27. Savio
CHAPTER 27
Savio
Back To Black - Amy Winehouse
U naware of my epiphany, Andrea studies me in turn.
Taking note of her outfit, I see that she’s wearing what she did yesterday but doesn’t look like a bag of dirty laundry. Her loose-limbed stance makes my dick hard, which is a miracle in itself considering the state of me.
There’s an air about her that’s no longer innocent.
Knowing.
I want to grimace because I tarnished that. I took her virginity, and more blood stains my soul as a result, but I find comfort in knowing the truth...
The second I’m free from this life, she’ll be mine.
I’ll make reparations.
I’ll be worthy of her.
I’ll earn the right to keep her.
In the low light, her hair shouldn’t glint the way it does, but there are little twinkles that glitter. It reminds me of the halo of light around her from the hall last evening, the gold shimmer of her wings as she rode me, and I shiver, suddenly feeling the presence of the Divine.
I don’t think she’s Nephilim, but I do believe she is in my path for a reason.
She is my destination.
In her anorak, camisole, skinny jeans, and short boots, she looks like a tourist. Something about her isn’t polished like most Italian women tend to be, and my priest’s heart appreciates that.
She is without artifice.
There isn’t a scrap of makeup on her face, and her hair is mussed from having just left my bed.
I almost wish I’d been there to see her wipe my blood off her face.
She’d rolled around in it last night like it was the surf on the shore.
My little freak.
My lips twitch at the thought, and the confession, the flashbacks, all of it disappears as she asks, “Father? May I speak with you?”
Her eyes sparkle, twinkling with amusement, telling me she’s aware we’re not alone.
Corelli’s atonement is quiet, making me wonder if he’s even saying his prayers or checking the notifications on his phone, but I don’t care.
The notion is quite freeing.
There’s none of the bitterness inside me that I’m used to.
The desire to make him pay hasn’t faded, but she’s tempered it.
“Of course, my child,” I rumble. “Come with me.”
I guide her to the north transept, which gives us access to a clerical part of the building. When we’re inside, tucked away in the corridor, free from the public eye, her hand slips into mine, and I hold it tight.
After all, I’ve chosen my path.
Her .
“I felt you.”
Her words have me blinking. Then I turn to look at her as, even accepting she’s unusual, that bewilders me. “What?”
“I could feel you were upset.” She shrugs, lets out a soft hum, and her grin appears. “Go on, tell me I’m crazy.”
Without even pausing to take a breath, I reply, “You’re crazy, but in this instance, I don’t know what you mean.”
“I was sound asleep,” she explains softly, her hand trailing over the one stand in the hall. It bears a crucifix, a decorative piece that’s hundreds of years old. Her touch is both reverent and irreverent. I want to feel it. I want it on me. I— “Then I woke up and I just knew you weren’t doing okay.” She shrugs again. “I figured you’d be here. Thought I’d check on you.”
She has no reason to lie, but her certainty merely cements what I’m coming to embrace with her.
“You didn’t think I had regrets?” I question carefully.
“Nope.” Her confidence is another thing that takes me aback. “This is meant to be. I already told you?—”
“You’re the Eve to my Adam.” I roll my eyes. “Yes, yes, I know.”
She lets out a short laugh. “You’ve changed your tune.”
“Someone sang to me, made me see the light,” I tell her softly as I pull her toward my office.
It’s a plain room. Nothing more than a desk, a wall of books, and a small altar. An old-fashioned heater that’s forged of cast iron and painted a muddy brown takes up a good portion of a wall. Images of Christ on the cross and several crucifixes are fixed to the others.
When I perch on the desk, I watch as she flutters around the room, touching everything. My lips twitch at the sight of the butterfly in my office, but I ask, “What did you feel this morning?”
“I don’t know. Like you couldn’t breathe. It was strange. I haven’t felt it before.”
“You took it as a sign?”
“Of course.” She grins at me over her shoulder, and I have no choice but to grin back.
I shake my head, though, murmuring, “I had a flashback.”
Her smile immediately dampens, making me mourn the loss. “A bad one?”
“No worse than usual.” I suck in a breath. “It was short.”
“I’m glad. Can I do anything?”
Rather than answer, I shift away from my desk to the set of shelves behind it. I retrieve a book and then return to my original position. Ignoring her frown, I hold out my hand for her. Instantly, she’s there. Her curious fingers reach for the book in my grasp.
A cheeky smile curves her lips. “You’ve read my work?” Her gaze takes in the state of the paperback. “A lot, it would seem.”
“This is my favorite,” I confess.
“Were you starstruck yesterday?” she teases. “Is that why you broke off your sermon?”
I tap her chin. “Don’t sound so happy about that.”
“Why not? Everything about you makes me happy, Savio. If my words have brought you any solace, then I’m glad I decided to put them down on paper.”
She’s so earnest with the bewildering things she says.
Sighing, I slip my arms around her waist. “I picked one up when I saw the news about you.”
“You enjoyed it?”
“I’ve enjoyed everything I’ve read of yours, which is every title.” Sheepishly, I ask, “When are you finishing London’s Burning ?”
A pleased laugh escapes her. “You’re genuinely a fan?”
“Truly.”
The joy in her eyes has me rubbing my nose against hers.
Swallowing down a sudden bout of nerves, I press my face into her throat and hear the sound of my book tumbling onto the desk as she tunnels into my embrace.
She smells of me. Of us.
“You took enough time to wash off the blood, hmm?” But nothing else. Just came straight to me. My little homing pigeon .
“Didn’t think you’d appreciate me walking around covered?—”
“No,” I concede, smiling, but my smile dies when I think of the man still in my church.
“Who was he?”
It’s eerie how she does that. How she sometimes knows what I’m thinking and where my thoughts have turned.
“Marco Corelli? He’s a two-bit drug dealer.”
“Seriously?” She gasps.
“Yes.” I break the seal of confession without a second thought. “He killed someone last night.”
“H-How are you feeling?” she queries warily.
“Homicidal?” I mock, stunning myself with the levity in my tone.
“Ugh, really?”
I pull back so she can see my arched brow. Her fingers trace it, and I let her, accepting that I need her affection. It grounds me. Reminds me I’m a man—not a priest.
I settle on: “It cements a truth home,” for an answer.
“What kind of truth?”
“That you’re right. I wear the vestments, but that’s it.”
Her lips twist. “You’ve seen the light. I wondered if I’d have to fight you to recognize that.”
“No fighting required.”
“How are you feeling?” Her hand brushes over my temple like a lock of hair has fallen loose, but I showered and gelled it this morning after I dealt with the blood on the wall.
There’s no reason for her to do that aside from the need to connect with me, and fuck if I don’t need that connection.
“I’m feeling better,” I say slowly, not altogether surprised that I mean it.
“What about the drug dealer?”
“He killed someone. I’m finding it hard—” My throat closes. “He doesn’t deserve to live. Everyone lets him get away with murder. I would have already dealt with him if he came to confession more often.”
My past and present selves are in discord. I’ve been this Savio without Andrea far longer than I’ve had her, so the tension creates a storm that urges me into gently straightening, being careful with her before I head for the window.
As I peer onto the street, my gaze drifts over the homeless around me.
There are three who have patches in this locale, and in the next hour or so, more will appear, seeking food.
Lisabetta, Matteo, and Gianni are all in place, huddled under their sheets, but as I stare at Gianni, who’s in front of his supermarket, tucked into the doorway because there are vents that let out heat during the night, something about his positioning comes across as peculiar to me.
Matteo and Lisabetta are in fetal positions under their blankets, but their bodies practically buzz with tension.
I always feel guilty for having a spare bed when they’re around. I actually asked the archdiocese if someone could use it while the room was empty and they refused.
I’ve been tempted, several times, to break that rule, but there’s no rhythm or rhyme as to when they’ll permit someone to stay there, and though these three have all showered in my home, they’re surprisingly uncomfortable with my allowing them to do so.
Lisabetta usually asks me once a month, and I have to assume that’s in alignment with her period. I can’t even imagine having to deal with that on the streets. I make sure to give her more money than usual around that time.
Matteo typically showers before he goes to his weekly confession, but Gianni’s only showered a handful of times, mostly when he’s been beaten.
Still, there’s something about his posture that grates at my awareness. His body is oddly sprawled out. One of his legs is under the now-filthy sleeping bag I gave him a few months ago when the weather turned bitter, but the other isn’t.
Lisabetta and Matteo are tense from the cold.
Why isn’t he?
“Savio?”
When Andrea’s hand brushes my shoulder, I jump in surprise.
“Savio?” she repeats, and I hear her concern.
Turning to her, I mutter, “One of my friends, he’s—” I don’t linger long enough to explain. Instinct prompts me into action.
I rush from the office toward a side entrance that takes me to the community hall.
When I’m outside, I hear her heavy footsteps pounding after me. The thought crosses my mind that she shouldn’t be running, but she is, and I know she’ll carry on until I stop.
Within seconds, I’m at the storefront, and I crouch beside Gianni. The stench, as always, hits me first. There’s never a day where it doesn’t take me back to Oran—today, it’s not enough to trigger a flashback, but for the uncomfortable memory of smelling like this to ghost my mind.
When I touch his shoulder, he moans, and not in sleepiness.
I pull back his blanket some, disturbed when I feel wetness?—
“Blood,” Andrea rasps from behind me. “Are you bleeding again?”
The question has me peering at her. “Probably, but that’s not me.”
Blood has no scent unless there’s a lot of it, and seeing the scarlet coating my fingers makes my brain freeze.
“Shit!” Andrea mutters, and I hear her fumble with her phone before she calls for an ambulance.
Gianni’s eyes drift open and he gives me the most sheepish of grins. “Morning, Father.”
“Gianni, what’s?—”
He blows out a wet breath then painstakingly slurs, “Better if don’t know, Father. You’re good man. Don’t need get into… trouble for me.”
I pat him down, trying to find the source of the blood. When I uncover it, he lets out a sharp hiss once I put pressure on the wound.
I watch him waver in and out of consciousness. “ETA on the ambulance?”
Andrea whispers, “Eight minutes.”
Too long.
I know it. Perhaps she does too.
Quickly, I unfasten the violet stole I wore for confession, ruffle it up, and hold it against the wound that’s not bleeding enough. Not because he’s getting better, but because his heartbeat is too sluggish to pump more of it onto the sidewalk below us.
How he’s still conscious, I’m not sure.
“Gianni, who did this to you?” I rasp, needing to know. Needing to make amends.
If someone attacked him and that same person assaulted Riccardo the night before, I have to visit the carabinieri .
“Messed up, Father. Should have stayed away,” he slurs.
“From whom? Tell me! I’ll report it to the police.”
Out of nowhere, from weak to strong, Gianni’s hand snaps around my wrist. “You mustn’t.” His eyes are feverish. “Corelli dangerous. You not get involved.”
Corelli?!
“You’re one of the men he killed last night.”
“Just took while to die,” he says with a croaky laugh.
“What did you get yourself into?” I demand, furious at him.
This is probably why he refused my money last night, dammit.
I know the homeless take on jobs. He isn’t always here, even though his stuff remains close to his patch in front of the store once night falls.
“Nothing good, Father. Nothing good.” He’s starting to slur even worse now. “Don’t know how stayed alive this long. Maybe it was see you—” His grin makes a cheeky reappearance. “You going save my soul?” The words resonate more than I could even imagine, and he seals them by muttering, “Only God can help me now.”
Her gasp reminds me that I’m not alone. She squeezes my shoulder when, for the final time as a priest, I give the viaticum to a man who was forgotten by the many and who’ll be remembered by the few.
But I’ll remember.
And I’ll act, too.
As tears drip down my cheeks, I say farewell to that cheerful smile, praying Gianni finds peace in death like he never experienced in life.