Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
LUCA
T he face in the mirror is gaunt. Damn sure weary. Doing good has taken its toll on my body and soul. Because, as a Father of the cloth, I’m not supposed to be trolling the night like a vigilante. The thing is, I’m not a man who can sit back and watch my city crumble, either.
“Father, we’ve got her,” a voice says, breaking me from my spiraling thoughts.
Gripping the sides of the sink basin tightly, I turn to find the eyes of Ardesia Ricci. I’d baptized his son when he was only a year old, officiated his wedding before that, and now he’s before me with blood spattered on his cinnamon-colored skin.
Sniffling tugs my eyes to the woman I’d recovered only moments ago. I made it as far as this bathroom and came inside to reflect. Why? I don’t know. I’ve been working with the Ricci crime family for years to combat the trafficking in this area.
At first, I would have panic attacks when I got home from going with them on a mission. Full-on anxiousness would overtake me at the thought of the church finding out who I truly am and my life being snatched away from me.
I’m a man of God. I always have been. I’ve always known I would be a priest. Even when my mother told me it would be impossible to give her grandchildren if I became one.
“You alright, Father? I can take her out to the vans for you. Why don’t you get on home?” Ardesia says. Condescension laces his tone, but I’m too tired to scold him.
One could say I’m too weary—something I’m never supposed to be, as the example of the Bible walking on two feet.
“That’s good, Ardesia. That’s a good idea.” I let my back straighten, clapping him on the shoulder.
Human trafficking in the Big Apple is becoming more common than I’d like to acknowledge, but I feel an absurd, profound responsibility to do so.
“Go on, Father. Get home and take a shower. You’ll feel better. We’ve got it from here,” Ardesia says.
I nod, looking down at the woman once more as I pass. I think better of it and turn back, crouching before her.
She’s blonde and beautiful, only eighteen. Her eyes are still leaking, but her shaking has stopped. The cassock I wear gives people a sense of calm. An idea that someone is here to help them.
I cross myself in the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost. “These men are going to help you get your life back. Do not let this define you, understand me? The Bible tells us that God is within us all. We will not fall; God will help us during the day’s break. (Psalm 46:5) Tomorrow is a new day, child. Grasp it by the reins and control it. You are stronger than what happened to you.”
She lifts on her knees and wraps around me, nearly knocking me back on my ass. “Thank you, Father.”
She’s going to be okay.
When I stand and leave, a shining love in my heart is unbound and flowing as if I’m gleaming from within with His light, from doing His work.
I get outside into the alleyway where I’d left my car, and now it’s a massive scene of Ricci men getting girls from the abandoned building into the vans for transport to the team of medical professionals waiting to see them, and from there, the police will take over.
This all started because of a confession I couldn’t let go of. The faceless man stepped out of my confessional, leaving lighter.
I was sitting on the other side of the screen, my jaw dropping and my heart hammering.
I had to do something. So I went to the only powerful man I knew in this city. Ardesia Ricci, head of one of the five families , is the husband of Brynne Bianchi, head of another family in the organization. Both of which have been instrumental in slowing the flow of human trafficking in this city and at its ports.
However, the things I’ve seen while working with the Grim Reaper of New York have my faith wavering.
And for a man of the cloth, that’s the worst thing that could happen to me. My faith needs to be as solid as the walls of the cathedral I preach inside. But as of late, it’s not.
I’ve seen the worst of humanity since I stepped into a darker world with Ardesia and his men. He warned me that this would happen if I went down this path with them. I hadn’t listened.
Now, I’m a priest in a world of innocents becoming prey while I spout the gospel and lead communion.
And even though I knew this side of the city existed, I hadn’t been ready to face it head-on.
Because I don’t have the conviction to believe that god is going to fix this for us, I think that man will have to step in on behalf of the innocent lives at stake.
And we have. But the question is, where does it end? When is the point at which I lose my confidence altogether? Will there come a time when I walk away from the father I serve? The one I’ve led my parishioners to think is all-knowing and loving.
As I pull around to the back of the church, under the small carport next to the rectory, I let my head rest against the steering wheel.
To keep going in this world, in this life, is taking so much out of me.
Too much, in fact.
My phone rings, and I look down to find Ardesia’s number on the screen. I silence it and let it ring to voicemail.
I’ve saved enough lives tonight, and I need to rest. The Lord says to come to him when you are weary, to give your burdens to him, and unload yourself. But the last thing I want to do tonight is talk to him. He’s allowed too much damage to occur under his watch.
So once I’m inside, I quickly get out of my cassock and into some low-slung gray sweats. Sliding into bed, I forgo the prayers and let sleep cradle me in its arms.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was two weeks ago,” the breathy voice on the other side of the confessional screen mutters.
Oh hell, she’s back.
Facing forward, I let my head drop back to the confessional wall behind me.
A steady breath hovers through the space as I wring my hands and wait for her to speak again.
“I’ve had immoral thoughts…” she trails off, steadying herself the best she can.
Don’t we all?
For the longest time, I thought myself unworthy of my position because of the images and thoughts that would grace my brain. I thought he could see them and knew my heart and soul enough to cast lightning through the church’s steeples and strike me down where I stood.
But it never happened.
And that’s when my thoughts turned sinister, testing him more and more.
He never came for me.
Still hasn’t.
So, part of me wavered with the need to confess.
I’ve been teetering on the edge of my faith for far too long. Most days, it feels as if a slight breeze could throw me over the line of sin, and then Satan will grasp hold of my ankles and drag me to hell.
Then maybe I’ll know what it’s like to sink my cock into a…
The thought dies as the voice continues, “I’ve thought of having sex with my neighbor more than a hundred times since we last spoke. And sometimes, my husband is sitting right beside me. Father, I’m so lustful. I know God isn’t happy with me. How can he be? I’m a slut in sheep’s clothing!” Her sobs make the words less comical.
She’s one of my favorites.
“And did you do the penance I charged you with last time you were here?” I ask her.
She shifts to the other side of the screen. “Yes, Father. But it didn’t make a difference. I’m going to hell because of these thoughts, right?”
“No, my child. You’re not. You haven’t cheated on your husband. You’ve remained true and concerned about the thoughts. You’ve asked me, your priest and spiritual leader, for help. You’re taking all the steps to stay in His light. He sees that. Satan is a powerful force, always seeking parishioners for his church of the damned, and he won’t have you. Because you’re stronger,” I tell her.
She tells me her thoughts, and then they become my own. My body rises to the occasion of all the imagery she’s painting.
I used to loathe myself for how I’d respond to what I heard during confessionals. But now I’m convinced it’s just the bodily response from an entire life of celibacy.
Well, until that one moment when I’d lost myself and lost the control I had on the reins of my life and faith.
It wasn’t long after breaking the seal of confession and after being told about a massive trafficking ring close to the church. The confessor laid it all out: his involvement and how he’d become remorseful and wanted forgiveness.
Of course, I sat with the knowledge far longer than I wanted to because breaking the seal is a big deal—a massive deal in the Catholic church.
I would be asked to leave if anyone besides the Ricci and Bianchi families knew about it.
We recovered thirty women the night I confided in Ardesia Ricci about what I was told, and my body never felt so alive before.
I went home on a high like no other.
I helped.
I saved people.
Even though my job implies I save people daily, I felt like I’ve done glaring good that the naked eye could witness while working with Ardesia. And it’s done something to me.
The next day, I sat down to hear confession again, and this voice rasped through the other side of the screen, detailing every immoral dream she’d had about her and the neighbor she’d been lusting after.
And without even thinking, I’d lifted my cassock and run my hand over my aching length on the other side of the confession. Her breathy voice regaled me with enough material that I’d come silently, violently onto the confessional floor, eyes crossing, and faith all but leaving me in blessed pulses.
That was six months ago, and even though I’ve repented for my sins and done the work to get back to normal, I’m still reeling.
I’ve continued to work with Ardesia Ricci and the Bianchi family solely because of how good I felt doing their work. We’re cleaning the streets and harbors of New York City one at a time.
However, if the Vatican or any other clergy members learn what I’ve been up to or know I’ve been unfaithful in my vows, I’ll be removed from my post and relieved of my job.
But some days, I wonder if that would be a bad thing?
I scrub my face.
“You need to leave these immoral thoughts in the past. Purge yourself of Satan. A hundred Hail Marys with your rosary as you visually burn the imagery you’ve been lusting over should gain you the forgiveness you seek, child.”
There is a sniffle from the other side of the screen. “Thank you, Father.”
When the door closes on the other side, signaling she’s gone, I look down through the darkness at the throbbing length beneath my cassock.
I know I should have someone hear my confession, but I also know I’ll find myself with a one-way ticket to the lowest levels of hell to meet Satan himself if I do so.
So, I carry on. Repenting and living in the dark corners that I hope no holy eyes can see me within.