I have plans, and I’m not about to waste a second on being sick.
So, even though I’m exhausted, I follow Anna as she walks up a set of stairs. Naturally, there’s no elevator, and I’m grateful she’s busy talking, not necessarily needing an answer from me as we climb two floors.
When she opens the door, a large green one that’s double my height, I smile when I walk in after her.
It’s light, airy, and the windows are open, letting in a breeze from the street outside. The scent from out there floats in on the wind—oregano and pizza, humanity and traffic. An odd combination to be sure, but fragrant nonetheless.
Give it to me a thousand times over whatever the hell she’s wearing.
I ignore everything else to stride to the windows, and as I do, peering over the ornate Juliet balcony, I see the crest of the Vatican on one side, and the angels that guard the perimeter of Castel De Sant’Angelo on the other.
It’s hard to believe I’m here, hard, but good.
I need this.
I feel free for the first time in too long. No one is watching over me, monitoring me, or checking to see if I’m okay.
Mom has raised me to be independent, and the truth is, being fussed over for so long?
Nightmare.
When I peer up at the sky, I smile again because it’s just starting to turn pink. A beautiful rosy color that seems sharper to me than ever.
Maybe it is.
I’m still coming to terms with the new me, and I know I’m experiencing things differently compared to how I did before. Maybe a sharper color palette is as new a skill as the ability to break down the different tones to her perfume?
Anna clears her throat, spoiling my moment, but I turn around and see she’s placed her briefcase on the table in the corner.
A quick glance around gives me a clue that I’ll be happy here. There’s a large cream sofa padded with cushions, and a long, walnut table that’s gleaming thanks to some good polish, where she’s plopped a notepad. The sofa looks out onto the windows, but in between the French doors, where a painting would probably have gone before, there’s a TV.
I like the idea of being able to look out onto Rome if I decide to watch some Netflix.
Behind the sofa, there’s a set of bookcases that are loaded down with books, as well as some little vases and ornaments that are kind of kitsch but sweet with it.
I like how clean it is, how airy, and that there’s a ton of space for me to move around in.
Maybe I wouldn’t have to join a gym. I could just do some workouts here. Which, to be honest, would be perfect. I’m dealing with fame at the worse time—even here in Italy they recognize me—so working out in a gym where people could give me the side-eye as they wait on me to drop a free weight?
Not fun.
There are six doors that lead off the living room, and I’m dying to have a peek around, but Anna evidently wants me over by the table, so I dump my rucksack on the sofa and head over to her.
If I falter in my step, I push past it.
I won’t show weakness in front of anyone.
A shaky breath escapes me as I take a seat, though, and I stare at her in question.
“We have a tourist tax you’ll need to pay,” she explains, as she passes me a contract. I sign, give her some cash to cover the tax, and she carries on explaining about the local amenities even though she has to sense I’m ready to drop.
By the time she leaves, I’m more than grateful she’s gone, and I explore the rest of the apartment on the hunt for my bed.
There are two bedrooms, but I like the back room because there’s a window that looks straight onto the Vatican. It’s high up, oddly high in fact, but when I’m in bed, I just know I’ll see the roof, plus, there’s a thick curtain that would cut out the light.
Sometimes, I get bad headaches, so the front bedroom, which is pretty bright, would be a nightmare for me.
This one has a bed with an antique headboard made of thick walnut, which matches the table, and has me wondering if they are heirloom pieces.
Crisp white linens cover the mattress, and a duvet that looks like a cloud tempts me to plunk myself onto it and just nap.
But I’m icky.
So, I trudge through to the interconnecting room and find a shower with a few plush soaps and stuff in it.
Because I know I’ll crash soon, I quickly wash up, wiping away the grime from the long flight.
When I’m covered in a towel, leaving my dirty clothes on the floor, I do as I’d wanted earlier.
Flop onto the bed.
As I stare up at the ceiling where light dances in from the open windows in the lounge, I smile.
The buzz of a thousand different people talking from dozens of languages—most I don’t understand—and the chiming of the bells that suddenly strike at the top of the hour? All of it energizes me.
Not in a way that means I could get up, empty my rucksack, and actually change into pajamas and dump the wet towel, but in a way that’s good for my spirit.
I’m where I’m supposed to be.
I’m where I’m needed.
He’s here.
I can feel him.
Now I just have to find him.
But knowing that I’m in the same city as him, that we’re breathing the same air, speaking the same language?
It makes my skin feel hypersensitive. As I stare up at the light flickering over the ceiling, dancing as shadows rise and fall, I have no choice but to think of him as I let my fingers drift to the part where the edges of the towel meet.
Shoving the fabric aside, I bare my flesh to the room. It feels wicked, wanton, even, to lie here with my pussy on display as I let my fingers move between my legs. But that’s what I am sometimes.
Wicked.
Watchers are fallen angels. They fell into human temptations and were lost to the cause. At that moment, I embrace that half of me, and I touch my clit.
“Savio,” I whisper softly, to no one in particular, to the air, to fate, to my destiny and his which are on the brink of crossing. “I need you.”
And I let my fingers do the talking, let them take me higher as I rub my clit until I clap my hand to my face and moan into the ball of my fist as I come.
Sweet relief fills me then. A wonderful lethargy that I know will help me drift off to sleep, and with thoughts of him, as always, whispering through my psyche, I finally let the jet lag take hold of me.
Savio
“Now, my children, don’t forget about the food bank. We’re running low on stock, so any donations you can give will be most appreciated.” As expected, I lose their interest at that, but I persevere. “We’re helping a side of our community which is suffering greatly now thanks to the drop in tourism—”
Of course, that makes them worry about themselves.
Agitated, but knowing I tried, and also knowing that a lot of my flock in this parish are below the breadline themselves, I simply sigh as I retreat from the pulpit and wander over to the first pew.
I smile as Lara Ricci grabs my hands as I reach for hers. She squeezes, and murmurs, “You look brighter today, Father.”
“I feel brighter.” I peer at her though. See the bruises under her eyes, the bright yellow of her skin, and know that today is not a good day for her. “How about you?”
“I’m good enough to attend service.”
I snort a little. “You’re always good enough to attend service.”
She grins at me, her wizened face puckering into a semi-toothless smile that always makes me wonder why she doesn’t have false teeth. Unlike a lot of my parishioners, she’s wealthy. A chauffeur drops her off at church, and as she already said, she never misses a service.
Her fingers are frail in mine, and every day, they seem to grow more brittle.
We both know she doesn’t have long left for this Earth, but neither of us mention it.
Just as she’s dying, her soul is going to be liberated, and I know she takes comfort in that.
I’m
glad she has her faith. Glad she has the security of it.
In truth, being around people like her, good people, has re-instilled some of my own beliefs.
Rome, this past year, has been good to me. Good for me. I never thought it would be much different. Same shit, different day, and all that. Once you’d seen one church, you’d seen them all—and yes, I know that isn’t a very priestly thought for me to have, but most days, I don’t feel like a priest.
I go through the motions. I do my job. All while I wonder what I’m doing.
The only time it makes sense to me?
When a service ends.
When I walk down the aisle of pews and greet the worshippers.
It amuses me that, during my time here, numbers have increased.
The church doesn’t know what to make of that, and neither do I, in all honesty.
Every other parish I’d been assigned to has been a disaster. No one has particularly liked me, and I haven’t particularly liked anyone there.
Here?
I fit in.
I guess, in a strange way, I’m home.
Not because this is the capital of my faith. The center of the Catholic world. But because this is my father’s country.
This is where I have roots—I’d just never been here long enough to let them take to the soil before.
I give Lara’s hands one last squeeze, and murmur, “I’ll send your chauffeur down for you.”
Her eyes twinkle. “Thank you.” She refuses to walk down the aisle with her stroller, so she uses her driver as a cane instead.
Her stubbornness amuses me, especially when she has to walk to the front pew where her family’s name is engraved.
The Iglezia di Santa Cecilia is in her blood in a way that it isn’t in mine, yet I’ve found a home here.
A place.
As I carry on with my walk, I stop beside Carlo DiRittano. He looks sheepish, and he’s fidgeting under his dad’s firm hold on his shoulder.
“What did you do, Carlo?” I chide, knowing he’s here, midweek, for a reason.
The DiRittanos come every Sunday, without fail, but during the week? Never. Carlo has ADHD, and he keeps doing stuff that shocks the family, so when they’re here on a Wednesday? I know he’s ‘misbehaved.’
I find it hard to keep a straight face, in all honesty, when I take his confession. The family is aghast at the stuff he does, but to me, they’re just sticklers. Well-meaning, but stifling.
“Nothing, Padre,” he mutters glumly, before he stares down at his feet.
His sneakers squeak over the ancient stones, and his toe digs into them, kicking a loose piece of gravel that someone has traipsed in at some point after the cleaners came.
“He’ll be waiting to give confession,” his father promises, and I cut him a look, wanting to shake my head but staying still. It isn’t my place to parent the boy, nor to parent the parents, but I truly do think they are too hard on him.
Coming from me? Well, that says a lot, doesn’t it?
What would you expect from a kid when the doctors prescribe him medications and they refuse to give them to him, though?
Though the tut is silent, I move on, greeting worshippers whose faces I’ve come to know, whose names trip off my tongue like they’re old friends, and when I’ve walked to the last pew, my intent to grab Lara’s driver who never comes in, just hovers outside, I see her.
Sitting in the back corner.
She didn’t come for communion, because she wasn’t there, waiting to accept the sacrament.
I’m not sure when she arrived.
The church is small in size, but the back end of the nave is pretty dark, and the altar is bright thanks to its south-facing position.
If I’m in a pool of light, I can’t see the back of the church without difficulty.
So, she’d either watched the service, or she sneaked in.
And yes, I use that word on purpose.
Sneaked.
She doesn’t belong here.
Every instinct in my body screams at me that she doesn’t. Even as I recognize her.
How couldn’t I?
She’s the woman.
Andrea Jura.
What’s she doing in my church?
I thought she was still ill. Had thought she was being treated—apparently not.
Here she is.
In. My. Church.
And she’s watching me.
Looking at me with those eyes that had struck my soul over a year ago through a TV screen.
I freeze as her gaze drifts over me.
I want to ignore her, want to completely cut her off, but somehow, I can’t.
I just can’t.
And it’s weird. So strange. I’ve never felt that before, had never thought I would.
I’ve sinned many times in my life, but since I’d taken the vows that turned me from a simple man into a priest, I’d never looked at women.
It’s one vow I haven’t broken.
One that actually means something to me.
Sure, I know that might come across as ridiculous. How could I have killed in the past? How could I handle sinners and punish them with ease when that broke the most cardinal rule of all—thou shalt not kill—but I never thought about sex?
Well, I know why.
Two years in a rebel camp has turned me off of anything sex related.
Two years of being forced to listen to women being raped has done that to me.
Even if I have any urges—and all priests have them, but it’s our duty to fight them—they’d long since been buried in my past.
Yet, Andrea Jura?
I feel something.
I’m not sure what either.
Arousal? Lust?
Hatred?
Fear?
Repugnance?
She doesn’t look like she did back on the TV. Her hair is short, and considering she had brain surgery, I guess that fits. And while her hair is still that beautiful shade of sandy blonde, it’s somehow darker thanks to the short cut.
A part of me wants to scrub my hand over her head, to feel the curls against my palm, but another part of me wants to avoid her like she has the plague.
“Father?”
I jerk in surprise at the soft voice, and twist to see Junia Lorenzo staring up at me with concern.
I’m always kind to her because she has an asshole for a husband. He’s someone I’m watching.
Someone I’m keeping my eye on.
He’s dancing on the knife’s edge and he doesn’t even know it.
Neither does she.
Her eyes are soft, limpid, as she stares at me in concern. She’s a gentle woman, too good for that bastard of a spouse, so I reach over and pat her shoulder. “All is well, my child.”
I move on, lest I cause any more curiosity, and even though I want to watch Andrea, to see if she’s watching me, I continue, not stopping until I’m at the doorway.
The intense cold from inside the church is brisk, bracing. Outside, though, it’s still technically winter, but the sun has been hot, so I know Lara’s driver must be melting in his formal suit and cap.
The second he sees me, he dips his chin, his eyes darting over the small crowd as he makes his way inside and aims his way toward his mistress.
Standing at the door, I wait on the attendees to leave, giving them my thanks for their presence and wishing them well until the next time I see them.
Six stay behind for confession.
My gaze darts over the pews, spotting those who are waiting, and while Junia is one of those who left, her husband remains.
I sigh inwardly, because I hate my time with him.
And she’s still there.
Sitting relatively close to the confessional too.
But she’s American, and they never speak other languages, do they?
The booth is far away enough for me to have no fears over privacy, but I’m curious as to why she’s here.
What she’s doing in my church.
As far as I can tell, she seems to be doing nothing.
Just sitting.
Her eyes are almost closed, and if I’m not mistaken, I’d actually say she’s napping.
Is that because of her illness?
For a second, I actually wonder if I should go over and help her, but I’m hesitant to do so.
If anything, I’m wary of it. Wary of her.
I don’t want to approach her.
I really, truly don’t.
And I know that’s the exact opposite of being Christian, but getting close to her?
It’s just not something I can do.
So, I turn my head away from her, refuse to look at her, and almost like a child, pretend she isn’t there.
Something about her...
Lord help me, it’s magnetic.
I can feel her as I pass her, even though I do my best to ignore her—and trust me, I’ve become pretty adept at ignoring things, people, as well as situations that make me uncomfortable.
But Andrea Jura?
She’s impossible to erase.
I hide in the confessional—I admit it.
I find comfort within the booth that’s as much of a prison to me as the cage back in Oran, its shadows providing a sense of security as I go about my chore for the afternoon.
It’s here where I find the sinners, and it’s here where I loathe the calling I’ve taken.
I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I must.
If they prey on an innocent, I can no longer sit idly by and wait for them to escalate.
I made a vow to myself when Dirk Benson was discovered—not by his wife, but by a customer—and I’d taken that as a sign. A sign that I’d done right. But when the news had fallen of his passing, I promised myself that I’d let no innocents be harmed in my flock, or any other.
Not if I could change the present.
Not if I could do something about it.
I’d sat back and watched Dirk progress over the months. I’d been instrumental in the murder he committed.
I’d accept no more blood on my soul. Not unless I’m the one shedding it.
A tap sounds at the door, and I tense up, expecting to hear her voice after I mutter, “Enter.”
“Thank you, Father.”
The voice is sweet. Young. Innocent.
Well, his parents would disagree, but I don’t.
The Vows We Break: A Twisted Taboo Tale Page 6
