Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Fabien
The present
Entering the chapel with my bible tucked under my arm, I quietly pull the door closed, sliding into the pew beside my priest.
“Fabien. I have news…”
He falls silent when I jerk the rosary from his hands, making the sign of the cross. “Bless you, father, for you have sinned.”
My priest’s wide eyes reveal his confusion. “I’m sorry?”
“Thou shalt not lie. It’s one of the ten commandments, right?” I swing the beads round and round on my finger.
“That’s right,” he says hesitantly.
“Let’s see what the good book has to say about it.” I open my bible, revealing the shank nestled inside the hollowed-out pages. Grabbing the plexiglass chard attached to a duct tape handle—crafted this little beauty myself in the workshop—I make a show of slicing the air.
“Fabien, please—”
I bring the blade to the exposed patch of skin above his collar. “You lied to me about Sienna.” The only reason I kept my distance all these years is that I thought that’s what she wanted. That she was better off without me. That she was happy. “I want to know why.”
“Mr. D’Amico,” he says with a shaky breath. “He threatened my life. My mother’s life, if I didn’t feed you certain information, to keep you from pursuing Sienna.”
I lower my weapon, returning it to its hiding spot and closing the good book with a dramatic thump. “Forgiveness. That’s what this is all about, right?” I tap the cover.
“Yes.” He clings to my words like a life raft.
“I’m going to let you live.”
“Thank you, Fabien.” Relief washes over his face as he hurries to the door.
Fast, but not fast enough.
Crossing the chapel in a split second, I fling the rosary around his neck and yank both ends taut. “Forgive me, Father, for it is I who have sinned.” My lips curl into a snarl against his ear. “I lied.”
Father claws against the beads, his body bucking as he struggles to take in oxygen. Garroting isn’t my MO, but I’ll make an exception for this piece of shit.
The seconds tick by as I continue my assault on his trachea. “Father, you afraid to meet your maker?” I taunt him. The man’s putting up a bigger fight than I expected. “You should be.”
He eventually gives up the ghost, crumbling to the floor. My heel grinds into his face, using it as leverage to jerk the beads, now embedded, from his neck. Using the edge of his robe to wipe down my prints, I drop the rosary by his side.
My knuckles rap twice on the door. Kirksey appears, signaling all clear, and I slip out with my bible.
An “all day and nighter” gives us a brief nod as he enters the chapel. He’s serving life without the possibility of parole, and should questions arise, he’s agreed to take the fall in exchange for a payout to his wife.
There was a time I believed the great Fabien Calvani was untouchable. Turns out prison has rehabilitated me, because I’ll never make that fucking mistake again.
“How’d it go? Kirksey asks.
My lips curl. “Confession is good for the soul.”
Not nearly as good as revenge, but I’m only getting started.
Saint is waiting on me in the attorney/client room, but instead of taking my usual seat, I chose to remain standing with my back to the window.
“Boss, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get in to see you; even with our arrangement with the warden, I can’t gain access when the facility is on lockdown,” he explains the delay.
“Yeah, my priest died inside the chapel. Tragic,” I muse, making the sign of the cross as best I can in shackles. “Are you loyal to me, Saint?” I eye my attorney and closest confidant through a haze of sudden distrust.
“To a fault; you know this,” he says cautiously.
“The problem is, I thought the good Father was loyal to me, but now I’m questioning everything. Including whether you need to join him.” I advance, my shackled hands wrapping around Saint’s neck. “Do you need to join him?”
“No.” He swallows against my hold, but doesn’t break eye contact.
“Why didn’t you follow up about Sienna? All this time, she was miserable with that piece of shit Michele,” I spit.
“Boss, you told me to stop following Sienna after I confirmed her marriage to Mr. D’Amico. Your words were, ‘Sienna made her choice. Let her live her life.’”
“Damn, I did say that.” There’s no argument that I fucked up with Sienna, but learning that she married Michele felt like my death knell. “And then my priest began dropping crumbs of false information about my girl, and my dumb ass ate them up with a spoon.” I shake my head.
“Why would your priest do that?”
“Michele.” My voice cuts like the spike of ice pick that I’m aching to unleash on that fucker. “He thinks he’s won; I’m ready to prove him wrong.”
“Understood.” Saint gulps around my hold. “But boss, could you release me?”
“Shit.” I drop my hands, and Saint sucks down a jagged breath. “You alright?”
“Of course, sir.” He loosens his tie and unbuttons the top button of his dress shirt, revealing my handprints.
“Maybe you are loyal to a fault; at least tell me to fuck off.”
“Fuck off, boss, but only because you told me to,” he amends.
A chuckle escapes me as I walk around the table and take my seat, and Saint takes his. “Have you made contact with Nic?”
Saint slices his head. “Your cousin said, and I quote, ‘Aw, man, please do not get me killed.’”
Nic’s not on my revenge list. At least, that I know of. My list is subject to change as more rats are flushed from the sewer. “Being that I haven’t spoken to Nic in almost ten years, it’s hard to gauge loyalty.”
“Your cousin has a plausible defense: that your brother forbade anyone in the family from communicating with you,” Saint points out.
“And what a chicken shit of a move by the ‘boss.’” My fist slams the table, the shackles around my wrists only pissing me off that much more.
Saint reaches into his briefcase, pulling out a magazine and sliding it over. “Don’t choke the messenger.”
“What’s this?” I ask wearily.
“Fluff piece on your brother, this year’s Mr. New Orleans.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” The sticky-sweet write-up of the local businessman and philanthropist Angelo Calvani has my blood boiling. “Meet up with Nic again. Find out whose side my cousin is really on.” I toss the magazine across the table.
“You want me to put the squeeze on your cousin?”
“Squeeze him like a lemon plucked off the grove in Capri.” I fall back in my chair, letting out a long breath. Damn, what I would give to have a sip of limoncello.
“Understood. And what of Sienna? You want me to make contact?”
“Not yet. Patience. It’s a virtue, I think.” Would ask Father, but he’s six feet under, looking up at me.
I’ve spent nearly a decade in hell; it seems only fitting that Michele join the good Father there for an eternity. And then I’m getting my girl back, if I have to wrangle her from the Devil himself.