Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
PRIEST
“ H ow is it that the late Mrs. DiLustro still lives , when your papà remarried and the whole world thinks she’s dead?” Ivy demanded.
I rolled my shoulders and gestured toward the settee in the foyer, choosing to pace along the marble floor as I prepared to share the parts of my life that I wished I could forget. I wouldn’t give her the entire morbid story, but I knew I needed to offer her something after what she’d witnessed. I needed her to know that I was a good man, that there was a reason I did what I did, why I was who I was.
And so, I blew past the beginning and middle and landed right at the end, willing the memory not to drain me completely.
Dante and I stepped out of St. Gabriel’s Catholic School, our four guards walking ahead of us. We watched them check the area, then nod and usher us to Pa’s waiting car.
“Who’s ready to see the Yankees lose?” was Pa’s greeting as we slid into the back seat of his black Rolls-Royce. “That will teach your cousin Basilio a lesson. The Sox dominate the league. Show me any other team that’s won twenty-four consecutive series. They lead the majors in runs scored year after year, they’re unstoppable!”
“For sure,” Dante grumbled, probably mentally preparing for the game. It wasn’t uncommon for Dante and Basilio to get competitive, even if neither of them played the sport—which was the case with baseball. Emory and I just sat back and rolled our eyes, letting them bicker.
“How was school today, boys?”
“Boring,” Dante muttered.
“I got in trouble with Father Gabriel,” I said stiffly, lowering my eyes. I couldn’t bear to meet their gazes. The fear and disgust festered inside me, growing like a fungus, and I no longer knew how to deal with it. “I got the ruler over my knuckles.”
Among other things.
Once I was older and stronger, I’d be free of Father Gabriel and my mother. It was the only thing keeping me sane.
Pa scrubbed a hand over my hair, his gaze falling to my bruised knuckles. “What for?”
“I told him one day computers would rule the world.” I shifted in my seat and made sure not to let my voice crack. “And he called it”—and me, but I left that part out—“the devil’s work.”
I didn’t tell Pa that Father Gabriel and Mother were forcing me to join the priesthood, whipping me until I memorized every prayer. Making me recite them while Father Gabriel put his hands on me. But soon I’d be strong enough to fight.
My eyes burned, but I knew no tears would fall. They were all dried up.
I couldn’t say anything to Pa and Dante. I hated myself and my “pretty-boy face” that Father Gabriel loved so much.
“They will, and then we’ll hack into the Vatican’s mainframe.” Dante supported my theory about computers, but I couldn’t find it in my heart to be happy about it today.
Pa’s lips quirked as he reached to scrub his palms over our heads again. “That’s right, boys. Always have each other’s backs.”
“Pa, my hair,” Dante muttered. He was into girls now and had started to care about the way he looked. My lips curled in disgust at the idea of anyone fucking touching me. I’d sooner cut their fingers off and make a necklace out of them.
“I hope it exposes all the fuckers.” I realized my slip too late, but thankfully Pa took it in good humor and snorted.
"Destructive little fuckers,” Pa grouched as he put the car in drive. He sped down the streets of the third-largest city in the U.S., and I watched as famed restaurants and bars along the river passed us by for miles until we got on the highway.
But it was once we got moving and the world outside the windows became blurry that the knot in my stomach tightened. It signified each mile closer to the building that should be home but was anything but.
It didn’t matter that going with Pa to the baseball game would delay our alone time with Mother. When he dropped us back at home, we knew she would be there, waiting and ready to torture us.
I flicked a glance at Dante, his knuckles white and folded in his lap. His dark eyes met mine and he pulled me closer to him protectively.
“I know,” he whispered. “One of these days, I’m going to…”
The unspoken words were loud between us, charring both of our souls.
“What was that, son?” Pa asked from the front seat, but before Dante or I could say anything, his phone rang and his question remained unanswered as he flipped it open. “What is it?” he barked.
Several heartbeats passed and the sound of screeching tires followed as Pa took the first exit off the highway.
Dante and I shared a glance, then I shot a look over my shoulder. I could clearly see the three black cars tailing us—Pa’s and our bodyguards—swerving to stay in our eyesight.
“Fucking Irish and their leprechauns,” Pa cursed, then hung up the phone and flicked us a glance. “Just know this, boys. Our world is cruel, but we can never—” Then, as if he wanted to ensure his message got through to us, he added, “fucking ever hurt women and children. A real man never hurts a woman.”
“What happened, Pa?” Dante asked while my confused mind whirled over what he said. I had so many questions. What if a woman was evil and hurt everyone? Was it okay to fight back then?
I never got the chance to ask.
“I’m sorry, boys,” Pa gritted through clenched teeth. Whatever happened, it must have been bad. “Business calls. We’ll watch the Yankees lose some other time.”
My stomach lurched and I had to swallow the bile rising in my throat. I didn’t want to be home with Mother. Anything but that.
It wasn’t long before he pulled down our driveway and Dante and I jumped out of the car. He left the engine running—we never shut our cars off unless we were in his private garage. Pa instilled this rule in us in case there was a bomb set to explode upon triggering the ignition.
“Vittoria, we’re home.” No answer, but Pa didn’t seem to notice. “Work’s come up. I’m leaving the boys.”
Still no answer.
Pa just shrugged and hugged us before turning around and leaving us in hell.
Dante made his way into the kitchen while I tiptoed to my room. Once in there, I’d lock the door and keep out of sight. My bedroom was the first one on the second floor, and the moment I reached the top of the stairs, my heart started to thunder with hope. There it was, within sight, and I held my breath, scared she’d hear it.
Maybe today I’d manage to escape her.
Five steps away… four… three…
The stench of alcohol and heavy perfume registered too late. A hand yanked me around and I met my mother’s dark eyes, scowling down at me.
My eyes darted around her, worried Dante would appear. If he did, she’d berate him too, and I didn’t want him to get in trouble. Yes, he just turned eighteen and could leave now or when he finishes high school, but he stayed because of me. I was only sixteen.
“There he is,” she slurred. She grabbed my hair with one hand and slapped me upside the head with the other, then sneered, “My son.”
I flinched, but before I could pull away, another slap sent my head jerking to the right, and I stumbled back.
My hands fisted, the need to fight back burning through me. I wanted to punch her back, but Papà said a real man never hit a woman. A real man didn’t hurt a woman. Ever.
She pulled me back by the hair and another slap followed, stinging my face. Slaps turned into punches. Again. And again. And again.
I clenched my teeth, careful not to make a sound. I wouldn’t let Dante hear.
A woman her size shouldn’t be so strong, but my mother spent as much time exercising as she did drinking. I always wondered if she stayed fit to be able to do this to me and my brother.
She grabbed me by my hair again, fisting it tightly, and threw me into the solid handrail.
“Stop it,” I choked out.
Anger twisted her face, distorting it into an ugly mask. A belt appeared—or maybe it was there all along—and came down with a whoosh. The second strike followed close behind. Then the third.
I fell to my knees, my head in my hands. I wanted to strike her back. To end this. To end her . The strap landed again and again, harder each time, while my mind drifted somewhere else.
Somewhere safe.
Where nobody touched me. Where nobody hit me.
On my knees, I tuned it all out, swearing to myself that one day I would destroy them all. All the evil mothers and filthy priests.
The belt hit the ground and hands wound around my neck as she fell on top of me, flattening us both on the carpeted floor.
“Get off of me.” My muffled voice was full of anguish and disgust. I couldn’t handle her beating after everything that had happened today.
My control snapped. Pa said never to hurt a woman, but this wasn’t a woman. She was… I didn’t know what, but she wasn’t someone who needed protection. She was twisted, and she deserved to be hurt.
I headbutted her with the back of my head, but it wasn’t enough.
“Son of a slut,” she breathed against my ear. My stomach turned, acid rising in my throat. Was she calling herself a slut? Had she lost her mind for good?
“What are you doing, Mother?” Dante’s voice was like a whip, but it didn’t make her stop. She mumbled incoherent words into my ear, her foul breath against my skin.
Dante grabbed her hair, yanking her away from me.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Dante shouted at her.
Mother started laughing hysterically, rolling around like she was possessed, and I fucking snapped. I was done being a victim. I was done being touched.
I. Was. Fucking. Done.
I kicked her body with all my might and she rolled down the wooden steps. Thud… thud… thud… until she hit the bottom step.
Dante and I stared as the scene unfolded, wide-eyed, then locked gazes. We raced down the stairs, finding our mother’s body limp but still breathing.
“She’s alive,” I muttered, wishing with all my heart it wasn’t so. I kicked her again, the tightness in my chest loosening for the first time. It was the first whisper of the psychopath I would become—reveling in the pain of others in order to experience release.
Dante disappeared for a moment, returning with a can of gasoline he must’ve gotten from the garage.
“We should burn the house down,” he whispered, shaking a box of matches. “It’s our chance to end this.”
Staring up at him, seeing the years of pain lurking in his eyes, I nodded.
So, he began pouring gasoline all over the furniture, the walls, the woven rug at our feet… over our mother. Then, just as he was ready to light it all up to hell, I stopped him.
“I want to do it,” I said, an idea blooming in my mind. So dark. So vicious. So fucking righteous.
“It shouldn’t be your sin to ? —”
“I want to do it,” I repeated, refusing to let this stain my big brother any further. Dante flicked me a look packed with uncertainty, but he eventually caved in and handed me the box. “Wait outside.”
“No fucking way, Christian. I’m responsible for you.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” I reasoned. “I just need this… for me.”
“Fine,” he caved, then threw a final hate-filled glance at the unconscious woman. “May you rot in hell, Mother.”
Once he was gone, I dragged my mother’s gasoline-soaked body out of the foyer and through the back door to the bunker on the edge of our property—ironically the same one I’d stumbled upon years ago when I was looking for a place to lick my wounds. Wounds she inflicted. It took all the strength I had left to get her all the way inside, lock her in, and run back into the house.
Where I lit a match and let it all burn.
I didn’t know then that the years spent under her thumb would shape the rest of my life, and that my legacy would include hunting down evil and ridding the earth of it.
The shadows from the chandelier faded, leaving me exposed. There was nowhere left to hide.
Ivy’s face was pale, her hand covering her mouth.
A bitter laugh escaped me, followed by an almost deafening silence.
A moment passed. And another.
Would she scream? Demand I send her back to Ireland? Demand I take her back to Aiden Callahan? Would she pity me?
I couldn’t handle any of it; the thought made my throat tight, and I wished there’d been another way. I needed her to look at me like the man I was now , not the boy I’d been.
I took a deep breath and found her eyes.
For a second, I was taken aback by her expression as she examined every line and mark on my face. Was she trying to understand my scars? The possibility sent shivers ghosting down my spine.
“Why do you go by Priest rather than your birth name?” she questioned softly.
I froze momentarily, then shrugged, hoping she didn’t pick up on it. “I excelled at prayers when Vittoria and Father Gabriel attempted to force me to join the priesthood. I did it to spite them, I think, but it worked out for the best. First man I killed, I recited final rites. Basilio jokingly called me priest , and the nickname stuck. The fact I continued reciting rites probably didn’t help.”
I didn’t tell her that I hated my first name because Vittoria liked to use it when she beat me. And when I learned that Aisling was the one who’d named me, I hated it even more. I wanted to punish my birth mother for abandoning us and creating hell for Dante and me. It was clear that Vittoria hated and tortured us to get back at our papà and Aisling.
“It feels wrong to call you Priest now,” she muttered.
“I like hearing my first name on your lips.” Surprise flickered in those hazel orbs as she studied me. “I wouldn’t mind you calling me Christian.”
“It’s set, then,” she murmured. “I’m going to call you Christian from now on.”
My cock twitched in response. “I’m going to hold you to it.”
Silence stretched as we stared at each other, until her next words shattered it.
“You have to let her go.” I narrowed my eyes at her, wondering if she was reading my thoughts. Could she tell I wanted to torture Aisling too? “Or better yet, kill her and end it.”
Ah, she was talking about Vittoria. Of course she wouldn’t know that I wanted to punish Aisling, too.
“That’s it?”
“What?”
“Your reaction. You’re not going to…” I searched for the right word and came up short. “You’re not going to view me as damaged goods? Less than, because of how I treated her? A woman ?”
She took a step forward, Cobra close at her heel. “A woman who should have protected you but failed. As did this Father Gabriel. None of that makes you ‘damaged goods,’ Christian.”
A corner of my lips lifted.
“I wish you were right.” She didn’t know this darkness inside me, something so dangerous and volatile that only eased when I tortured those who’d wronged me. “I’ll never be right up here.” I tapped my fingers against my temple while acute pain sliced through my chest.
“You’re not responsible for your mother’s choices. You’re the victim, she’s the perpetrator.” I breathed harshly, my chest rising and falling. “And an eternity of torture isn’t enough to pay for her sins, but while you’re keeping her alive, you’re also suffering.”
She took my hand in her softer one, and a strange warmth expanded in my chest as she took a step toward me.
“There is nothing wrong with you,” she repeated. “Sometimes healing takes time. But, Christian, you have to cut the cord.”
It had been a decade, and still, I had yet to move on. Could she be right?