Page 68 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

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.