a stalker. :P)

Me: You’d have saved me if the situation was reversed

Diana: I’d like to think that I would but I’m not so sure. You’re a very brave woman, Andrea. I’m lucky that you forgive me my weaknesses and love me anyway

Me: You’re family

Diana: I know. So, come on, confess your sins, haha

Diana: You wanna fuck the priest, huh?

Me: Maybe. But that’s not it.

Diana: What is it?

Me: I’m sitting near the confessional and I can hear someone’s confession

Diana: Oops. Split with the deets

Me: The guy… he’s a rapist

Diana: Oh, Jesus

Me: I want to help her

Diana: Of course you do. But fuck, can you?

Diana: Imagine being in the priest’s shoes. He can’t go to the cops, can he?

Diana: This is why I left the Church.

Me: Me too

Me: He’s locked down. I can hear him. His voice is like ice.

“ Y ou repented your sin two weeks ago, Paolo. A similar sin. You learned nothing when you sought penance.”

“No, I?—”

“ Nothing . You’re escalating.”

Me: He’s so angry

Me: My heart’s pounding

Diana: You need to not overexert yourself!

Me: How am I supposed to calm down? There’s a rapist here, whining about how she wore a short skirt to tempt him, Diana!!

Diana: I think I’m going to be sick

“I-I tried, Father. The temptation?—”

“Temptation is meant to be fought,” Savio snaps, and once again, fire zooms around my veins.

While the excess of energy should tire me, it doesn’t.

It brings me to life.

“I-I tried.”

“Not hard enough.”

“I-I can’t?—”

“You can and you will.” A harsh breath escapes him. “She’s your niece, Paolo. She’s fifteen years old. What on Earth is the matter with you?”

Me: God, it’s even worse. She’s fifteen and his NIECE

Diana: FUCK.

When the man starts sobbing, I’m not surprised. He’s painting himself as the one who’s being wronged here. She tempted him. She made him do it. He was innocent, blah, blah, fucking blah.

Hatred simmers inside me as I think of my last charge, Linda. Of how she passed away at the hands of a man who vowed to love her. I think of this poor girl, whoever she may be, being molested by a man who is supposed to love her like she’s his daughter.

Blood of his blood.

Flesh of his flesh.

Sickness pools in my gut, but instead of making me want to puke, I feel anger.

It vibrates inside me, just as it does in Savio.

I’ve never felt this way before.

In the past, I only wanted to help.

I wanted to get the person I was helping away from their abuser.

This is different.

This is...

I suck in a breath.

Violent .

Temptation poisons wherever it touches.

Clenching my eyes closed, I wait for his next words, dreading them even as I know to brace myself.

“I never meant to?—”

“But you still did .” Savio’s ire is real. Just like mine. It seems to choke us, even as it floods us with life. “Do you feel repentance for what you did?”

His sudden about-face has me jolting in surprise.

Me: He’s going to absolve him!!!!!

Diana: That’s his job

Me: I shouldn’t have told you. Are you okay?

Diana: No, of course, I’m not. But, fuck, you can’t keep this stuff to yourself. You’re weaker than you want to admit, Andrea. Let me help you for once

Me: I don’t need help with this

Diana: Don’t lie. You can lie to your parents who love you and think you’re their miracle, but you can’t lie to me. I know what you’re doing there even if you don’t want to admit to it

Me: You have no idea what I want

Diana: You want the priest

Diana: He’s one of your, what do you call us? Charges

“Yes, I do. I truly want redemption. I’m sorry, so sorry.”

“They all say that,” I hiss under my breath, even though neither man can hear me.

Me: Why do men always beg for forgiveness when they haven’t earned it?

Diana: Because the world is run by men and they’re taught that giving the bare minimum is more than enough

How right she is.

I tip my chin up, silently pleading for Savio to condemn this evil bastard. The only weight a priest can truly throw around is the refusal to absolve someone. He can’t go to the police, can’t do anything to make someone truly ‘behave.’ But he can refuse to let them atone.

It’s what always pissed me off about the mob and stuff. Maybe it was all in the movies, but the idea that a priest would condone murder never sat right with me, and it told me the human beneath the cassock was on the take.

“I want to stop this,” Paolo whispers. “I don’t understand why I do it. Why I need—” Savio says nothing, and Paolo’s gulp is audible. “I hate—. I-I tried to kill myself yesterday, Father. Anything to avoid these feelings, these thoughts?—”

I blink at that, taken aback. And the anger whirls from me. Not because his niece’s abuser doesn’t deserve my anger, but because now I’m confused.

When Savio sends him on his way with a few token Hail Marys, I’m even more confused.

What just happened?

How did we go from a fury so strong it made the church vibrate with it to a penance so weak, that the kid earned more time on his knees than Paolo did?

For a second, I falter.

I doubt.

But then, I ponder the darkness in Savio’s eyes, think about what I saw in them, and then I think about his file.

All those suicides…

When Paolo retreats to a pew, almost flinging himself on his knees, his shoulders shaking, I wonder if it’s an act. Then I ask myself who he’s playing the role to… God?

Savio sure as hell isn’t watching, and he’s the only one Paolo thinks knows his dirty secret.

Diana: What’s happening?

Diana: You can’t go silent on me!!

I roll my eyes.

Me: The bastard’s been absolved and he’s on his knees as we speak.

Me: A lady just went into the confessional. She covets her neighbor’s lasagna recipe

Diana: Talk about a contrast

Me: Yup. I’m going to go. I’m fine but I need to think

Diana: There’s nothing to think about. You can’t do anything there, babe. You don’t have any contacts with charities or whatnot. But stay in touch. I’m here if you need me

Me: I know 3 Love you

Diana: Love you too xo

At that very moment, like God’s hand is on my shoulder, Paolo clambers to his feet.

When my shoulders itch, my wings making themselves known to me, I get to mine.

He’s a slender man, but his belly’s large. Rotund. He slips his sunglasses on, and I know why too—his face is red from crying. He also hunches his shoulders, hiding his expression by dipping his face under the upturned lapels of his coat.

I find it interesting that even though it’s warm out, to the Italians it’s freezing.

Here I am, sweating in a thin anorak and scarf the second we make it out of the church and into the sun, and he’s huddled in his coat like we’re in the middle of a blizzard. And he isn’t the only one. I pass a woman wearing fur!

Being outside the church, after what just happened, feels… off.

As if the world has changed, or I have. I’m not sure which.

More uneasy than ever, I follow my instincts which urge me to watch Paolo.

We pass the Vatican, which I still gape at as I wander by. The lane toward it is packed with people, and the coffee shops and stores that line it are heaving too.

Beggars are almost ornamental on doorways, sleeping on pieces of cardboard, pleading for food even as they sleep amid the tumble of life.

It’s strange because they aren’t even actively busking. They just sleep. Like they know they’ll be ignored.

One thing that has astonished me so far is just how many homeless people there are.

So close to the Vatican, maybe that makes sense. They come to where they believe they will get help. And yet, there doesn’t seem to be much of it.

It feels wrong.

Wicked, somehow.

There’s so much affluence in this boulevard, and yet, so much poverty too.

As I follow Paolo over the Ponte Vaticano, which necessitates us avoiding a tangle of traffic that’s crossing the River Tiber, I pass a priest dressed like Friar Tuck, and then a nun who’s wearing a full-on toga.

It’s perplexing how many different priests and nuns I’ve seen, each of them wearing a slightly different ‘uniform.’

Like how the thick hemp rope the friar wears around his waist is a stark contrast to the flimsy fabric of the toga-wearing nun.

Even as I wonder if they’re cold, if drafts go up their skirts because they’re the only locals not wrapped in a million layers, we finally make it to the other side, leaving the Vatican area and heading into Rome proper.

I mean, it’s all Rome, but once you cross the river at this point, the atmosphere changes.

As we amble down a few back alleys, I’m not surprised when Paolo stops at a restaurant.

He’s the kind of man who doesn’t look like anything impedes his mealtimes.

His belly is proof enough.

Although, by the time I’m done with my visit to the city, maybe I’ll have a food baby too. The pasta here? Yum.

When I slip inside the restaurant, I tuck myself in at the back.

It’s small, dark, a touch cramped, and there’s a TV on in the background. It’s also full—I’m lucky to get a table. Though it’s at the back of the restaurant and I’m halfway in the kitchen.

When the server comes, I barely look at her as I order a tonic water. She purses her lips when I decline the menu, but promptly delivers my drink to the table.

Paolo orders a bottle of chianti and a board of antipasti. As he eats, he watches the news on TV. I can’t tell whether what I witnessed back in the church was bullshit or if he’s finding solace in food.

Because, yes, he is the one in need of solace.

Fury has my hand trembling as I lift my glass to my lips for a sip.

I can see him quite clearly—the bar is free from artifice. The décor consists of small tables, uncomfortable, rickety chairs, little red-and-white check tablecloths, and a small shot glass with a tiny flower propped in it. The bar is scrubbed oak, scored with time, and the register is vintage too.

It’s not the kind of place a tourist comes to. This is for the locals, and that’s why, when I see Savio walking into the establishment, I nearly choke on my drink.

He’s a local?

I mean, technically, he is. But this place is more than a decent walk from his parish. I know he’s French Italian, but he was born on the C?te d’Azur, not Rome. Still, the waitress seems to know Savio, and when he sits beside Paolo, who tenses at the sight of him, she brings over a glass of what appears to be water to their table.

I’ll admit, whatever I expected next, it didn’t happen.

I thought they’d discuss what Paolo had confessed, that there might be an intense discussion.

Instead, they chat.

Over the news.

And even though that anger is back to churning inside me as doubt collides with it, I watch on, growing more and more astonished.

Savio pours the man wine and even buys another two bottles. Barely touching his own glass the waitress brings for him, he helps Paolo get wasted.

Why?

Hell knows.

Still, I watch in bewildered amusement as Paolo bursts into song.

When the entire bar joins in, my lips twitch despite the bizarreness of the situation, and I hum along even though I have no idea what song they’re singing.

About two hours after they first arrived, Savio declares, “Right, time to get you home, Paolo.”

“You’ll need to carry him. He’s sbronzo .” Drunk . The waitress frowns at Paolo. “It’s not like him.”

Savio shrugs. “He had bad news today.”

Her face softens with sympathy, but I grow tense at what I know to be a lie.

Savio curves his arm around Paolo and, together, they wind through the spaces between tables. I wince as Paolo nearly topples one over before Savio finally gets him outside.

Leaving cash to cover my bill, I quickly follow.

It astonishes me to realize that, in the time I’ve been in there, the sun has set.

But as I peer overhead, there’s no denying the indigo sheen in the sky. Or the dampness in the air, the chill that pervades now that the sun has disappeared, making me huddle into my anorak with a wish for the heavy coat Paolo’s wearing.

I watch as Savio wends a path through the streets with as much ease as he had the tables in the small taverna.

“Come on, Paolo, there’s no need to despair,” he chides. “Things will get better.”

Huh. I’m close enough that I know Paolo hasn’t said a thing.

“I promise. Stop talking that way,” he tuts. “Listen to me, we’ll get through this.” Then, just before he shoves Paolo down an alley: “You want me to leave you here? Are you sure? Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Unless Paolo lives on the streets, which I doubt, because his clothes are too nice and he’d been able to afford to eat in that restaurant—and nothing is cheap here—then Savio just tossed him into that alley like he’s trash.

Which he is, sure, but still...

I hurry along, cringing at the sound of my boots tapping against the cobbles before I look around the corner. Paolo’s too drunk to even realize what’s happening, but in the morning, his head is in for a world of pain after all that cheap wine he drank at the bar.

A part of me wonders if Savio intends to beat the shit out of him, but when he grabs Paolo and drags him so his back is to the wall without kicking him, I’ll admit to being disappointed.

And more confused than ever.

What on Earth is happening here?

In the inky shadows, I struggle to see, and I squint a bit until I hear the metallic click of a switchblade.

Taken aback, I surge forward.

The closer I move, the more I see. Paolo is slouched over, butt to the ground, legs splayed before him, his eyes closed, head bobbing like it doesn’t belong to his neck.

But Savio, crouching over him, has his sleeves pulled high with leather gloves on his fingers where they’d been bare before. He’s shoved Paolo’s cuffs high up on his forearm too, and that switchblade?

Aimed at the soft flesh of Paolo’s wrist.

I watch as he pushes the blade into the man’s forearm, and I freeze as what were suppositions cement into place and the reality of this priest’s dual nature reveals itself to me in full force.

I know this is my second ‘flight or fight’ moment of the day. A true ‘kill or be killed’ decision. Except, this isn’t my life on the line.

It’s Paolo’s.

He confessed to raping his niece.

He said she tempted him.

Temptation doesn’t go away.

You have to move temptation out of your life.

Even as I see Savio’s reasoning, something in me feels edgy. Like this is wrong. The violence that brewed inside me coagulates to a point where I have no choice but to grab his shoulder.

And I do it in the nick of time.

Paolo moans at the first whisper of the blade digging into his flesh, parting it like Moses and the Red Sea.

Savio flinches, his head snapping to the side so he can stare at me. When our gazes connect, my heart pounds, and just like at the church, the wildfire of our connection soars between us, but he freezes it with ice.

“Stop,” I rasp.

He jerks at my words and then leaps to his feet. The knife’s pushed into his pocket as he begins to walk backward, running from me.

From me.

Not to me, like he should.

I frown because doesn’t he know I’m not his enemy?

I’m here to help him.

Initially, I’d wondered about the unusual suicides I’d read about where he was posted, his frequent moves to new parishes—something the Church does when they have a problem priest they want to tuck away… Now, I have my confirmation.

Paolo moans again, making me jolt in surprise. When he surges forward, suddenly wide awake, I rear back in time for him to puke between his legs.

Though I grimace at the sight, I walk away, cautious with each step I take, not wanting to alert him to my presence. Sure, he’s as drunk as a skunk, but I don’t want him to think he got here by any foul means.

Though his retches make me gag, the stench a thousand times worse thanks to the super-sniffer nose that was a ‘gift’ after my surgery, I force myself to focus on Savio.

He’s all that matters to me.

I’d love to run after him, but I don’t. Not only because I physically can’t, but because he’s fast.

By the time I make it out of the alley and onto the main street just beyond, I don’t see him anywhere. He’s blurred in with the rest of humanity.

But he can’t run from me.

Not forever.

I won’t let him.

He’s mine.

Sins and all.