Chapter 20 Adrian
ADRIAN
The note falls from my breviary during morning prayers, landing on the worn kneeler with a soft whisper that sounds like damnation.
My hands shake as I unfold the paper, recognizing the handwriting before I read the words. Sharp, aggressive strokes that haven’t changed in twenty years.
The abandoned gym. Midnight. Come alone. –T
Tommy “the Hammer” Delgado.
The breviary slips from my fingers, pages fluttering as it hits the floor.
I stare at those four words until they blur, my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
I should ignore this, burn the note and pretend the past isn’t reaching for me with scarred knuckles and predatory smiles.
But the past demands attention. It always does.
I tell no one where I’m going.
The abandoned gym squats in the industrial district like a rotting tooth, all crumbling brick and boarded windows.
The kind of place that exists in the spaces between legitimate businesses and outright crime.
I park two blocks away, my cassock exchanged for jeans and a dark hoodie that makes me feel like I’m wearing someone else’s skin.
The side door is unlocked. Inside, the air reeks of sweat and cigarette smoke and decades of violence soaked into concrete floors.
A single bare bulb swings from a frayed cord, casting shadows that dance across punching bags hanging like corpses from rusted chains.
“Father Cross.” Tommy’s voice cuts through the darkness, smooth as aged whiskey and twice as dangerous. “Or should I call you Adrian? Hard to remember which name goes with which life.”
He steps into the light, and I catalog the changes twenty years have carved into him.
Still broad-shouldered, still moving with that fighter’s balance, but his hair has gone gray at the temples and his face bears the map of too many hits taken, too many given.
The scar through his left eyebrow is new.
So is the slight hitch in his walk that suggests old injuries never properly healed.
But his eyes are the same.
Cold. Calculating.
Seeing straight through to the violence I’ve spent two decades trying to bury.
“Tommy.” I keep my voice level, my hands loose at my sides despite every instinct screaming to curl them into fists. “What do you want?”
His smile is all teeth and no warmth. “Straight to business. I always liked that about you, kid. No bullshit, just blood and bone.” He circles me slowly, and I force myself not to track his movement, not to shift into a fighting stance.
“You look good. Clean living agrees with you. Though I gotta say, the priest thing threw me. Adrian Crosswell, the meanest son of a bitch I ever promoted, trading his gloves for a collar.”
“That life is over.”
“Is it?” Tommy stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell the cigarettes on his breath. “Because I’ve got a proposition that says otherwise. Fifty thousand dollars. One fight. Underground tournament, three rounds, winner takes all.”
The number hits me like a punch to the gut. Fifty thousand. Enough to fix St. Michael’s roof. Enough to cover Charlie’s grandmother’s medical bills. Enough to solve problems that keep me awake at night, praying for miracles that never come.
“No.” The word comes out rougher than I intend.
Tommy’s eyebrow rises. “You didn’t even think about it.”
“I don’t need to think about it. I’m not that man anymore.”
“Aren’t you?” He moves to the heavy bag, giving it a testing punch that makes the chains rattle.
“I’ve been watching you, Adrian. Saw you at that church of yours.
Saw the way your hands curl into fists when you’re stressed.
Saw you in the basement gym, working that bag like it owes you money.
” His eyes find mine, knowing and cruel.
“You can put on the collar and quote all the scripture you want, but violence doesn’t leave. It just waits.”
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. He’s right, and we both know it.
The violence is still there, coiled in my chest like a sleeping serpent.
I feel it every time someone threatens what’s mine, every time I watch Charlie walk away and want to follow, every time Marcus or Elijah look at her with the same hunger burning through my veins.
“The answer is no.”
Tommy shrugs, pulling a cigarette from his jacket pocket.
“Your choice. But the offer stands for two weeks. After that, I find someone else.” He lights up, the flame briefly illuminating his face in harsh relief.
“You know, I’ve noticed you’ve got people you care about now.
That pretty young woman who’s always at the church.
Auburn hair, curves that could make a saint stumble. What’s her name? Charlie?”
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. The violence I’ve been suppressing surges forward, hot and immediate, and my hands are fists before I can stop them. Tommy sees it, and his smile widens.
“Easy, Father. Just an observation. She seems sweet. Vulnerable. The kind of girl who needs protecting in this ugly world.” He takes a long drag, exhaling smoke that curls between us like a threat. “Fifty thousand could protect a lot of people. Could solve a lot of problems. Think about it.”
He walks past me toward the door, and I force myself not to grab him, not to slam him against the wall and make him understand that Charlie is off-limits, that even mentioning her name is crossing a line that will get him hurt.
“Two weeks, Adrian,” Tommy calls over his shoulder. “Clock’s ticking.”
The door closes behind him, and I’m alone in the abandoned gym with my racing heart and the ghost of who I used to be.
I return to St. Michael’s near midnight, parking in the shadows and entering through the side door.
The church is dark and quiet, everyone asleep in their separate quarters, maintaining the careful distance we’ve been forced to adopt since news of the Bishop’s imminent arrival to investigate.
Except the parish hall kitchen glows with soft light.
I find Charlie standing at the counter in one of Marcus’s shirts, the fabric hanging to mid-thigh, her auburn hair loose around her shoulders.
She’s making tea, her movements slow and tired, and the domesticity of the scene makes my chest tight with want and fear in equal measure.
She looks up when I enter, and those hazel eyes that shift between green and gold in different light find mine with immediate concern. “Adrian. Where have you been?”
“Praying.” The lie tastes like ash.
Her expression says she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push. Just turns back to the kettle, and I watch the way Marcus’s shirt shifts across her body, revealing the curve of her hip, the length of her bare legs.
I imagine crossing the kitchen, pressing her against the counter, burying my face in her neck and breathing her in until the stench of cigarette smoke and violence is replaced by vanilla and cinnamon.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask, my voice rough.
“Too much on my mind.” She pours hot water over a tea bag, the steam rising between us. “The Bishop’s investigation. Victory Life’s threats. Everything feels like it’s closing in.”
I move closer despite knowing I shouldn’t, drawn to her like gravity. “We’ll get through this.”
“Will we?” She turns to face me. The vulnerability in her expression makes me want to promise her things I have no right to promise. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m the problem. If you’d all be better off if I just left.”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharp, commanding, and I watch her eyes widen slightly.
“Don’t ever think that. You’re not the problem, Charlie.
You’re—” I stop myself before I can finish.
You’re everything. You’re the reason I get up in the morning.
You’re salvation and damnation wrapped in vintage dresses and freckles.
The air between us crackles with everything we can’t say, can’t do, not here, not now, not with threats closing in from every direction.
I’m hyperaware of how close I’m standing, how the kitchen suddenly feels too small, too warm.
How her lips part slightly as she looks up at me, how the pulse in her throat hammers visibly beneath delicate skin.
I want to kiss her.
Want to lift her onto this counter and make her forget everything except my name.
Want to claim her so completely that no one, not Tommy or the Bishop or Victory Life, could ever question who she belongs to.
Footsteps echo in the hallway, breaking the moment.
We step apart just as Elijah appears in the doorway, his golden hair mussed from sleep, wearing pajama pants and a thin t-shirt.
His blue eyes move between Charlie and me, reading the charged atmosphere with unnerving accuracy.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” His voice is soft, but I hear the question underneath. What’s wrong? What happened?
“Just making tea,” Charlie says, her voice steadier than mine would be. “Want some?”
Elijah nods, moving into the kitchen, and suddenly the three of us are standing in this small space, the weight of our shared secrets pressing down like a physical thing.
I watch Charlie pour tea with shaking hands, see Elijah’s fingers brush hers as he takes the mug, notice how his body angles protectively toward her even in this innocent moment.
We stand in weighted silence, each of us carrying burdens we can’t share.
Tommy’s offer burns in my pocket like a brand.
Fifty thousand dollars. One fight. One night of returning to the man I used to be.
Charlie sets down her mug, and the sound seems too loud in the quiet kitchen. “The hospital called earlier. They gave me a list of medications Grandma Rose will need when she comes home.” Her voice wavers slightly. “The cost is…it’s more than I expected. A lot more.”
My stomach drops. “How much?”
“Fifteen hundred a month. For at least six months, maybe longer.” She wraps her arms around herself, Marcus’s shirt pulling tight across her breasts, and I force my gaze back to her face. “I don’t know how I’m going to afford it.”
She trails off, and I watch a tear slide down her cheek. Elijah moves closer, his hand hovering near her shoulder but not quite touching, maintaining the careful distance we’ve all been forced to adopt.
The frustration in his eyes mirrors what I’m feeling, this desperate need to comfort her, to fix this, to make everything okay.
Fifty thousand dollars could take care of Rose’s medication for years, solving this problem immediately and giving Charlie one less thing to worry about while her world crumbles around her.
All I have to do is become the monster I used to be. Just for one night.
Tommy’s words echo in my mind. “Violence doesn’t leave. It just waits.”
I look at Charlie standing in Marcus’s shirt, her hazel eyes swimming with tears she’s trying not to shed, her body trembling with exhaustion and fear. I think about Rose Davis, who raised this beautiful, broken girl and deserves better than dying because we can’t afford to keep her alive.
The offer stands for two weeks.
The clock is ticking.