6. Mario
6
MARIO
T he alcohol on the cloth stings my lip as Alice hovers over me trying to cleanse the wound. I know we can’t stay here now, but I have a few things to work out before we can leave. My brother’s men, while not actively hostile toward me, aren’t going to return happy, either. They’re going to come with full force to find both of us and root out the money.
“Gosh, they really did a number on your lip. I’m so sorry.” Alice grimaces as she dabs the white cloth to my face, cleaning the blood up and disinfecting it at the same time. She’s so close to me, I can smell her shampoo, feel her breath on my face. It’s been ages since I had a woman so close to me, and this woman, one I’ve found myself so protective over, is doing things to me, stirring feelings I thought I'd permanently shut down.
“Yes, well, they are violent men with evil in their hearts.” It’s getting harder and harder to play the part of the always-pious priest. Confronting those men was only the tip of the iceberg and I know it. I barely held my tongue. There was so much I could have said to put them in their place and scare them off for good, but I knew Alice was listening the whole time .
She diligently serves me. I sort of like it. I like having her so close to me that I can touch her without having to reach out and touch her. Her breasts brush over my shoulder, then she turns away to rinse the cloth. When she turns back, I see the concern etched on her brow. She has confessed to me how guilty she feels for dragging me into this mess with her. I wish I could absolve that guilt so she would relax a little. This is my choice. I want to do this for her, and I won’t stop until she’s safe once and for all.
“It sounded like you might have known those men.” Her statement is neutral, not a question nor an accusation, just a fact. And it’s correct. I do know those men. They work for my brother, but they used to be loyal to me.
Before I left and found my spot in hiding where I wished forevermore to stay, those men were my right-hand men. They were the ones who would’ve stuck by me through thick and thin. They begged me not to go, to work out my differences with my brother, but how could I? The man murdered our father in cold blood just to have his shot at the seat of power.
“God knows all men, Alice. If you believe I spoke to them any differently than I spoke to you, I would caution you to reimagine who God is to you.” Lies… all lies. And I feel guilty. Strange.
I once thought myself a sociopath, incapable of feeling things for others including guilt over my own actions. Over time, wearing the cloth has helped me to see that I can feel things, that I’m capable of mercy, compassion, and even righteous anger. But guilt? Other than my guilt over my past and having killed so many innocent people, I’ve never felt this way. It makes me look inward to examine why I feel guilty for lying to her. Maybe because she trusts me?
It's all going to come out anyway, as soon as they bring their attack. I won’t be able to pass off my abilities as a gut reaction anymore. I’ll be forced to fess up and tell her I used to be one of them .
“There, I think your face is cleaned up. I’d be driving you to the hospital if that wouldn’t raise any red flags, because I’m certain your cheekbone is cracked, if not broken. But I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
I resist the urge to take her by the hips and hold her here longer as she takes a step back, but I do look up at her and smile. She thinks she’s so street smart, hiding our behaviors in plain sight. It’s sweet and innocent, and she has so much to learn, so much for me to teach her in such a short time.
I enjoy this—interacting with real people who have real, complex lives. I enjoy getting to know them and being around them. I don’t want to go back to the life of darkness and crime, where blood is currency and without a rap sheet, no one takes you seriously. But I’m not sure the life I’ve chosen to hide behind is the type of life I can stomach much longer. Being around Alice is awakening things inside me I don’t want to die or remain dormant.
“You are a very thoughtful woman, Alice. Did you care for Tom like this?” My question brings a look of frustration to her face before she turns and places the cloth into the bowl of water and picks it up, carrying it to the sink.
With her back to me, she dumps out the water and rinses the bowl, then leaves them both in the sink. She turns and leans against the countertop and shrugs her shoulders.
“Tom would have what he called ‘accidents’ at work all the time. I know now that they were injuries he sustained while working for the Mob, but back then, I thought he was clumsy.” I see the pain in her eyes and know it was the lies that hurt her, not the job he was doing.
“I’m sorry you went through that.” I push the chair back and stand, and though I want to go to her and hold her, I remember that to her I’m a man of the cloth. A priest. I’m someone she’s supposed to look to for guidance and wisdom, protection even, not sex, not a relationship .
“Yeah, well life deals us all a different hand. I’m sure you’ve been through things. You weren’t always a priest, right?” Now she’s prying, but it’s so gentle I can hardly blame her. She wants to know more about the man behind the mask.
“It’s true, as I’ve said. I lived a much different life before this one, more similar to yours than you may imagine, but this life is my penance for my past. That’s the funny thing about penance—it’s all self-inflicted. We all choose to perform the acts of repentance and reconciliation as a form of recompense for our former actions.”
Alice folds her arms over her chest, and I notice how it deepens her cleavage. That’s where my eyes linger for a moment, and she says nothing, but she watches me watching her. When I meet her gaze again, her lips are flushed dark pink, the way a woman’s lips change when they’re aroused and blood rushes to them.
“Perhaps sometimes, our penance is imbalanced for our crimes and we carry too much weight around with us. Maybe the weight of the world isn’t meant to rest on the shoulders of one man.”
I know this. It’s something I’ve told many a parishioner in my days as a priest. I never went to seminary, never studied theology. I don’t know what holy texts say about a higher power or eternal being, but I do know if I were a father, I’d understand my child and know how to comfort them. This is how I have survived my years here. This is why the parishioners in this congregation trust me and come to me for advice and absolution.
This woman disarms me in less than ten seconds with wisdom that outshines my rationalizations and excuses. It reduces me to the man I am, weak and fragile, vulnerable. As if I need reminding. Life has a way of doing that on its own all the time. But Alice Darling is fresh and new, a tangible omen of hope for a better life, a different life. My urge to touch her and pour out the affection I’ve been storing up for years almost consumes me. She is so pure and humble, attempting to help her helper .
“Such wise words from a woman in so much pain. You know, I often find that pain is what makes us wise. Maybe you’ve had too much pain in your life, and it has made you wise beyond your years because of the way you’ve had to fight for yourself.” I reach out and touch her elbow. “You don’t have to fight anymore, Alice. It’s okay to let me fight for you.”
Her bright green eyes stare up at me with reluctant hope, the type that against all odds continues to believe the best—a tender shoot still pressing through the ashes after the fire. Her tongue draws across her bottom lip before she bites it and with a pained expression says, “Father Clemmons—Mario—you are fighting a demon too, one you thought you had beat a long time ago. And maybe I’m your angel in disguise, sent here to tell you to let go.”
I’m certain she means my past as a made man, running from police, hiring cleaners to erase my mistakes, washing the blood from my hands. She sees it in my body language, my expression, and the rigid way I have to protect her. She senses it, but she doesn’t know what it tis. This intuition is beautiful, especially delivered the way she presents it. But that’s not the only demon I am fighting.
The man inside me—raw and primal, lustful and hungry—he wants out to enjoy everything she is, everything I’ve witnessed about her. My body stirs and my heart races, but I lean in and cup her cheek. Maybe the saving glory of this place, the reason I’ve been chaste for so long, is because there are no women. Maybe Alice is nothing, and she’s simply a temptation sent to make a mockery of my supposed penance. Maybe this is a test sent by God himself to prove my motives and willpower, and maybe I’m failing.
Or maybe I’ve found a connection in a most unlikely place and this is the reason I set out on this path to begin with. Maybe Alice was always in my future, waiting for me to arrive at this very moment. Maybe even without her husband’s murder or her flight from my family, I’d have found her, a kindred spirit .
It makes sense and at the same time it makes no sense. All I know is I’m falling, crashing into her in a powerful way. I lean in, watching her eyes as I do, hoping for the consent only she can give to such a strange action by a priest. Hoping she doesn’t shy away and think of me as a predator. I am anything but. I’m her salvation from the predators.
“Mario…” she whispers, but she doesn’t pull away at all, and then her hand lands on my chest, splaying across the white button-down shirt I wear. The heat radiates through the fabric, and I tense. Longing floods my body, and I feel myself swelling.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” I tell her, but she’s not surprised. Her eyes fall shut and her lips part as her chin tips upward.
The kiss is sweet and soft, not too aggressive because I hold the beast back. I haven’t touched a woman, kissed a woman, in so long. I want to unlock the cage and be free, but I can’t. My conscience is seared. I am a holy man, obligated to myself and to God, and this is wrong.
When I pull away and her eyes flutter open, I see that her cheeks are red, her lips still rosy, her eyes hazed over by lust too. I linger only inches from her for a moment, but I have no words for her. It’s enough that I am close. I use my self-restraint to back away.
“I have to go now. We’ll leave first thing in the morning. I have a few things to handle tonight. I need you to go to your room and lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone, and if anyone tries to get in, leave through the window. If that happens, hide. I will find you.”
Alice says nothing. She nods at me and watches as I walk out. I don’t know what was going through her mind, but I know what was going through mine.
Am I a man of the cloth as I purport to be? Or am I a pretender, a traitor to my family and a denier of the truth? The animal inside me is screaming, beating itself against the iron bars used to imprison it for so long .
I am a cold-blooded killer, a con artist, a master of deception. I am Mario Gatti, son of the late Lorenzo Gatti, leader of the most infamous and powerful criminal organization in Los Angeles, and I’ve been moonlighting as someone I’m not.
I can’t keep pretending. My thirst for sex and violence is inbred. It’s in my blood, and I don’t know how to fight it. I thought I could. I thought it was possible for a man to repent and change, but maybe I’m wrong.
Or maybe Alice is doing this to me—luring me back into the death grip of the devil himself. Or maybe there is someplace in the middle where my need for retribution and justice meets my desire for change and absolution.
Or maybe I’m just going crazy.
Only time will tell.