Page 93 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

“Don’t look at him,” I growl. “Look at me.”

“Francesco.” He gives a nervous laugh. “You won’t do it. Think of your family.”

The natural light in the room begins to wane, as if the sun is setting.

Sweat forms on Paolo’s skin. I smell urine. A hurricane shrieks in my head, but somehow, I can still hear everything else with crystal clarity.

“Who. Is. We?” I repeat.

“She told me this would work. Ha ha. It was her idea. All of it.”

Maria.

He must mean Maria.

Elena breaks away from my father’s grip, heedless of another thug’s gun pointed at her head.

“Don’t you dare hurt her, Cesco. Don’t you hurt my angel,” she shouts.

Air whooshes from my lungs in a rush. That one sentence confirms everything. I hang my head, eyes closed, shoulders slumped.

Everything goes quiet. Dark. A void except for my thoughts.

I could shout at my family, throw their selfishness in their face, tell them to be grateful for all that I’ve done to help them, tell them to be ashamed of their sins.

I could tell them to run, to save themselves, but Mercy was right. Whether or not they’re pawns or willing, greedy participants is irrelevant.

The prayer falls from my lips like water.

“Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine.” Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord.

There’s more, but I have only one fuck left to give, and it’s not for them.

“Amen.”

Thirty-Two

Mercy

When I wake up, I think I’m still asleep.

I’m not in bed where Cisco left me. My wrists are duct-taped to the arms of a rickety wooden chair. I’m in the middle of a warehouse I’ve never seen before. The air is musty, humid, and stifling. Water drips from somewhere. From the labels on the tinned tomatoes stacked nearby, I’m still in Italy, but I have no idea how I got here.

And I’m wearing a horrid dress—something frilly with sunflowers trimming the knee-length skirt. I’d never be caught dead in an outfit like this. It chafes, and my sweat doesn’t wick away. When I look more closely, I realize it’s made of polyester. Ew.

The only plausible explanation is that I’m dreaming.

Wait. Where have I seen that sunflower pattern before? My next inhale of warm air brings an acrid scent of industrial bleach and cheap, sour perfume. Memories slam into me. The institution. The country club. My mother scolding my father.

You look utterly perverse with her head down there, clutching that sticky thing.

I shake my head, frowning at my clothes. Is that why the pattern looks familiar? Am I wearing the same dress my mother wore on that day at the country club?

This can’t be real. But it feels real.

A fly buzzes around my head, swarming irritatingly close and then away as if it’s playing with me.

Where am I? Where’s Cisco? I look around with manic eyes. Towering canvas-covered storage crates surround me except for one wall painted with a mural. On the ground before it, piled on top of crates are effigies and old, melted candles that have bled onto the floor. The peeling mural shows an angel fiercely driving his sword into a serpent. It reminds me of the one on Cisco’s chest. What’s more uncanny are the words floating in a banner at the top: “Judgment without mercy.”