Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Cisco
Where is she?
My shoes have worn a groove in the rug as I pace between the locked door and window of my monastic cell.
On my next turn, I pull aside the curtains and check the sun’s position. It’s overcast, yet I think I see the bright ball of light above the lake. Maybe.
Maybe not.
A fly buzzes nearby, in and out of earshot. The thing has been a thorn all night and won’t leave when I open the window and shoo it out.
I sit hard on the bed, and the mattress gives way. One of Mercy’s sex toys rolls down the coverlet to hit my thigh. It’s none of my business, so I keep my eyes front and center, locked on the crucifix over the one-person kneeling pew. The fly buzzes closer, and I swat it away.
The length of pressure against my thigh burns with awareness. The more I ignore it, the hotter it gets. I run my finger between my sweaty neck and the cotton collar. The burn grows. The buzz returns.
“Cazzo,” I mutter, swatting the fly from my face.
Don’t be a baby. Just move it.
Grinding my teeth, I place the ultra-realistic dildo back where it belongs, beside the rest of her extensive collection, each sex toy lined up like soldiers.
Then I go back to staring at the crucifix again, wiping my palms down my trousers. I am not a prude. I am not ashamed or embarrassed, nor am I curious. Not really. I sneak a sideways glance. Count nine toys. The same nine that I placed there last night.
The buzzing fly returns, circling my face.
You should have thrown her toys out the window.
It’s not my business if she prefers the feel of silicone over flesh—over tongue—then that’s her prerogative. I bite my lower lip.
She left them here for you to see. She wants you to think about her.
“Bullshit,” I mutter. “She didn’t leave them. They were thrown in.”
She could have taken them. She wants you to think about using them on her.
I get up and cross to the window again, pushing the pane to let in more air, only to realize it is already open as wide as it can go. Outside, in the yard below, nuns go about their day, gardening and walking between the outbuildings. I scan for familiar red hair among the black-and-white habits.
A face looks up at me. A delicate, nervous hand waves. It’s Sister Edith. I recognize her bird-like frame and the sprig of lavender, tied to the cross around her neck with twine.
“Buongiorno, Father,” she greets.
My breath hitches. Why is she talking?
“Ciao, Sorella Edith.” I nod slowly. “Stai bene?” All is well?
She startles and then touches her lips, dazed. When her eyes meet mine, they’re swamped with guilt.
“If you need to talk,” I say, concerned, “I will be available soon.”
I hope.
Relief washes over her face. Sister Edith has been eagerly practicing her Italian with me during confession and for an hour after Mass.
She told me she’s always dreamed of visiting Rome, especially to tour the Vatican, and hopes to gain access to the pontifical library.
Like Wesley, she’s a scholar and is often in the archives here, cataloging and organizing, but she has quite a nervous temperament.
A gust of wind hits me, and I step back, out of view.
Where is Mercy?
Maybe she is sleeping. Maybe she is dead. Maybe she is doing what I should have done and has run as far from this place and its prophecies as her legs can carry her.
She was supposed to see me first, and yet she has not come.
She does not trust me.
I sigh, sit down on the bed, and scrub my hands through my hair. What does it matter? I am not the Saint for whom she is meant. I am the devil who will one day destroy her.
That same dildo rolls down the bed and hits my thigh again.
Grinding my teeth, I grab it and hold it before my face.
I squeeze it. Scowl at it. What’s the appeal with it anyway?
The size? I glance down at my crotch, then back up.
It’s not even that big. I scoff and toss it back on the pile.
Then scowl harder when I realize I just compared my dick to a piece of plastic that is none of my business.
She is right to make me wait. She should never come back.
The lock clicks.
My pulse spikes.
The doorknob turns, and a flutter lodges between my ribs.
Mercy walks into the room, bringing warmth. The sun I lost.
She closes the door, rests her spine against the wood, and then stares at me with expressive eyes that somehow make me ache instead of flutter.
In that black Sinner battle gear, she wears her hoodie open and sagging off her shoulders. My lips press with the stifled urge to fix it. Her tank top is more of a suggestion than a garment, clinging to her curves like a second skin, thin enough to reveal the imprint of her lace bra.
My fingers curl into fists.
“So.” My voice is hoarse. “You finally decided I’m worth your time.”
Her only reaction is a slight uptick of her eyebrow.
“You made me wait,” I say. “Again.”
“Poor diddums.”
“I do not know this word.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“You interrogated the others when I should have come first.”
A smile touches her plump, glossy lips, and all I want to do is bite them. Make them bleed. I should be able to control myself around her, but no matter how stalwart my resolve when she is not nearby, when she is … when we share the same air … I can’t stop wanting her.
This is why I prefer the sanctuary of the confessional for conversations I cannot control. A physical barrier between us is safer.
For her.
Mercy pushes off the door and strolls toward me, hips swaying hypnotically until she sees what I’ve laid out on the bed.
“You redecorating, Padre? Or is this your way of asking for a product demo?”
Padre. Again?
“Call me Father.” I hold her gaze, refusing to take the bait.
She ignores me and picks up the blue, glittery one. “You want a lesson? Might help with all that tension.”
My breathing shallows, fists flexing. “Put it down.”
She does, but not before trailing elegant fingers along its length, watching me follow the movement. A spark of heat kindles within my body.
It’s all theater, all contest, but I savor it. Because under the desire, something colder is itching inside me: the certainty that if we let down our defenses, one of us is going to destroy the other.
“I should have come first, Mercy.”
“I’ve always found that men who insist on coming first have the least to offer.” Blue eyes clash with mine. “I prefer for a man to come last. It ensures he’s … focused.”
I close the distance, suddenly right there in her space. The air grows heavy with tension. She lifts her gaze to mine, and it simmers.
“You play games,” I grind out. “But you need to understand: Here, I am not your enemy.”
I’m so close I can count the freckles on her bare shoulder. Eight large, but at least thirty small. I did not see those from the belfry.
Mercy drags her gaze over me from head to toe, making my pulse thrum. “Father Francisco Angelotti—Francisco. Is that even your real name?”
The corner of my lips twitch. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I thought Italians pronounced it, Fran-cesco.”
“They do.” Shame licks my cheeks. “That is the name my mother gave me. When someone in the seminary made a mistake, I went with it.”
“Why?”
“Saint Francis of Assisi was a holier man than I. Someone to aspire to.”
“The monk.”
“Yes.”
For some reason, this brings a twinkle to her eye along with a flash of approval before she locks it down. Still playing games.
“What is Rome really planning?” she asks. “Why send you here to play warden for a bunch of women the Vatican doesn’t even want to exist?”
“They sent me because I am the only thing that can contain what’s coming. I thought you already figured that out.”
“No. I think you’re scared shitless that something here can’t be contained. Maybe that’s me. Or maybe it’s you.”
Panic flutters in my chest. How much does she know about my past? She’s smart enough to figure it out. Smart enough to know I am a risk that needs to be better eradicated.
“You don’t frighten me,” I say.
“Good. Then you’ll have no problem telling me who pulls your strings. Is it the Entity? The Pope? Or are you on your own leash?”
The urge to do something, anything to her, is a visceral sensation beneath my skin.
I want to both smother her and kiss her.
Consume her, just to be closer. For a wild second, I think I’ll do exactly that, but pivot and stalk to the window.
I brace both hands on the frame, knuckles white, and breathe in the tepid air.
“I answer to Rome,” I mutter. “You know this.”
“Except you don’t. Not really. You’re stalling them. You’re lying by omission, covering our asses—why?”
The truth lodges in my throat.
“Why are you lying to all of us?”
“Because…”
I shut my eyes and pray, sending my thoughts to God, asking that He might give me an answer other than what I know. But there is none. I’ve tried, I’ve lied, and now I have nothing left.
Air rushes from my lungs as I slide my fingers into my pocket and retrieve Maria’s rosary. Dried blood from where they cut me last night still coats the dark, chipped beads.
Sweat breaks out on my upper lip and prickles at my nape. The words don’t come. I fumble the beads, staring out the window at the grey sky.
Salty air, seawater, flashes of a pink ribbon sinking.
“Did you know,” she says, “that before the Vatican discovered us two years ago, we managed our penance in-house—no priests? We sought forgiveness for our sins by giving back to the community here. The gardens, the kitchens, the maintenance…”
I turn and find her sitting cross-legged on the bed, eyes downcast, with her back against the wall. Her chin rests on her fist, digging her elbow into her thigh—right over where I know it will hurt.
Without looking up, she continues speaking.
“I’ll bet you and your buddies in Rome think we’re all man-haters here.
That we teach women to hate men, too. The thing is, Padre, we don’t.
We don’t even fear men … but we did.” She lifts her haunted gaze to mine.
“Every single woman came here broken, suffering, and gaslit into thinking they’re not bright enough, beautiful enough, or brave enough to belong.
” Her voice drops to a whisper. “To breathe.”
My hands curl into fists so tight my knuckles pop. “There were a priest’s things in the belfry.”
“He was our first.” Her lips curve, then drop. “I regret what happened to him. It is an eternal stain on my soul.”
You wouldn’t be my first.
She teased me in the reliquary about her conquests.
What, like it’s hard?
Her pain is a tangible thing in the air, buzzing between us, drawing me in like a fly to honey. Slowly, one foot in front of another, I quietly cross to the bed and sit beside her.
“What happened to him?” I ask, even though I know.
Her muscles contract. She inhales sharply, and then the armor is back on. “This isn’t my confession, Padre. It’s yours.” Sharp eyes dart down to the rosary in my clenched fist. “Start talking if you want me to trust you.”