Page 56 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

As our meals are served, I look at the two uncles who doubted me and calmly say, “You may leave.”

No one bats an eyelash at their blustering. No one needs to reveal a hidden firearm to get them to leave. They just shuffle toward the door and glance back, guilt-ridden and sour-faced, and then they leave.

They will talk. Word will spread fast. If Paolo knows what’s good for him, he’ll stay away.

“How is the pasta?” I ask Mercy quietly.

“Buonissima.” She grins.

Tomato sauce is on her beauty mark. I shouldn’t, but I do—I brush it off with my thumb, then suck up the sauce before starting my meal.

The first mouthful bursts with flavor.

We lock eyes, both thinking the same thing.

In the Vatican, the food was rotting. On the plane, at the abbey, and a few other places around the world, too. But here, it’s as though Famine is a dream.

My fingers tighten around my fork, and I stare at the pasta, willing myself not to count my chickens before they hatch. But if this is the end of Famine, and my curse is just that . . . a curse, then⁠—

I lift my gaze and raise my voice. “Tell me everything you know about the family curse.”

Elena makes a strange sound. Marco consoles her. What’s left of our table starts talking. Some tell me not tonight out of respect for my mother. Others say we invite the devil to the table if we speak his name. So quickly they forget who asked.

Teeth grinding, I sit back and tug my shirt together, but I don’t button up. I’m really just giving myself the excuse to lower my hand beneath the table and to reach for Mercy’s thigh. It’s just a brief flutter of my knuckles over her silk, and then I bring my hand back to the wine glass and lift it to my lips.

I can’t let my family see that I need solace. They doubt me already. It’s been too long since they’ve witnessed the destruction I leave in my wake.

The demon’s taunt about genealogy in the alley comes back to haunt me. Mercy seemed to trust him. That should be good enough for me. It makes sense. If I understand the curse, I can control it. I can get rid of Paolo without harming anyone else.

“Who will begin?” I glare at each individual around. “Nonna? Nonno? Who knows the most?”

The old lady points at me with a stubby, blue-veined finger. “Okay, Francesco. You want to know about the bitter blood. I will tell you about your great-grandfather, Rocco—Il Diavolo.”

“Mamma.” Marco glares at his mother and gives his wife the same look. “We all know that tale.”

I open my mouth to agree when fingers slide over my thigh, resting high. My lips close, my breath halts, and I force my eyes to remain on Marco.

Beside me, Mercy is the picture of pious grace. She smiles at my father, nodding politely as if she agrees despite knowing nothing about the story. But beneath the heavy oak table, her hand trails higher. Her fingertips brush the inseam and skate over my balls.

I reach down, take her wrist, and squeeze it once in warning. Not now. Then I put my hand back on the table.

“I agree with Marco,” I say, glowering. “I want to know the origins. Go back further than Rocco.”

Mercy doesn’t remove her hand as I expect. She scrapes her fingernails over my zipper. A bead of sweat breaks out on my upper lip. I clear my throat and button my shirt. When I get to the bottom, I flick her off my thigh.

All it does is knock her hand onto my cock. She grips hard.

My knee jerks, slamming into the table. I stand so abruptly that the chair falls behind me, clattering loudly on the stone. The family startles. Every single person turns to me.

“Francesco?” Aunt Rosa asks. “Are you well?”

“I . . .”

“Do you wish to know a story, or not?” Nonno grumbles.

I glance down at Mercy, who’s blinking innocently up at me. There is something about her posture, other than the twinkle in her eye. Not shame, not guilt, but a challenge. It reminds me of her expression earlier in the alley, after she confessed and expected me to recoil.

Suddenly, I know exactly what she’s doing.