26. Savio
CHAPTER 26
Savio
Hide Behind My Disguise - Cleffy
I overexerted her.
When she passes out, guilt spears me, but selfishly, the release, after so damn long, fills me with a languor that melts my bones. So much so that I’m suddenly aware of how my hypertension had nothing to do with my heart, but my damn hormones.
I don’t even care that I’m dirty.
Carrying her over to the bed, I settle on the sheets, deciding we can rest until my alarm goes off, relaxing for the first time in years with her blanketing me.
All the while, I stare at the crown of her head where the scars are more visible after…
Merde.
I was rougher than I should have been with her.
The thought has me scraping a hand over my face. Not even that slight jostle stirs her though, so I endeavor to earn forgiveness in other ways later and choose to relax with her covering me like liquid silk that seeps into every crack and chasm in my soul.
There’s no hiding from how much better I feel. The orgasm is part of it, certainly, but her weight on top of me, her trust, her gift—I’m not worthy of her. But even as that truth hits home, I don’t cringe away from it.
Worth can be earned. Hell, it should be earned.
And I believe that Andrea will give me the time to do exactly that.
The alarm doesn’t wake her so I leave her sleeping to go about my daily chores. It feels distinctly odd to be doing them when I’ve just broken one of the key vows of the priesthood. I should feel ashamed, I should feel like I need to punish myself, but I don’t.
If anything, there’s a harmony inside me that’s better than a choral performance of “Morning Has Broken.”
Not even the fact that she sleeps through me scrubbing the wall beside the dresser—it’s a nightmare waiting to happen when blood dries—can get me down.
But as the hours pass without even a murmur, my disappearing for Lauds going without notice, I’ll admit to being worried.
I know she’s insane, and I know she’s ill, yet I can’t help but believe her when she says I’m hers and she’s mine. That I might have hurt her… it would be the end of me.
The thought makes me frown as I flip through the Bible and make a few mental annotations for the afternoon service today.
A cough sounds in the church, and I peer at the aisle, my brows rising when I see someone hovering by the last pew. I squint since I’m bathed in the morning light and he’s standing in the dark.
When I register who he is, though, my mood plummets.
The day had started so well.
Marco Corelli.
If ever there was sin personified, it’s him.
That he dares to even walk in here tells me a lot about my predecessor. I already knew he was a charlatan, what with how he allowed the food bank and the soup kitchen to flounder the way they were when I arrived at the parish, but knowing that Corelli was welcomed has my anger surging.
He only comes after a purge, and the last one was just on the brink of the old Father leaving and my taking his seat in this parish.
There’s more blood on his hands than anyone I’ve met since Algeria. If anyone needs eradicating, it’s him.
The part of my soul that craves vengeance and penance snarls at the sight of him.
Paolo Lorenzo is a nothing, a nobody by comparison. This bastard affects the city in ways few will ever understand.
I know from the homeless I deal with how he uses them as mules. I know Corelli keeps men like Gianni afloat. His henchmen often visit me for confession. I’ve heard all about his deals and how his business thrives on his homeless staff.
They risk their freedom, but he doesn’t pay them enough to make a life for themselves away from the streets.
No. That wouldn’t suit Corelli’s purpose, would it?
He’s scum.
There’s a reason he’s come here today, one that has nothing to do with the sins he’s committed.
This is a sign.
Maybe I’ve smoked whatever Andrea has, but the truth of it rumbles through me. Since I started on this path, it’s the first time I feel God’s hand on my shoulder
The urge to tip my head back, to bask in his guidance is strong.
Corelli’s end could shape the city, perhaps, even, the country.
After I step down from the lectern, my heels tap against the stone flagons as I walk toward him.
Yesterday, I might have refused to take his confession.
Yesterday, I might have listened to said confession and declined to absolve him.
Today, I’ll listen.
I’ll take his confession.
I’ll absolve him.
Because Andrea is right.
It’s bullshit.
God will not let this scum into heaven, and if that means I’m going to Hell, too, because there is no salvation in confession and everything I’ve ever confessed to Him was for naught, I’m fine with that.
Especially if this animal and the others I’ve eradicated burn right alongside me.
I don’t greet him, do nothing other than maintain eye contact with him.
When I jerk my chin upright, telling him silently to follow me, he scowls, and I know that’s because he’s used to having his ass kissed. These bastards get the royal treatment by far too many, but not me.
A few inches taller than Corelli, I glance down at him, irritated to note he’s armed. His reputation tells me that it’s a dagger. Talk of Corelli and his knife skills go hand in hand in the city, but that he’s brought a weapon to church disgusts me even more.
And things aren’t exactly improved when, after settling in the booth, for some reason, I’m taken right back to goddamn Oran.
For endless moments, the tiny walls, the cramped space, and the pressure of my injured back against the chair are like being thrown in time to another day, another age.
I can scent blood in the air, mine , and the same cold sweat that would drench me from head to toe whenever I’d been beaten has returned with a vengeance. It didn’t matter how hot it was. I always felt cold. The stench, the screams, the click of guns being assembled—nightmare.
To head off the panic attack, I focus on the differences between then and now.
One, the faint lemon and beeswax scent of the polish the cleaners use.
Two, the scraping of the door after me. The way Corelli’s feet shuffle into the confessional and the chair creaking under his weight.
The overwhelming smell of pine-scented aftershave comes next, and each action is a prompt, a reminder that I’m not in Oran.
This isn’t Algeria.
I’m no longer helpless.
I can act.
Shivers run down my spine, not helped by the fact I’m bleeding again. I’m always weaker after I’ve taken the lash, but with last night’s events, I suppose it makes sense that I’m feeling it more than usual.
Normally, I just sleep. Yesterday, I didn’t do enough of that.
I’m not about to complain, but still, it explains why I’m shaky. Purging my sins to Andrea, and dealing with the emotional volcano that erupted in the aftermath, probably didn’t help much either.
I run my finger over my upper lip, hating that sweat’s beading there.
The hatred for this booth, this act, this man, and this life overwhelms me. It’s such a stark contrast to how free I felt earlier this morning when I was flying in Andrea’s arms...
She’s the only slice of paradise I’ll ever feel in my miserable existence, and the desire to act, to make a change bombards me.
Today is my last as a priest.
I knew that was coming. I’m no hypocrite. I’ve broken my vows, and I have to resign my post—news that will likely come as a relief to the Church. But I’d intended on sticking around, letting my replacement take over the parish while showing him the ropes.
There’ll be none of that now.
I need out.
And I want Andrea.
At my side.
Glued to me.
Making the sudden decision after not even twenty-four hours of knowing her?
Insanity.
Perhaps she has infected me with her delusions, but I can deal with it as long as she’s there to fill in the tears in my heart and soul. As long as she knows who and what I am and wants me anyway.
What I can’t deal with is this man.
This life.
This world.
“Father,” Corelli greets when I remain silent. “The roof looks like it might need patching up.”
“It doesn’t,” I tell him abruptly, well aware of his game. “The food bank needs filling though.”
Silence falls, and I know he’s still surprised about my lack of ass-kissing. There’ll be none of that from me.
“I’ll make sure the shelves are filled then. Nice and tight.”
“That donation will be appreciated. You may begin your confession.”
He clears his throat. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been fifty weeks since my last confession.”
A regular priest might chide him for that. But, as I’d ascertained last night, I’m not a regular priest.
Andrea couldn’t have rammed that truth home to me more.
I don’t say a word, merely let him carry on digging his own grave as he reveals just under a year’s worth of sins in a handful of minutes.
“Things got out of hand last night,” he eventually shares.
He’s mentioned fucking around on his wife and what sounds like some kind of art theft, but the way his voice deepens tells me this is the real reason for his presence—he killed someone.
“They tried to break into my place. Couldn’t allow that. Had to send a message. Capisce? ” He clears his throat again. “You know Remo’s, don’t you, Father? Over by Piazza del Popolo?”
What did he want? A review on Tripadvisor?
I grunt. “ Si , I know it.”
“Come in later. I’ll make sure you eat well.”
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth because that invitation might serve a purpose, I murmur, “Thank you, my child.”
Because I took the ‘bribe,’ I can hear him soften up. All is back to being right in his world.
He didn’t know how to handle someone who wasn’t waiting on his every word, but now that I’ve taken that particular offer, I know he thinks I’ll be open to more.
Some priests do this.
I never have.
Rubbing my bottom lip between my fingers, I murmur, “Continue.”
“ Bene , last night, there was a situation. I ended up pulling my weapon and a few people got killed. They shouldn’t have come into my territory though.” His attempt at justification has me rolling my eyes. “I had to protect my turf.”
“How many died?”
“Six.”
I crack my knuckles. “All their blood is on your hands?”
“ Si ,” he mutters grimly. “It was a bad night.”
“Your grunts aren’t here. Nor have I seen them today. Was it all you?”
Silence.
I take that as a yes.
Which, not unsurprisingly, means he gave me the cliff notes of a confession.
Because I can’t stand to be near this bastard anymore, I mutter, “Three Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys are what I ask of you today.”
“Really?”
That he sounds cheerful tells me I’ve gone too easy on him. I won’t forever.
I endure sharing the same oxygen as him as I suffer through the prayer of absolution. “Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.”
“His mercy endures forever.”
Ordinarily, I’d conclude this interminable conversation by saying, “Your sins are forgiven, my child. Go in peace.” But I don’t.
He sits there.
Waiting.
I remain silent.
My jaw aches from grinding it, waiting for him to get the picture, and I don’t breathe easily until he exits the booth and heads for the pews.
His confession is like a drill to the temple. The hypocrisy, the lies, my part in it all.
The need to escape overwhelms me until, irate, erratic, frantic , I burst out of the confessional. The sudden explosion of sound echoes around the chapel, jerking his attention onto me before he returns to his penance.
That’s when I see her again.
Before I have a chance to regulate my breathing, she’s standing before me, like the light peering through the clouds.
I inhale deeply enough that it helps calm me, and her eyes soften at the sight.
She’s beautiful.
So fucking beautiful that I don’t even know what she’s doing here.
Unless...
My throat closes.
Maybe she is an angel.
My angel.
My salvation.