Page 54 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

A groan slips from my lips.

Or maybe I’d tease her first. Make her beg. She’d curse at me in three languages, and then I would fuck her and fill her until she forgets every lie her mother ever told her.

I hate that she relies on battery-powered plastic for release when it should come from me.

I want to own her hunger. I want to be fed by it.

I click the toy off, wipe my hand, and tug on my trousers. I finish dressing in a rush, uncaring that my clothes are wrinkled. At least they’re clean, my belt is on, my shirt is tucked, and my collar is attached. Last, I slip on my shoes and drop the plug into my pocket, where it rests heavily on my thigh. It’s mine now. Mercy can ask nicely if she wants it.

Done, I cross to the door but hesitate before opening it. On the wall beside the exit, over the light switch, is a picture of Maria and me when we were children, maybe five and seven. We are at the beach, building sandcastles. Our skin is burned, but we don’t notice. We’re laughing.

I touch the glass at something odd. Maria’s hair looks brown, not the bright blond from my memory. I also never noticed before that she had a mark on her upper thigh. Is that a tattoo? At her age? Leaning closer, I see it looks more like a stamp—a sigil.

The sensation of ants vibrating up my spine is so visceral and sudden that I slip my hand into my pocket to check the plug isn’t switched on.

It’s not.

I look at Maria’s birthmark again, narrow my eyes to focus, and feel sick when I recognize the shape.

It’s in the shape of a fly.

Nineteen

Cisco

When I return to the terrace, the extended family is gone. Only the royalty remains: my parents, first cousins, and grandparents. Nonna and Nonno sit in their enormous armchairs, blankets over their laps despite the humidity. Paolo is their son, too.

Tables have been pushed together, and they pick at their food with sullen faces.

Rain falls in plops, hitting the sails and dribbling over the sides. I stand by the door, fingers itching to dig into my pocket for a touch of Mercy. I hope she isn’t long. The shower was still running when I passed her guest room. Maybe I should have knocked.

Elena stands this time, not Marco. She rushes toward me with a broad grin and watery eyes, so unlike the confusion from earlier.

“Oh, my dear Francesco.” She gathers me into her arms and squeezes me tight. My hands flatten on her back. She feels so small and fragile beneath the tailored silk. “It’s a miracle. Two of my babies are back from the dead.”

Every muscle in my body pulls taut. I glance at my father over Elena’s head. Grim despair hollows out his eyes. He shakes his head and looks away. It must be so hard to watch someone you love lose themselves piece by piece, and not be able to do a thing about it. I will pray for them tonight.

“Mamma.” I pull her back to look into her eyes. “No ghosts tonight. It’s just me and my friend, Suor Mercy.”

I may as well continue with the ruse. It might calm Elena. But then again, religion has never calmed her. Neither has the devil. She just wants her daughter back.

The family starts talking at once, voices raised, but it feels like a buzzing in my head. Maybe it is. I can’t tell anymore. Everything is blurring as I guide my mother back to her chair.

“They said he would never come back,” Elena tells the table. “My Francesco.”

I pull her chair out. She smiles at me as she sits.

“But now he is here.” She pats my hand on her shoulder after I slide her chair in for her. “He will keep us safe, just like he used to with our little angel⁠—”

“Mamma, enough,” I whisper, but she’s already slipping into a half-remembered story about the last Easter we had together. The one where Maria looked so beautiful in the red ballet shoes Elena gave her. How proud she was.

Across the table, my father’s jaw ripples, but the older man doesn’t cry. Not in this family.

Before Elena launches into another story, one of the uncles spits into a plant pot and asks, “Who’s going to stop Paolo, Francesco? The Pope?” He gestures at my collar. “He’s worse than the devil. Everyone knows it.”

I grip the back of Elena’s chair and crack my neck to avoid breaking the wood.

At least now it’s confirmed—they no longer fear me because they think the curse is gone. The thought releases too many unknown emotions in my gut, mixing them up like a cocktail that leaves me feeling gross.