Chapter 43 Marcus
MARCUS
The evidence spreads across Adrian’s desk like a roadmap to Whitmore’s destruction, and I can’t stop the satisfaction building in my chest as I catalog each damning piece.
Bank statements showing transfers to personal accounts labeled as “building funds.” Emails where Whitmore jokes about the “stupid sheep” funding his lifestyle.
Invoices for construction work that was never done, vendors whose addresses don’t exist. JT gave us everything, and it’s beautiful in its brutality.
My hands shake slightly as I arrange the documents in chronological order, creating a timeline of systematic corruption that spans years.
Adrian stands beside me, his gray eyes scanning each page with increasing fury.
His jaw clenches tighter with every new revelation, and I watch the muscle jump beneath his olive skin.
He’s still wearing his cassock from morning Mass, but his rosary beads are wrapped so tightly around his knuckles they’ve left red marks.
Elijah sits in the corner chair, tracking our movements as he reviews the digital files on his laptop.
His golden hair catches the afternoon light streaming through the window.
A knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts. Ray Kowalski enters, carrying a leather messenger bag that looks like it’s seen better days. His expression is grim as he crosses to the desk, setting the bag down with deliberate care.
“I’ve got more,” he says without preamble.
“Recordings of Whitmore threatening employees who asked too many questions. Photos of him with his mistress at a hotel downtown, paid for with church credit cards.” He pulls out a digital recorder, setting it on the desk.
“And this. Audio of him discussing how to ‘eliminate competition’ from other churches in the area.”
Adrian’s hands curl into fists at his sides, fighting the violence that’s always simmering beneath his priestly exterior.
His chest rises and falls with carefully controlled breaths.
He wants to destroy Whitmore with his bare hands. I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the rigid line of his spine.
Ray presses play on the recorder, and Whitmore’s voice fills the small office.
Smooth, confident, completely lacking in remorse as he discusses embezzlement strategies with someone whose voice I don’t recognize.
The casual way he talks about stealing from his congregation makes my stomach turn.
“The beauty of it,” Whitmore’s recorded voice says, “is that they’ll never question where the money goes.
Tell them it’s for missions, the building fund, and helping the poor.
They’ll give until it hurts, and they’ll feel good about it.
Meanwhile, I’m living the life God intended for his chosen servants. ”
The recording ends, and the silence that follows is suffocating. Elijah’s fingers have stilled on his keyboard. Adrian’s breathing has become more controlled, like he’s fighting for composure.
And I’m gripping the edge of the desk so hard my knuckles have gone white.
“This is enough,” I say, my accent thickening with barely contained rage. “This is more than enough to destroy him completely.”
Ray shifts uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the messenger bag.
“There’s something else.” He pulls out another envelope, this one sealed with tape.
“When I was doing surveillance for Victory Life, I noticed someone was installing recording equipment in your confessionals. Professional curiosity made me look into it.”
My blood runs cold. Adrian goes completely still beside me, and I watch the color drain from his face. Elijah stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor.
“What kind of recording equipment?” Adrian’s voice is carefully controlled, but I hear the panic underneath. The diocese never puts recording equipment in the confessionals. It’s forbidden, and a priest who tries is immediately excommunicated.
“Audio. High-quality stuff, hidden in the ventilation grates.” Ray opens the envelope, revealing a small USB drive. “I accessed the files remotely. Deleted everything before anyone could review them. But I kept copies. Just in case.”
He plugs the drive into Elijah’s laptop, and my stomach drops as I see the file names.
Dates and timestamps.
Dozens of recordings spanning weeks.
My mind races through every confession I’ve heard in that booth, every private conversation, every moment we thought was protected by the seal of confession.
Ray clicks on one file, and Charlie’s voice fills the room.
Young. Uncertain.
Confessing to the Bishop about having feelings for us.
My chest tightens painfully as I hear her take all the blame, absolve us of any wrongdoing, and offer to leave St. Michael’s to protect us.
Adrian makes a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a prayer. His hands are shaking as he grips his rosary beads, and I can see him fighting himself. Fighting the need to go to her, to pull her close and promise she’ll never have to sacrifice herself for us again.
Ray clicks through more files.
My voice, rough with emotion, confessing to Adrian about my feelings for Charlie.
Elijah’s whispered prayers in French, asking God for guidance about desires he can’t control.
Adrian’s own confession to a visiting priest, admitting he’s fallen for a parishioner and doesn’t know how to stop.
“Jesus Christ,” Elijah breathes, his face pale. “They were recording everything. Every private moment, every confession, every conversation we thought was sacred.”
“They sent them to the diocese,” Ray says quickly. “The files were encrypted, waiting for review. I deleted them before anyone could access them. But you need to understand how close you came to complete exposure.”
I stare at the laptop screen, at the list of files that could have destroyed us. My hands shake as I reach for the USB drive, pulling it from the port. “We need to destroy this. Now.”
“Agreed.” Adrian’s voice is rough, and he takes the drive from my hand.
Ray pulls out a lighter from his pocket, and we watch in silence as Adrian holds the USB drive over his metal wastebasket.
The plastic melts and warps, the data inside becoming irretrievable.
The acrid smell of burning electronics fills the office, but none of us move until the drive is nothing but a twisted lump of slag.
“Thank you,” Adrian says finally, his gray eyes holding Ray’s. “For protecting us. For doing the right thing.”
Ray shrugs, uncomfortable with the gratitude.
“Some things matter more than a paycheck. Whitmore makes me sick. Someone recording confessions makes me sick. I became a PI to help people, not to enable corruption.” He gathers his things, preparing to leave.
“Use the evidence I gave you. Destroy him. He deserves it.”
After Ray leaves, the three of us stand in weighted silence.
The evidence of Whitmore’s corruption still spreads across the desk, but now it feels different. More personal. We’re not just fighting to save St. Michael’s anymore.
We’re fighting to protect the family we’ve built in shadows.
The door opens, and Charlie enters carrying a tray with coffee mugs.
She’s wearing a light blue dress that swishes around her legs with every step, her auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail.
The sight of her makes my chest tight with conflicting emotions.
Love. Fear. Desperate need. The knowledge that she’s carrying a baby that might be mine makes everything more intense.
She sets the tray on the desk, and our hands brush as I reach for a mug.
The contact sends heat straight through me, and I watch her breath catch.
Her hazel eyes, more green than gold in the afternoon light, hold mine for a moment too long.
I can see the pulse hammering in her throat, can smell the vanilla scent that clings to her skin.
Dios mío. I want to pull her close, to bury my face in her neck and forget everything except the way she feels against me. To slide my hands under that dress and discover if she’s wearing anything underneath.
To claim her right here on Adrian’s desk while Elijah watches with those hungry eyes.
Instead, I force myself to step back. But my body doesn’t care about propriety. I’m already half-hard just from that brief touch, from the way her dress gapes slightly at the neckline, revealing the curve of her collarbone.
Charlie moves around the desk, passing mugs to Adrian and Elijah.
I watch the way her hips sway with each step, the way the fabric of her dress shifts across her ass.
Adrian’s gaze tracks her movement with barely concealed hunger, and I see his jaw clench as he fights himself.
Elijah’s fingers drum against his thigh in that nervous gesture he has, his gaze following the line of her legs.
We’re all thinking the same thing. All wanting the same thing. And the sexual tension in the small office is suffocating.
“What did I miss?” Charlie settles into the chair Elijah vacated. Her hand moves unconsciously to rest on her still-flat stomach, protective and tender. The gesture makes something fierce surge through my chest.
“Everything we need to destroy Whitmore,” Adrian says, his voice rough. He gestures to the documents spread across his desk. “Financial fraud. Affairs paid for with church funds. Money laundering. It’s all here.”
Charlie leans forward to study the evidence, and the movement makes her dress ride up slightly, revealing more of her thighs. I force my gaze back to the documents, but not before I catch Adrian and Elijah doing the same thing.
We’re pathetic, the three of us, unable to focus on anything except the way she looks, the way she moves, the way she exists in our space.
“We need to call a press conference,” Adrian says, his voice dropping to something cold and precise. “Tomorrow. We’re done playing defense.”
Elijah stands, moving to the window. “Are we sure? Once we go public with this, there’s no taking it back. Whitmore will retaliate.”
“Let him try.” Adrian’s jaw clenches. “We have irrefutable evidence of corruption. The media will destroy him. The authorities will investigate. Victory Life will collapse under the weight of its own rot.”
I think about JT, about the fear in her eyes when she handed over that envelope.
About the women Whitmore paid off to keep quiet about his affairs.
About the parishioners who gave their hard-earned money, thinking it was going to help people, only to fund his expensive lifestyle.
“Adrian’s right,” I say, my accent thickening with conviction. “We strike now, while we have the advantage. While Whitmore thinks he’s winning.”
Charlie’s hand finds mine on the desk, her fingers cold and trembling.
I squeeze gently, trying to offer comfort I don’t entirely feel.
Her hazel eyes hold mine, and I see the same fierce determination reflected there that I’m feeling. She’s not afraid. She’s ready to fight.
Adrian picks up the email again, the one where Whitmore jokes about stupid sheep. His gray eyes burn with rage as he looks up at Elijah and me.
“Tomorrow,” he repeats, his voice steady despite the rage simmering beneath. “We call a press conference. We expose everything.”