Page 23 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

“A man who lets a woman sin so that he remains pure is not a good man.”

My eye twitches. It’s hard to breathe.

“I cannot agree to this,” he insists.

“It’s no big deal.” My finger absently flicks my outer thigh. “I’m used to being seen as dirty. It just means I know my place … and how to use it.”

A flicker of something dark and ancient appears in his eyes, and he takes a single, deliberate step closer. His voice drops to a low growl, barely audible over the silence. “No woman is a tool for another’s penance. Especially not mine. My sins are my own to carry, Mercy.”

With that, he reaches for the doorknob but then stops. For a second, I think he’s glitched. He just stands there frozen, tattooed fingers hovering. And then, with a knuckle-cracking pop, he says, “Confession is between six and eight tonight. Don’t be late.”

He shoves the door open and storms into the light.

Nine

Cisco

Ishould have eaten the cake.

Indigestion would have been easier to deal with than the thoughts whirling in my head. Now I can’t sleep, so I tuck my arm and roll to face the church oratory’s red velvet couch’s backrest.

Formerly the priest’s office, this room is now the sacristy because the Sin Bin has taken over the original space. The desk is cluttered and blocked by a chair holding my last clean set of clericals. The wooden vestment press overflows. The lavabo’s leaky faucet drips constantly. The couch is too short. My feet hang off the end.

The last time I slept solidly for more than an hour was over a week ago. Maybe I got to three hours, if I count the blackout where I dreamed the world was cinder and every throat was screaming, mine included.

The Vatican, Cardinal Valerio, and the entire invisible machine that once made sense no longer align with what I see when I close my eyes and think about the Magdalene prophecy. It’s real. I know that. Two divine relics and the defeat of two Horsemen of the Apocalypse prove that. My rejection this morning had nothing to do with its validity or the woman I rejected with it. Her face. Her smell … it’s something sweet and heady I can’t name. Something with wood and floral notes. Maybe Iris?

The scent reminds me of a time Uncle Nico took me fishing off the coast of Naples. I must have been only five or six, because I recall being exuberant over leaving my new, annoying baby sister behind. For a whole week, it was just us “men,” an old cedar boat, and the smell of salt, sun-warmed rope, and the powdery pomade Nico rubbed into his hair before dawn. I never knew what was in it. Only that it smelled like a morning where no one was screaming, and the water was still kind.

Grumbling at myself, I roll again and face the dark room, but there is no comfort. The soft velvet grinds my clericals against my skin. I should change into my sweats, but they’re dirty. By the time I closed the church after confession tonight, it was already late, and I was tired. The thought of taking the short walk back to the abbey for a clean set of clothes was like a needle in the center of my chest. The thought of bumping into Mercy was even worse.

She didn’t come.

I waited for hours, and she didn’t come.

Wind gusts against the tall lancet window. A storm brews outside. Now and then, the clouds break, and a moonbeam rushes in, casting light on the heavy desk. My prayer book lies open and unread.

I shut my eyes and try to pray. Not the official prayers I’ve said a million times at Mass, but the one I never say aloud. The one that starts with a name and ends with a question: Dio, cosa vuoi da me? God, what do you want from me?

There is no answer. There never is.

The only reason I know He has not forsaken me is that I have been ordained to ministry. And if God let me become a priest, knowing what I am, then He must believe I can be redeemed—or at least controlled. He’s not finished with me yet.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out, grateful for a distraction until I see another message from my “friend” at the Vatican: Update?

I stare at it until my eyes go blurry. I have no answer because nothing has changed. The Horseman of Famine is not here, despite the signs of rot in the garden. We might be a little hungrier than usual, but the straits are not dire yet. The abbey is secure. The only anomaly is that the leader of the Sinners is not evil. She is … what? Broken? Starving? A reflection of myself?

I flinch at that thought, sit up, and rub the grit from my eyes. The room smells of incense and the bitter tang of beeswax that Sister Agnes uses to polish every wooden surface in the church until they gleam. I used to love that smell. Now it reminds me of funerals and a closed casket that no one was allowed to open. It reminds me of my sister, who used to call me Cesco because she couldn’t say Francesco. My sister, whom I failed.

The memory of her makes my chest hurt. This pain is why I never corrected the mistake when they signed me up for the seminary as Francisco instead of Francesco.

In the Angelotti family, it’s the women’s role to balance out the men’s sins. We call it bella figura—the beautiful face you present to the world, even when your soul is a mess. My mother believed it, the aunts upheld it, and Maria was the best at it. The little angel, the perfect daughter, the counterbalance to my own growing rage.

She died because of it, because she was expected to suffer in her perfection while the violent men reaped the rewards.

She was twelve, and her funeral fixed everything I had broken.

I tug my white collar from my throat, and my fingers linger along the stiff line of cotton.