Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Cisco
Abitter laugh escapes my lips. She talks about trust, but knowing all there is to know will have the opposite effect. “I tell you this, and you will fear me.”
“I’m going to be real here, Padre.”
“Stop calling me that,” I growl. “Father is okay. I am in your country. This is fine.”
The only sign that she hears my request is a raising of her brows.
“Jasmine is my sister. Not in blood, but our bonds as a Sinner are stronger. Every soul within these abbey walls is under my protection. There’s nothing I won’t do to keep them safe, and I sense the same is true for you and your team. ”
I nod.
“So, for me to believe my enemy over my sister, I must understand why.”
“Then you may as well tie a noose around my neck.”
She winces, and I think about the story of the priest in the belfry. An apology is on my lips when she says, “You must think I’m stupid.”
“What?”
“I might look like a bimbo, but I’m not stupid.”
“I have never thought this. Not once.”
“Then have faith in me.” A plea enters her eyes. “Have faith that I can hear your story and judge whether to trust you on my own accord.” She glances at the closed door and points. “It’s when others tell your story for you that shit gets messed up.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Sì.” I frown. Feel sick. But nod. “How much do you know about my past?”
“You were born in Naples, grew up between there and Rome. Joined the Angelotti family business in your late teens after your sister died. You were a killer. An enforcer, they tell me.” I nod, so she continues.
“But you got caught and went to prison in your early twenties. A decade later, the Vatican secured your early release and sent you to the seminary. You dicked around with your own parish and then hunted demons with your team for another few years. And now here you are.”
Wow. Okay. “That’s it?”
“Give or take a little.”
“You don’t know about how I … about my…” Cristo, it’s hard to admit.
“About your evil-sensing gift?”
“It is no gift,” I growl. “But a curse.”
She stills. “I’m listening.”
Every ounce of me wants to keep this a secret, to shove it down and pretend it doesn’t exist. The rosary stings my palms, and I force myself to relax my fist. I stare at the swinging, click-clacking beads, at my scarred and tattooed hands, and remind myself—Maria is dead. Mercy is not.
I wrap the rosary around my fist. A particular tattoo on my hand catches my attention: the holy cross on my ring finger between the first two knuckles. I rub my thumb over it, recalling the day I had it inked.
“The day I had this done,” I say, “Uncle Paolo asked me to track down a man who was selling product in our territory without permission. When I caught up with him, I discovered he was not alone.” My vision blurs as I fall deeper into my past, seeing the trattoria where I found them, the outdoor furniture spilling into the piazzetta.
“I watched as the owner laughed and filled the cups, knowing full well who sat in his restaurant. They were just sitting there, drinking coffee—in the Angelotti neighborhood—as if they owned it. As if nothing was wrong.” I swallow hard as the memory surges, awakening a sweet, addictive righteousness that slithers under my skin, filling my hollow bones with power.
I hide my hands, away from Mercy’s view.
“I knew which of them would lie to me before they opened their mouths. I knew they would deny it. So I didn’t ask. I just … walked up to them—”
“You killed them.”
I slice a silencing glare her way. “Am I telling this story, or you?”
She smirks at me as if I am flirting, and damn if the challenge in her eyes doesn’t make my cock twitch. Talking with her and being with her feels easy. Which is precisely why I should not be sitting so close, talking about these old days. Even with my clerics on, the cage is not foolproof.
But shuffling away from her would only worsen the urge to move closer. I breathe deeply, then exhale, and hold her gaze with mine as I continue my story, daring her to blink first.
“I said nothing. I waited for one to pretend to be surprised, to make an excuse, or to lie. No one spoke. Not even one of them tried to talk their way out of it. They just stared at me with a smug face. They thought they were getting away with this under my nose, and that I could do nothing. There were maybe eight of them. One of me.” My muscles clench as I relive the outrage that I felt that day.
“I slowly took off my jacket. They reached for their guns when they saw mine.” A rueful smile tugs at my lips.
“But I placed my loaded gun on their table, and stood back, rolling up my sleeves. Watching them. Waiting. They did not pull their weapons. They did not try to take mine.” I exhale, shaking my head. “It was the last mistake they made.”
“Because you killed them.”
A groan rumbles from the base of my throat. “Per favore, Mercy. You ask for my story. I am telling it.”
“Sorry.” Amusement dances in her eyes. “You’re slow, old man.”
“I am only three years older than you.”
“You know my age? Aw.” She bats her eyelashes.
“I am slow because you interrupt me.” My eyes drop to her lips, still smirking at me. “Keep interrupting, and you will see what happens.”
The challenge in her eyes doesn’t flicker. She shuffles impossibly closer in a single move, bringing her floral scent to fill my head. I have the violent urge to rip off this collar and gag her with it … to show her exactly what a man like me used to do to beautiful, lying things.
I swallow hard and break eye contact, staring instead at the chipped beads of the rosary. I focus on that as I continue.
“I told the men their judgment had come. None of them believed me, of course. Even in my heart, I thought—if I am wrong in this, then so be it, I will die. God has judged me as more evil. If I survive against these odds, then I am right to judge them first.”
I take a deep breath, feeling the skin split over my knuckles as if it were yesterday. I wanted to assess my skill, to see how long I could last without resorting to the slithering hunger. But Mercy doesn’t need to know about that yet.
“The man who laughed first died with my fist in his throat. They came at me, then. Guns, fists, knives. Every manner of weapon was aimed at me, but no bullets were fired. I felt their evil before they moved. It called to me like a buzzing alarm. I did not stop until I stopped hearing it.” I rub the holy cross tattoo on my finger. “They called me Il Guidice after that.”
“The Judge.”
“Sì.”
There are crimes I wish I could blame on my devil, but the truth is, sometimes it was just me. That’s where the real shame lies. The evil was already there. It’s what sent Maria to her death. The curse … it only enhanced it. Made me invincible.
Mercy’s silence is deafening.
I expect her to recoil, but when I look up, Mercy is wearing a shrewd, almost bored expression.
“You’re not scary, Father Angel-hotti.” She smirks.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you killed a lot of people. I’m just not sure why you think this will make me afraid of you.”
“Did you not hear what I said?” I gape.
“Sure.” She cocks her head. “But killing violent, evil men is my job. That’s just a Tuesday at the Sisterhood.”
The void in my gut twists. She doesn’t understand.
It has been decades since I unleashed the full force of this hunger inside of me, yet I still smell the blood of my victims, still hear their screams. Dio, the screams. How they haunt my nightmares.
Not for the sound—although horrific in itself—no, they haunt me because of the silence they leave once they stop. The emptiness.
I feel her eyes on me, painting the side of my face with fire. Waiting for me to give her the full truth. I want to laugh. To think I could hide anything from this woman was a fool’s errand.
“I have done many bad things because of this curse.”
“I’m sure I’ve done worse.”
As if she could understand. As if she—bella figura in the flesh—could ever know what it’s like to have your mother grab your jaw, peer into your eyes, and…
“You are not my son, Francesco. You are the devil.”
For a heartbeat, I am silent. The void inside twists in my gut, yanking on the coiled darkness beneath my skin, craving a fight. The faintest start of a buzz filters in, like an insect crawling inside my skull.
Show her.
My upper lip twitches, and I bite back a snarl. But Mercy keeps pushing.
“It’s quite convenient, if you ask me.” She leans forward at the hips, bringing her half-exposed cleavage into my line of vision. “Sounds like a get out of jail free card—a way to rationalize your way out of sin.” She scoffs. “At least I’m honest about going to Hell. I own my sins.”
Show her what the cage holds back.
I lean in and lower my tone. “I have murdered many men.”
It is the deliberate, flat voice I use behind the screen of the confessional, the one demanding truth and offering no path for retreat. Her pupils bloom until the blue is almost swallowed by black.
“So have I,” she breathes out, and it tickles my face.
Blood pounds in my ears. “Not like this.”
“That,” she sneers, “That right there is precisely why men like you never see me coming.”
“I have killed women, Mercy.”
“So have I.”
My eyes flash. “After I fucked them.”
“Ditto.”
Red crowds my vision. I tremble. Shake. “There is no stopping me when I get the taste for it.”
She smirks. “That’s what they all say.”
The curse screams.