Page 22
The younger one looked at the floor. My gaze followed his. A smear of blood remained near the end of the third pew. It was thin, dark, half-hidden in the uneven stone. But visible to a man looking for it. He stared. Too long.
My heart didn't change pace. I had trained it better than that.
The tall man noticed his companion staring and gave him a sharp look. The younger man lifted his eyes.
“What brings you to this house of God?” I asked.
The second man stepped forward.
His face was wide and scarred across one cheek. A fresh scar which had healed badly. His eyes were the color of dirty glass.
“We’re looking for a woman.”
“A woman?”
“Yes, Father.”
“In a church? At this hour?”
The tall one spoke up quickly. “She is confused. Unwell.” The lie was obviously rehearsed.
“Unwell?” I repeated.
The tall man nodded. “She fled from a private clinic. We’re trying to retrieve her before she harms herself.”
“How charitable of you.”
My words caused his eyes to sharpen.
I smiled gently, as if I had not meant anything by it.
The younger one shifted his weight. His shoes squeaked on the stone. It was Italian leather, the expensive kind. There was mud on the soles. A small ring on his right hand caught the red glow from the sanctuary lamp.
My attention fixed there.
A black onyx set into gold. A serpent coiled around a cross. I would know that insignia anywhere. Coccico. Old Roman cutthroats. The Coccico cartel was not the strongest, nor the richest, but they had survived because they knew how to strong-arm their way through life.
They funded church repairs. They gave money to orphanages. They carried statues of saints through village streets during festivals. Then they slit throats over debt, and made widows sign property away with guns to their heads. They appeared pious, but were actually wolves; the worst of their kind.
I looked from the man’s ring to his face and kept my expression blank.
Coccico men. Here. In my church. Hunting a beaten woman who had crawled through my doors, knocking on death’s door.
The tall man looked toward the confessional. It stood in shadow, closed and silent.
My body remained relaxed.
My hand found the brass candle snuffer on the small table beside me and rested there casually. A priest tidying his altar. Nothing more.
“What does she look like?” I asked.
The scarred man’s mouth twitched. “You would know if you saw her.”
“That may be, but I see many people,” I reminded him. “God sends all kinds to this door.”
The young one laughed under his breath. “She is dark-haired. Mid-twenties. Wearing a blue sweater and navy pants.”
Blue.
