Chapter 30 Charlie
CHARLIE
I wake before dawn, my stomach churning with anxiety that has nothing to do with the early hour.
The threats surrounding us have multiplied like shadows at dusk — the Bishop’s probing questions, Tommy Delgado’s menacing presence, and now my mother, watching everything with those calculating eyes that see too much.
The diner shift passes in a blur of coffee refills and forced smiles.
My hands shake as I carry plates, my mind replaying yesterday’s Mass where I caught Diane sitting in a back pew, her bleached blonde head turning to track every interaction between me and the men.
The way she studied Adrian’s face when his gaze found mine during the homily.
How she noted Marcus positioning himself near me during communion. The knowing smile when Elijah’s fingers brushed mine passing sheet music after the service.
She knows. Or suspects enough that the difference doesn’t matter.
By the time I return to St. Michael’s, my nerves are frayed to breaking. I find Diane in the parish hall kitchen, leaning against the counter like she owns the place.
Her too-tight jeans and low-cut top look obscene in this sacred space, and I feel a flash of protective anger for the church that’s become my sanctuary.
“There’s my baby girl.” Her voice drips with false sweetness, the smoker’s rasp making it sound like a threat. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you? So dedicated to your volunteer work.”
I force my voice to stay steady. “I’m working off my debt. You know that.”
“Mmm.” She moves closer, and I catch the scent of cheap perfume mixed with cigarettes.
“Funny thing about that. I’ve been watching you, Charlie.
The way that priests look at you. The way that deacon can’t keep his eyes off your ass when you walk away.
The way the choir director finds excuses to stand close enough that you can feel his breath. ”
My face betrays me before I can form a denial. Heat floods my cheeks, and Diane’s laugh is sharp and cruel.
“Oh, honey. I’ve been around long enough to recognize the signs.” She circles me slowly, predatory. “The lingering looks. The careful-not-to-touch proximity. The way all three of them orbit you like you’re the sun and they’re dying planets desperate for your light.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” But my voice lacks conviction.
Diane leans in close, her breath hot against my ear.
“Don’t I? I see the way Father Cross’s jaw clenches when another man gets too close to you.
How Deacon Reyes positions himself between you and any perceived threat.
How Brother Moreau watches you like you’re a symphony he’s desperate to play.
” She pulls back, her smile triumphant. “You’re sleeping with them. All of them. Aren’t you?”
The words hang in the air between us, damning and undeniable. I open my mouth to lie, to deflect, but what’s the point? She already knows.
“What do you want?” My voice comes out flat, defeated.
“Nothing. Yet.” Diane’s smile widens. “Consider this a courtesy warning, baby girl. Your secret is safe with me. For now. But secrets have a way of becoming expensive to keep, don’t they?”
She walks away, her heels clicking against the tile floor, leaving me standing in the kitchen with ice flooding my veins.
The ticking time bomb of her knowledge sits heavy in my chest, and I know it’s only a matter of time before she decides to detonate it.
That evening, I find the men in Adrian’s office, their faces grim as they discuss Tommy’s latest threat.
I interrupt without apology, my voice urgent as I tell them about Diane’s discovery.
The temperature in the room drops.
“We need leverage of our own,” I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice despite the fear clawing at my throat. “Elijah, have you found anything yet?”
Adrian’s gray eyes meet mine, and I see the conflict there—the priest who wants to turn the other cheek warring with the man who will do anything to protect what’s his.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, tracing the curve of my neck visible above my cardigan.
I watch his jaw clench, see his hands curl into fists at his sides.
Elijah shakes his head, his crystalline blue eyes tracking my movements as I cross to stand beside Marcus. “Not yet. But I’m close. I’m following real trails now.”
We work late into the night, the four of us gathered around Adrian’s desk like conspirators.
Marcus uses old connections to run background checks on Pastor Whitmore.
Elijah keeps searching for contacts, someone who can leak the evidence we need.
Adrian reluctantly agrees to attend a Victory Life service as reconnaissance, though the idea of stepping into enemy territory makes his jaw clench so hard I hear his teeth grind.
The information we gather is damning.
Hints of financial irregularities that suggest embezzlement.
Whispers of complaints of NDAs signed by former staff, all women, all paid off to keep quiet about affairs.
Questions about how their expensive cars were purchased.
We meet in the church basement to talk more about our findings, the stone walls offering privacy we desperately need.
The single bare bulb swings overhead, casting dancing shadows across our faces as we huddle around the old table.
“He’s worse than we thought,” Adrian says, his voice rough as he studies the notes spread before us. His cassock is rumpled, his salt-and-pepper hair disheveled from running his hands through it. Even exhausted and stressed, he’s beautiful in that severe, untouchable way that makes my stomach flip.
“He’s also more dangerous,” Elijah adds, pacing the small space. His lean body moves with that fluid grace that makes everything look like choreography, and I watch the muscles shift beneath his thin shirt. “Men like Whitmore don’t go down quietly.”
I sit close to Marcus, drawing comfort from his solid presence.
His tattooed arm rests on the table beside mine, close enough that I can feel his warmth but not quite touching.
The saints and sinners inked into his olive skin seem to writhe in the dim light, and I remember tracing those lines with my fingers, my tongue, learning the story written on his body.
“We just need more hard evidence,” Marcus says, his dark eyes burning with barely restrained fury. “Then the question is whether we use it.”
For a moment, we’re united in purpose, a team fighting a common enemy. But the victory feels hollow when I remember Diane’s knowing smile, the ticking time bomb of her knowledge that could explode at any moment.
The meeting breaks up slowly, exhaustion weighing on all of us. Adrian and Elijah head upstairs, but Marcus lingers, his gaze finding mine in the shadows.
“Stay,” he says quietly. “Please.”
I nod, my heart hammering as the others’ footsteps fade. Marcus moves closer, and suddenly the basement feels too small, too warm. I can smell his cologne mixed with something darker, more masculine.
“I need to ask you something,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “About Isabella.”
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t look away. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.” I force myself to meet his eyes. “I need to understand the woman who almost claimed your heart.”
Marcus is quiet for a long moment, his dark eyes searching my face. Then he begins to speak, his voice raw with old pain.
“She came to me for counseling. Her husband was abusive—emotionally, sometimes physically. She needed someone to talk to, someone who would listen without judgment.” His hands flex at his sides.
“The sessions became something more. I told myself it was just pastoral care, but I was lying to myself. I was falling in love with her.”
I watch his face as he speaks, see the guilt and shame warring with the memory of what he felt. My chest tightens with jealousy I have no right to feel.
“I was going to leave the priesthood for her,” Marcus continues. “Had the papers drawn up, the plan in place. But her husband found out.” His voice drops to something dangerous. “He put her in the hospital. Nearly killed her. And I nearly killed him.”
“What stopped you?” I whisper.
“Adrian.” Marcus’s laugh is bitter. “He pulled me off before I could finish what I’d started. Isabella begged me to stay a priest, said she couldn’t live with destroying my soul too. So I became a deacon instead. A compromise that’s felt like purgatory ever since.”
The question I’ve been afraid to ask burns in my throat. “If she had stayed, would you have chosen her?”
Marcus’s eyes find mine, and the honesty in them is painful. “Yes. Because I didn’t know you existed yet.” He moves closer, his hand rising to cup my face. “But now there’s no choice, no comparison. There’s only you, querida. Only you.”
The words break something open in my chest. I rise on my toes, closing the distance between us, and the kiss is desperate, hungry, all the fear and need and love we’ve been suppressing finally breaking free.
His hands frame my face, tilting my head back so he can kiss me deeper.
I taste mint and desperation on his tongue, feel the tremor running through his body as he fights for control.
My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans against my mouth.
“Dios mío,” he breathes, his accent thickening. “You’re going to kill me, Charlie. You’re going to destroy me completely, and I don’t even care.”
His hands slide down to my waist, pulling me flush against him.
I can feel him hard against my hip, can feel the rapid hammer of his heart beneath my palms.
The basement is cold, but his body radiates heat that makes me burn.
“Marcus,” I whisper, and his name on my lips makes him shudder.
He backs me against the stone wall, his body pressing into mine, and I gasp at the contact.
His mouth finds my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point, and I arch into him.
One of his hands slides under my cardigan, finding bare skin, and the touch sends electricity shooting through me.
“Tell me to stop,” he says against my neck, but his hands are already moving higher, tracing the curve of my ribs. “Tell me this is wrong.”
“It is wrong.” I pull his mouth back to mine. “But I don’t care either.”
His control shatters.
His hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my waist, sliding up my thighs beneath my dress.
I’m drowning in him, in the scent of his cologne and the taste of his mouth and the solid warmth of his body against mine.
We come together fast and heavy.
We’ve waited too long, kept our distance for too long. Our lovemaking is almost violent in its urgency, but neither of us can seem to care.
The fact that we could be caught at any second only highlights our urgency.