Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
SLOANE
“ O ne such example,” Father Russo says as he looks over the parishioners gathered before him, “is from Psalm 73:26, where the psalmist said this: My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. ”
He lets his words settle over the room for effect, and it works. Because my heart warms, and my body vibrates with the sheer power he commands over the room. You could hear a pin drop in here, and there have to be hundreds of people at Mass today.
“So, while your heart and flesh might fail, with God in your heart and soul, you have all the strength you need to go forward. To take that next step. And each of you here today has let him into your hearts and souls. So, whatever you have going on, leave this place today knowing that you have the tools and the light within you to take whatever next step you need to take. Rather, it is a rough day at work that’s upcoming, or healing a past trauma that you have to face head-on…”
As Father Russo’s words fade, and my ears fill with the pounding of my heart, I realize that today’s sermon was more for me than for the parish. Can he do that? Know that someone amongst his flock is suffering and preach to them solely from his apse?
Is that allowed?
Or am I in such internal turmoil that his words ring true and feel like they’re targeting me?
Either way, a tear brims and falls over my lower lid. I drop my head and swipe it away as Father Russo has the parish bow their heads to close Mass with prayer.
It’s been three weeks since I got here with Dante Ricci, and while Father Russo has been very accommodating and kind, I’m in a world I never thought I’d become a part of.
One with communion and Mass, devout people surrounding me constantly. There are church functions almost daily, and Father Russo leads Mass four times a week, given a break only when the other priests take up the different masses. He lives on the grounds in a small home built off the back of the building. A rectory, he told me.
It’s so that he can be close by if he’s needed. But it makes this place his entire life.
The parish says amen, and I lift my head. The room’s emotion breaks as everyone stands. Some linger and talk, while others head for the doors to rush back to their busy lives.
I remain sitting, catching Father Russo’s eyes only once as he grabs his bible and heads towards the back of the apse for his office.
Breathing in deeply, I look at the steepled roof and the colored lights dancing off people as they pass. The stained glass windows are breathtaking, but I still feel this isn’t the world I belong in.
Usually, while he preaches, I stay in my room. There are ample things to do in his home, and it’s the first time I haven’t been juggling two jobs and dead on my feet.
I’ve caught up on television, watching trashy reality shows that make my soul happy. I’ve almost forgotten that someone’s looking for me. That my life hangs in the balance as the Ricci family battles it out with Matteo Barone over who owns me.
And to think, I was a free woman only a couple of months ago. The way my world has turned upside down is ridiculous.
I finally decide to leave the church, but instead of returning to the rectory, I meander toward the door that says no parishioners beyond this point .
Technically, I’m not a parishioner.
I push inside and find a hallway with doors leading to the left and right. There’s shuffling and sounds of drawers opening and closing toward the end of the hall. I follow them down to where I find Father Russo removing his cassock and hanging it up.
He’s in slacks and a button-up long sleeve beneath it. And the way each muscle ripples beneath his shirt has me licking my lips in a way I shouldn’t.
He turns, startled when he sees me standing in the doorway. Clasping his heart, he says, “Jesus, Sloane. You scared me.”
I smile, taking a seat in front of his desk.
His name is elegantly scrawled in gold letters on the nameplate at the very edge. I run my fingers over it, feeling the rough brush where each letter is engraved.
“Is a man of the cloth allowed to take the lord’s name in vain?” I ask, fluttering my eyes up at him as he stands behind his desk, looking at me as if I’ve lost my entire mind.
Or maybe he’s losing his. Either way, neither of us is alone.
He smirks. “I didn’t take his name in vain; I simply called it out in a moment of weakness.”
A smartass comment bubbles on my tongue, but I keep it in. Somehow.
“You came to Mass today. I didn’t expect to see you.”
“Didn’t you?” I tease, sitting back and crossing my legs.
I’d worn one of the dresses Ardesia had dropped off yesterday at Father Russo’s behest.
His beautiful, dark brows furrow. “What do you mean?”
I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Seems to me you knew I was coming and tailored the sermon to address me. Plus, I did tell you I would.”
His wicked grin lifts his face, brightening his dark eyes. “I’ve heard that more times than I can count. Sometimes, when God moves you to come to Mass, it’s because the message is something you’re meant to hear. I’ll admit, even though you said you were coming, I didn’t expect you to attend.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes again. “I don’t believe in any of this, you know? Sorry if I’m being rude. I just…”
He puts his hand up. “You don’t have to believe what I believe, Sloane.”
I wish he’d stop saying my name like that.
Like he wants to fuck it.
I almost remind him he asked me to attend today.
I bite my lip, and he pauses, his eyes drifting over my mouth.
“Isn’t that your entire job, Father? To make me believe?”
He laughs, and it makes my insides tingle. I can’t deny that Father Russo is attractive, and I can’t deny the way I’ve watched him when he thinks I’m not looking.
And last night, I had an immoral dream about him I should probably confess to. If I was that kind of girl, that is.
He treats me like a glass full of cracks that could shatter at any moment. And hell, maybe I am. But it’s grating my fucking nerves to no end, being the subject of so much pity.
“No,” he says, pulling me from my head. “My job is to dissect and explain scripture to the parish. I deliver whatever message God puts into my heart so that it might move and affect my parishioners so that they live in His light.”
The way he speaks about his job, you’d think he’d be lit up with elevated power. But he isn’t. His face and eyes reveal something is going on internally with the father. This humanizes him, though, making him seem more like one of us rather than one of God’s chosen.
“How old are you, Father?” I don’t know why or how the question blurted from my mouth, but I didn’t let the shock at my boldness show on my face as his brows tugged together.
“Thirty-eight,” he replies, turning toward his computer to hide a look I can’t digest now.
He busies himself on the computer, clicking away at keys. Silence permeates the room, but it’s not an awkward one. Nothing with Father Russo is awkward.
While I’ve been in the presence of plenty of men who made me feel uncomfortable, I’m at ease with him.
I know I can’t look too far into it, though.
He’s a man of god. A wholly untouchable man. One that I know I should stop picturing indecently, but can’t seem to stop.
“How are you doing, Sloane?” His smooth voice carries across the desk, and my skin prickles with awareness at its soft touch.
It almost pisses me off: his concern and empathy for me.
Because for so long, I’ve been alone, raising myself, dodging the world—until it caught me and threw me into a basement.
“I’m fine.” I cross my arms over my chest in defense, and he notes the action with his eyes flicking down toward them momentarily.
“Are you?” he counters, pinning me with his chocolate glare.
“Father Russo, I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl who’s lived independently for as long as I can remember.”
He winces as if he feels guilty about how I’ve had to live. But why?
Sure, he said he was my dad’s friend when they were younger, but that doesn’t mean he’s responsible for anything that happened to me.
“Luca,” he breathes, and all my anger at his prodding falls away, shattering like a storm window.
“What?” I barely get out.
“Call me Luca,” he repeats, and I have to control my shaky breath that expels.
“Is that allowed?”
He sits back in his chair, his defined body flexing as he keeps me hostage with his dark eyes. “Why would it not be allowed? I have friends and family, Sloane. Do you think they all call me Father?”
“Ardesia does,” I counter.
He rolls his eyes, sitting back forward again. “He’s an annoying little shit.”
I laugh, even though I shouldn’t. “Are you allowed to curse? And Ardesia Ricci is not little.”
He shakes his head, his face bemused. “Are you going to count up my sins today or have an actual conversation with me?”
“Both.” I smirk.
“Alright, then. What’s the tally?”
“Well, you’re not supposed to have me living with you. You cursed, and I’m still unsure whether you took the lord’s name in vain, so I’ve got you at three for today.”
At this, his beaming smile reaches his eyes, and he stands and rounds the desk, sitting off to my left against the dark-stained wood, his leg nearly touching mine.
“Three sins? What do you think I should do about it?”
I can’t help myself; I stand, my face far too close to his for our sanity or purity. “You should probably confess.”
This hardens his face, all playfulness thrown into the proverbial wind. And now, his arms come over his chest in defense.
I’ve struck a chord.
But the longer I remain standing face to face in his aura, the more our breathing shifts into dangerous cadences.
“Sloane,” he whispers, and it pops the bubble of whatever the hell is between us that is building to unbearable pressure.
He clears his throat and looks forward.
“You’re celibate, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
His face turns back towards mine, shock wavering on it. “How can you even think about?—”
The implication of his words and what he means behind them slams into me. He wants to know how I could be attracted to him after I was just raped.
He still doesn’t understand.
“I’ve spent my life shoving things that ought to be dealt with away, Luca,” I tell him softly, remaining too close for safety. His eyes don’t shy away from my gaze. “I’ve had far worse done to me than what Matteo Barone did, and that’s just the plain truth. Was it horrible? Yes. But will I wallow in it and work through it right now? No. And that’s my choice, Luca. Not yours.”
The second use of his name seems to draw him closer to me, as if I’m the flame he can’t avoid.
“I’m not good for you, Sloane.”
“What? I didn’t…”
He shakes his head, lifting his finger and placing it over my lips to silence me. His finger on my mouth is as soft as a shadow splayed on the wall behind him, present but never making a sound.
“You did. And trust me, in another world, I would. Goddamned you, I would. But I’m too old for you, and not even that. I’m a man who could never please you as you deserve to be.”
His words enshroud me and make me warm.
So fucking warm.
He leans forward, pressing his forehead to mine. His finger falls away from my lips, and our breathing tangos.
I will ignore that he has been thinking about how I deserve to be pleasured.
Well, I’m going to try.
“You took the lord’s name in vain again,” I point out.
“So, four sins, then?” he whispers, pulling back and looking at me from above as he straightens.
I smile. “Four.”