Page 52 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

I’m about to turn back and plate up some pasta when a hush falls over the gathering. Signs of the Cross are made. Some are sharp and crisp. Others are weak. A baby cries and is shushed.

“A bit dramatic,” Mercy mutters.

I glance down at her and grin, replying, “Don’t ever change.”

Her eyes meet mine and sparkle. “Not for a million fucks.”

I snort, almost missing the way Elena’s hand flutters to her pearls. I forgot that she speaks English.

Marco’s chair scrapes across the terracotta tiles as he stands. His dark eyes dip to my collar, and his shoulders relax. He crosses to me, grips the back of my neck, and pulls my forehead to his.

“My son.” His voice trembles.

“Papà.” I grip his nape in return, but look past his shoulder. Elena remains seated, her head tilted at me, her brows pulled together. Not anger. Confusion.

“Is she . . .” I start.

“Not so good,” Marco finishes, easing back from me. “But we will talk later.”

His gaze drifts to Mercy. “Who is the nun?”

“She is under my protection,” I warn, loud enough for my voice to carry. “And if any man in this room forgets it, he will answer to me.”

Mercy scoffs softly under her breath, but my father nods slowly.

“Understood,” he says. A beat of silence follows, and then his eyes crinkle. “Good to see you haven’t changed.”

“Suor Mercy, meet my father, Marco Angelotti.”

A flash of approval in her eyes tells me I made the right choice not to call her Misericordia. She gives my father a crisp smile and greets him in Italian.

“Mr. Angelotti, it’s great to put a face to the name.”

“Please, call me Marco.”

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Mercy says.

Marco laughs. “All bad, I hope.”

“Of course.” She winks. “Sorry, I would shake your hand but . . .”

He startles at our filthy state. “Goodness. Where are our manners? Go, clean up. Our house is your house. Francesco, your room is as you left it. Suora, there is a guest room down the hall—number eight. Go. We will talk afterward.”

Eighteen

Cisco

This osteria was once a hostel, and each floor has plenty of bedrooms. Most of the family lives on the third floor. The rest are reserved for special guests.

Even though I only stayed here briefly before the seminary to set things up, they kept my room. It’s at the end of the corridor, but number eight is close to the stairs.

Since only the family stays here, the door is unlocked.

“I’ll just check you have fresh toiletries in your bathroom.” I deposit Mercy’s bag on the made bed, check the ensuite, and yes, everything looks in order.

“If you need me,” I say, walking back into the main room, “I’m the last door at the end of the corridor.”

I stop when I see Mercy hasn’t stepped inside the room.