Page 51 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

It’s one thing to see women I hardly know in the kitchen make the Sign of the Cross. It’s another to see the fear in people who changed my diapers as a baby.

Who knows, maybe it was always there. Maybe I was just numb to it.

Vince and Nico make their Signs of the Cross, and then bow their heads for a moment before lifting and looking at me with wide eyes.

“This is hilarious,” Mercy whispers into my ear.

“Not a word,” I shoot back.

Enzo stops by the bar where his mother is bent over. Still grinning wildly, he clears his throat and waggles his brows at me.

“Mamma,” he shouts.

“Not now, Enzo.” The big bottom sways, and Aunt Rosa starts humming, happy in her hunt.

“Mamma!” Enzo’s smile drops, and he bangs on the mahogany bar’s countertop. “Look who I found outside.”

Aunt Rosa abruptly straightens, her round face flushed and annoyed. Not everything about her quite suits the Angelottis. She is too honest for bella figura. The buttons gape from her enormous cleavage. Her designer skirt is twisted. Frizzy, messy brown hair sticks up in strange angles, and her lipstick is on her front tooth. But she’s always grinning.

Except now, when she sees me. The glass slips from her fingers and shatters on the floorboards.

“Dio mio!” she screams, making the sign of the cross. “Francesco!”

Chaos erupts.

The family swarms me. Hands grab my biceps, my shoulders, my face. They weep. They shout my name. I don’t know how to react. I didn’t expect this. One moment, they’re like deer in the headlights. Next, they’re all over me with affection. Someone pinches my cheek, someone kisses the other side, another pulls at my torn clerics, and asks a million questions.

I try to escape by dropping our bags behind the counter, but they follow me.

“You’re too skinny, Cesco,” Aunt Rosa says.

“No, he’s not. Feel this!” Nico grabs my biceps.

I shake my head.

Maybe this is why they’re not so afraid anymore. They just took a few moments to register that I am a priest now. They think the white square at my throat means they’re safe.

Mercy watches it all, her smile curling into something softer. It’s that look that eases my tension. I want to touch her just to prove I’m not dreaming.

“Let the priest breathe.” Enzo claps his hands loudly, and then he tugs me through the rabble, and I grab Mercy with my free hand.

Enzo pushes through the sliding glass doors and takes us into the open air.

The rooftop terrace is walled with boxwood hedges and glossy pots of basil. Sails strung above protect the courtyard from nosy neighbors and summer rain. Tables are scattered around, each under a string of lights twinkling brightly as twilight ends. Every seat is full. Men, women, even babies. There must be at least seventy here. Maybe more.

Mercy and I remain at the door while Enzo cuts through the gathering like a shark. My parents, Marco and Elena, are two tables away with the old guard, sitting by a wall covered in vines.

The last time I saw my father, he was only ten years older than I am now. My parents had children young. White hair has taken over the brown on his head. His tattoos are hidden behind his cream Versace suit. He leans toward my mother and whispers something short and clipped.

She is the picture of perfection, her sandy blond hair slicked back into a chignon. Her cheeks are hollow, and her eyes have shadows. They both look thinner.

But the tables are laden with food.

“Guess Famine hasn’t reached the Angelottis,” Mercy murmurs in English.

She is hungry.

Of course she is. How could I forget?