Chapter 19
Nineteen
Cisco
When I return to the terrace, the extended family is gone. Only the royalty remains: my parents, first cousins, and grandparents. Nonna and Nonno sit in their enormous armchairs, blankets over their laps despite the humidity. Paolo is their son, too.
Tables have been pushed together, and they pick at their food with sullen faces.
Rain falls in plops, hitting the sails and dribbling over the sides. I stand by the door, fingers itching to dig into my pocket for a touch of Mercy. I hope she isn’t long. The shower was still running when I passed her guest room. Maybe I should have knocked.
Elena stands this time, not Marco. She rushes toward me with a broad grin and watery eyes, so unlike the confusion from earlier.
“Oh, my dear Francesco.” She gathers me into her arms and squeezes me tight. My hands flatten on her back. She feels so small and fragile beneath the tailored silk. “It’s a miracle. Two of my babies are back from the dead.”
Every muscle in my body pulls taut. I glance at my father over Elena’s head. Grim despair hollows out his eyes. He shakes his head and looks away. It must be so hard to watch someone you love lose themselves piece by piece, and not be able to do a thing about it. I will pray for them tonight.
“Mamma.” I pull her back to look into her eyes. “No ghosts tonight. It’s just me and my friend, Suor Mercy.”
I may as well continue with the ruse. It might calm Elena. But then again, religion has never calmed her. Neither has the devil. She just wants her daughter back.
The family starts talking at once, voices raised, but it feels like a buzzing in my head. Maybe it is. I can’t tell anymore. Everything is blurring as I guide my mother back to her chair.
“They said he would never come back,” Elena tells the table. “My Francesco.”
I pull her chair out. She smiles at me as she sits.
“But now he is here.” She pats my hand on her shoulder after I slide her chair in for her. “He will keep us safe, just like he used to with our little angel—”
“Mamma, enough,” I whisper, but she’s already slipping into a half-remembered story about the last Easter we had together. The one where Maria looked so beautiful in the red ballet shoes Elena gave her. How proud she was.
Across the table, my father’s jaw ripples, but the older man doesn’t cry. Not in this family.
Before Elena launches into another story, one of the uncles spits into a plant pot and asks, “Who’s going to stop Paolo, Francesco? The Pope?” He gestures at my collar. “He’s worse than the devil. Everyone knows it.”
I grip the back of Elena’s chair and crack my neck to avoid breaking the wood.
At least now it’s confirmed—they no longer fear me because they think the curse is gone. The thought releases too many unknown emotions in my gut, mixing them up like a cocktail that leaves me feeling gross.
Another uncle, his voice thick with wine, adds, “You went soft! The Devil in you made us strong. Have you prayed it away to leave us sheep?”
Angelottis have only ever respected one thing: Power.
I circle back to the front of the table, fingers already in my collar, popping the studs and pulling the cotton strip out. I fling it onto the table and unbutton my clerical shirt.
The effect is nuclear.
Every head lifts. Silence descends.
I strip off the shirt to reveal the war of ink on my skin, and then face the door leading inside. The Lady of Sorrows watches them. Her face is agony—my bloodline’s. Swords pierce her heart. Above her, the Archangel Michael’s wings span my shoulders, giving her hope.
Coiled through it all, the shadows writhe, poking their tiny devil horns out from beneath the ink.
This is what a god looks like in their world.
When I face them again, the men are frozen. The women have gone pale, even my mother. My father’s eyes are wet, but he’s hiding it behind rage and sorrow, glaring at the empty wine glass in his hand.
I pull on my shirt but leave it unbuttoned. If they need to see the tattoos as a reminder, then fine. A few more minutes won’t hurt.
“I haven’t forgotten what I am,” I say. “But you must trust me to finish this business with Paolo my way.”
Nonno swallows hard. “You’re the Judge again, then?”
“You’re coming home?” Nonna asks.
“No. I’m still a priest. But that doesn’t mean I’ve lost my bite.”
A ripple of nervous laughter breaks out and then abruptly stops. Eyes shift to somewhere behind me, and I spin.
My heart stops.
Mercy stands in the open doorway, out of the nun’s habit and in a blue silk dress.
The cut is low over her breasts and tight over her hips.
The skirt ends at her knees, but a split goes high enough that I see a shadow of her cilice wounds.
Coppery, wild hair crowns her beautiful face, and the heels—Cristo!
Where did she get those? They make her legs go on forever.
The whole table stares at her.
Me? My mouth is dry, I’m sweating, and my dick is hard. It twitches when I remember the toy in my pocket and how I plan to use it. How I’ll remind her she’s not this perfect thing my family loves to pretend they are.
She’s filthy, she’s sexy, and she’s mine.
God help me, I want to see her moan from pleasure. I want to feed her so full of my cum that she never doubts I am hers.
I’m thinking of all of these things at once. All she does is tilt her head and say in Italian, “I hope this outfit is okay. You all seem so dressed up.”
The men nod rapidly. The women murmur and whisper, but they say nothing bad. Mercy wears a similar cut to a cousin’s dress I saw tonight. She just makes everything look indecent.
Enzo blurts, “I thought you were a nun!”
I almost choke. “She’s not a normal nun. Just like I’m not a normal priest.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then conversation picks up again. Aunt Rosa bustles up, rosy-cheeked and grinning from ear to ear.
“Let’s get you something to eat. You’re both far too skinny.” Without breaking eye contact with Mercy, she barks over her shoulder. “Vincenzo! Two plates!”
Enzo’s name is shouted next, but he’s already pulled out a chair beside an empty one, which I assume is mine. It better be mine. I glower at Enzo, just in case he’s thinking about taking it for himself. Mercy glides to the table and sits to my left, crossing her legs. Every eye tracks her.
As I sit, I watch everyone’s faces fill with cautious respect mixed with curiosity. Mercy keeps them guessing, just the way we like.
If I were to return home and take up the mantle, to become the Don officially, I would be filled with pride right now. She is the most beautiful thing in Rome, and she’s sitting next to me.
As our meals are served, I look at the two uncles who doubted me and calmly say, “You may leave.”
No one bats an eyelash at their blustering. No one needs to reveal a hidden firearm to get them to leave. They just shuffle toward the door and glance back, guilt-ridden and sour-faced, and then they leave.
They will talk. Word will spread fast. If Paolo knows what’s good for him, he’ll stay away.
“How is the pasta?” I ask Mercy quietly.
“Buonissima.” She grins.
Tomato sauce is on her beauty mark. I shouldn’t, but I do—I brush it off with my thumb, then suck up the sauce before starting my meal.
The first mouthful bursts with flavor.
We lock eyes, both thinking the same thing.
In the Vatican, the food was rotting. On the plane, at the abbey, and a few other places around the world, too. But here, it’s as though Famine is a dream.
My fingers tighten around my fork, and I stare at the pasta, willing myself not to count my chickens before they hatch. But if this is the end of Famine, and my curse is just that . . . a curse, then—
I lift my gaze and raise my voice. “Tell me everything you know about the family curse.”
Elena makes a strange sound. Marco consoles her. What’s left of our table starts talking. Some tell me not tonight out of respect for my mother. Others say we invite the devil to the table if we speak his name. So quickly they forget who asked.
Teeth grinding, I sit back and tug my shirt together, but I don’t button up.
I’m really just giving myself the excuse to lower my hand beneath the table and to reach for Mercy’s thigh.
It’s just a brief flutter of my knuckles over her silk, and then I bring my hand back to the wine glass and lift it to my lips.
I can’t let my family see that I need solace. They doubt me already. It’s been too long since they’ve witnessed the destruction I leave in my wake.
The demon’s taunt about genealogy in the alley comes back to haunt me. Mercy seemed to trust him. That should be good enough for me. It makes sense. If I understand the curse, I can control it. I can get rid of Paolo without harming anyone else.
“Who will begin?” I glare at each individual around. “Nonna? Nonno? Who knows the most?”
The old lady points at me with a stubby, blue-veined finger. “Okay, Francesco. You want to know about the bitter blood. I will tell you about your great-grandfather, Rocco—Il Diavolo.”
“Mamma.” Marco glares at his mother and gives his wife the same look. “We all know that tale.”
I open my mouth to agree when fingers slide over my thigh, resting high. My lips close, my breath halts, and I force my eyes to remain on Marco.
Beside me, Mercy is the picture of pious grace. She smiles at my father, nodding politely as if she agrees despite knowing nothing about the story. But beneath the heavy oak table, her hand trails higher. Her fingertips brush the inseam and skate over my balls.
I reach down, take her wrist, and squeeze it once in warning. Not now. Then I put my hand back on the table.
“I agree with Marco,” I say, glowering. “I want to know the origins. Go back further than Rocco.”
Mercy doesn’t remove her hand as I expect. She scrapes her fingernails over my zipper. A bead of sweat breaks out on my upper lip. I clear my throat and button my shirt. When I get to the bottom, I flick her off my thigh.
All it does is knock her hand onto my cock. She grips hard.
My knee jerks, slamming into the table. I stand so abruptly that the chair falls behind me, clattering loudly on the stone. The family startles. Every single person turns to me.
“Francesco?” Aunt Rosa asks. “Are you well?”
“I . . .”
“Do you wish to know a story, or not?” Nonno grumbles.
I glance down at Mercy, who’s blinking innocently up at me. There is something about her posture, other than the twinkle in her eye. Not shame, not guilt, but a challenge. It reminds me of her expression earlier in the alley, after she confessed and expected me to recoil.
Suddenly, I know exactly what she’s doing.
“Forgive me,” I growl, swinging my gaze back to the family and finishing buttoning my clerical shirt. “I forgot the time. Suor Mercy and I are halfway through an urgent novena we started earlier.” I haul her to her feet. “We have a few to go.”
“Such a good boy.” Aunt Rosa smiles fondly at me. “You do that, Franceso. Nine minutes? We’ll clear the dishes and bring out dessert.”
Murmurs of agreement ripple across the table. Even my father nods solemnly, glancing at Elena, who is staring off into space. “I think we all need a break.”
“He is a good boy,” Elena adds. “Praying for our protection.”
The praise grates on my nerves. She hasn’t spoken to me like this since before the drowning.
I need to get out of here.
“Use the VIP dining room downstairs,” Aunt Rosa says, smiling as she collects our plates. “You will not be interrupted.”
I don’t wait for another word. I’m already two steps to the door when my nonna grabs my arm and clucks, “Take the tomato timer from the kitchen. I use it for my novenas.”
It is hard to look appreciative at my nonna with my heart pounding, and my cock growing harder by the second. But I manage a curt nod, and then walk out, knowing Mercy is hot on my heels.
I don’t stop until I’m downstairs in the main kitchen, collecting the red tomato timer in one fell swoop. I have a moment to register the emptiness down here and feel pleased, then I’m barreling into the private dining room and stepping aside for Mercy to enter. And then I close the door behind us.