Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
S arah
I shiver, both from the chill of old memories and the cooling bath water. I kick the drain with my foot and step out to wrap up in another fluffy, warm towel. I pad back to the vanity and finish digging through my duffle bag. All of my daily items are here. Deodorant, toothpaste, combs, brushes, makeup, moisturizer, and even leave-in conditioner.
What man would know to grab all this stuff? Does he have a henchwoman?
Regardless, I finish up my routine, then dig through the clothes, a respectable collection of jeans, yoga pants, shirts, underwear and a pair of sneakers.
“This is good, right? You don’t pack a bag for someone you’re going to murder, right?” I ask myself. Right? So, I get dressed, comb out my hair, put makeup on, and start pacing the room.
Wait. What mafia boss has a lock on his bedroom door that keeps someone inside?
I creep over to the door, like I expect it to burst open at any time. Instead, it opens on well-oiled, silent hinges. I tiptoe through the house, before the unmistakable smell of coffee drifts over. I make my way down the stairs, past the other bedroom and several closed doors, and then emerge into the open living room. On the far side is a kitchen and informal dining area.
Seated on a stool at the kitchen island is a man with short, neatly-styled dark hair dressed in all black. He’s facing away from me and casually reading the newspaper.
“Um, hi,” I say tentatively.
The mystery man spins on his chair. “Good morning, Sarah,” he says pleasantly. He’s got a very familiar set of dark brown eyes and the same strong jaw. His black hair has a few streaks of grey. He’s clean-shaven and smiles reassuringly. I scan over his black on black outfit, but stop at the buttoned neckline and square white collar.
“You’re a priest?” I blurt.
He laughs and gestures to the coffee pot. “I certainly hope so, or else I’ve been celibate for no reason whatsoever.”
I walk to the kitchen and grab a mug from an open cabinet, then fill it from the stainless-steel French press sitting on the island.
“Cream is in the fridge, if you need it.”
“Oh. Ah, no thank you.”
He smiles again. “Sugar?”
“Do you think he has Splenda?”
“No, but there is a bag of monk fruit in the pantry, next to the coffee beans.” He points off to the side of the kitchen at an unmarked door. “He thinks it’s hilarious, monk fruit.” Then the man waves his hand over his outfit.
I smile and take my cup into the pantry. The massive walk-in pantry that includes an entire second fridge. I return and find him causally flipping through his paper again. He looks up and nods at the open stool across from him, which I take.
“Sooo,” I start, before abruptly realizing I have no idea what to say. I sip the remarkably good coffee instead.
The priest closes his paper and turns to face me directly. “He did not want you to be alone when you came out of the room.”
“Afraid I’m going to stab him with a kitchen knife when he comes back? Or chew my way through the door?”
He laughs. It’s a pleasant, relaxed sound. “I got the impression he didn’t want you any more upset than you would already be, given the circumstances.”
“The kidnapping circumstances?” I ask.
“Yes, those.” He sips his coffee. “Though to be fair, it’s not like he makes a habit of it, can’t blame him for not knowing all the ins and outs.”
I snort. “I find that highly doubtful.”
The priest nods sagely. “That’s reasonable.”
“So he sends a priest. To keep his kidnapee entertained.”
He shrugs. “More or less.”
I open and close my mouth a few times, trying to form words. Finally, I just blurt out, “But why?”
“Of the three of us, I’m supposedly the least threatening. Perks of the job and all.” He tugs at his collar and wiggles his eyebrows.
“Us?”
“Ah, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Alessandro De Luca. Vincent and Marco are my younger brothers.”
“You have got to be shitting me,” I blurt, dumbfounded.
He just smiles and makes a little bow.
“The head of the fucking mafia has a priest for a brother?”
“Can you think of anyone who would need a priest more?”
I laugh nervously. “For what? Last rites?”
The priests shrugs. “Yes, more often for confessions. I do hear a lot of confessions.”
“He goes to confession?”
“Of course, who would need it more?”
“Satan?”
“Naw, not Catholic.” He smiles at his joke. “Are you Catholic, Sarah?”
“Me? Um, yes. No. Sorta. It’s complicated.” Really fucking complicated, I think to myself.
The priest just nods sagely. “It usually is.”
“Are priests supposed to say that?” I try to square the image of this cheerful, witty man with the stuffy, scary ones from my childhood.
He shrugs. “I’m not a normal priest.” The man walks to the opposite counter and pulls out a notepad and pen from a drawer. “Before I forget, look through the fridge and see if there is anything you need.”
“Need?”
“Yes.”
“Like… to eat?”
“Or drink.”
I look from the notepad in his hand, to him, and back.
“Okay, look,” I set my cup down, harder than I meant to. Some of the coffee splashes out of the cup and onto the clean white marble of the island. “We’ve just about reached the end of my weird shit-o-meter. What the fuck is going on?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why am I here?” I can’t decide if I’m angry or scared. Probably both.
“He didn’t say.”
I throw my hands up in frustration and walk back into the living room and up to the giant windows that wrap around the space. I thump my forehead on the cool glass.
I hear footsteps behind me.
“I’ll answer what I can, but I won’t guess.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see him sit down on the far end of the sofa.
I turn, my arms crossed over my chest. “Is he going to kill me?”
The priest doesn’t blink, or hesitate. “No.”
I scoff. “You seem pretty certain of that. Inside information?” I point towards the sky.
He gives me another disarming smile. “No. But I know my brother.”
Great. Brotherly loyalty intact. “Sure, fine, fantastic.” I flinch at my sarcastic commentary. “I’m sorry, Father. You’ve been very nice. I’m just—I’m just scared.” I walk back through the apartment and to the bedroom I woke up in.