Page 57 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

Out in the hall, I exhale hard. “Bastard’s immune.”

Tawny mutters, “You didn’t do the lie detector thing.”

“Was there any point?” I raise my brows at Raven.

“He’s one of the easiest to read dudes I’ve ever met.” She shrugs. “And he’s an open book. Honest as fuck.”

“Two left,” I mumble, scratching my thigh. I’m having second thoughts about leaving my cilices behind.

“What’s the plan?” Tawny asks me.

“Maybe one of you should take point this time,” I suggest. “Try something different.”

Raven nods. “Leave it to me.”

Twenty

Mercy

We descend on Dominic’s door, three Sinners at the height of nerves, sugar, and adrenaline. The key snicks open, and I’m at once reminded why prison cells are a thing: the Saint is fucking huge. He’s perched on a solid wooden chair, back to the wall, shaved head gleaming beneath the overhead bulb, and reading an honest-to-God Bible. His designer suit jacket hangs on the bedpost. His dark shirt is perfectly pressed, even in captivity. The contrast is bananas. He’s so still, it’s like walking into a mausoleum.

He doesn’t even flinch when Raven swings the door open wide enough to rattle the hinges. But he does look up, big grey eyes flat and unbothered as he slowly closes the Bible.

“Dominic,” I greet. “You know why we’re here.”

“Sì.”

Silence stretches.

Okay, then.

It’s time to get real with our interrogation tactics. Tawny stands by the door, arms folded, while I investigate Dominic’s belongings, and Raven stands dead ahead of him in a staring contest he won’t win.

Apart from his Versace suit, Rolex, and Ferragamo shoes, the Saint doesn’t own much, except for some gym clothes, a few pieces of religious paraphernalia, and the Italian Bible in his hands.

“I went through your phone,” Raven eventually says.

I run my finger across the desk, but no dust comes away. There’s not much else to search in the room, so I hold out my hand for him to place his Bible in. He does, without so much as a blink.

“Nothing to say about that?” Raven asks him.

Silence.

He’s not as fluent in English as Cisco, so I quickly translate. I’m a better linguist than the others, so it makes sense. Raven still scowls at me, though, as if I’m cramping her style.

You translate then, I say with my glare.

She pulls out the cell phone that must belong to the Saint, flicks through a few messages, then holds the screen up to him.

“What is this bullshit?” she demands.

“Scusa?”

“You only ever chat with Father Angelotti, Wesley, Zeke, and—” She thumbs through to a different chat. “Old Monsignor messages.” She waggles the phone. “It’s all small talk. Bullshit.”

He shrugs.

Raven tosses the phone into his lap. “What exactly does a Saint do?”