Page 92 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

Outside on the terrace, the tables and chairs are as I left them, upturned and untouched.

Shots were fired. People are running. But the bodies aren’t outside the osteria.

Without thinking, I burst inside, following the sense of evil. My first steps across the threshold slip on something wet, and I skid. My hands slam onto a nearby wall for support. Lungs burning, heart pumping, I don’t need to look down to know it’s blood. The metallic tang in my nose is strong enough.

Phantom black ants skitter up my spine. Someone approaches me from behind.

Footsteps squelch, and the cold, hard press of a gun’s barrel presses against the back of my skull.

“Nice of you to finally join us, Francesco.” It’s Uncle Paolo’s unmistakable, rough Italian. “We’ve been waiting a while.”

I will myself to calm down, to hold in the darkness from obliterating him. I let it out too soon with Jasmine and the cardinals. I should have taken my time to feast. Should have gone slow through the sins, to hunt for the truth.

Pray for them now, the hunger urges.

No.

Mercy.

She comes first.

“Where’s the American?” My voice sounds foreign, like it belongs to another person.

“Sit.” The barrel nudges my head. “It’s time we had a little family meeting.”

My fingers curl into fists. I glance down and to the side, finally seeing a body. Uncle Vince. Further into the restaurant, shadows move.

Three more of Paolo’s men stand behind my parents and a distraught Aunt Rosa. Nonna and Nonno. Enzo. All the cousins. He’s rounded up every Angelotti faithful to Marco. But no Mercy.

“I won’t ask again,” I grind out. “Where is the American woman staying with me?”

Shadows ripple beneath my skin. Spiked and jagged horns grow in size along every thread.

Paolo scoffs. “I should kill you right now for your betrayal, but I won’t. Not if you do as you’re told.”

“You of all people know you cannot survive me, Paolo. Don’t be a fool.”

“You won’t risk your family.” He shoves the gun into my head, jerking it aside. “How many of us do you think you can stop before a bullet gets loose?” He sniffs. “You see, I had much time to think in prison. Time to think about how to beat you before the shadows come. It all comes down to⁠—”

“To what?” I laugh, short and bitter. “To loyalty? To family duty?” I slowly turn until the barrel is at my forehead and press into it. “Perhaps twenty years ago, you would be right. Even two weeks ago, you might have been right. But there is only one person who can stop me now, and she is not in this room.”

Thudding and banging come from upstairs. It could be a ransack. Or a fight.

Now! the hunger demands. Pray for the sinners!

It takes all my willpower to stop the shadows peeling from my skin and reaching out.

Paolo sees the tendrils unfurl toward him and hover. He remembers now that they can move fast, too fast for a trigger finger to beat, and he swallows.

“We have the American,” he confesses. “She’s alive. Think rationally.”

“Who is we?” I step forward, crowding him backward with my head pushing against his gun.

He stumbles into a chair, glances over his shoulder, and corrects his balance.

“Boss?” one of the thugs calls out, hesitant.

Paolo turns to him, but I click my fingers in his face.