The Vows We Break: A Twisted Taboo Tale

by Serena Akeroyd

  When she places one in my mouth, the relief is instant. But the second the liquid soothes parched tissues, the second I can speak, the pain of betrayal far outweighs the pain in my body, and I whisper, “Why?”

  She isn’t stupid. She knows what I mean.

  “To protect you,” she answers simply, and she presses another piece of ice to my mouth like it’s a pacifier and she’s trying to keep me quiet. “All I do is for you.” Her smile is a delight to behold, but it’s painful too. “That should be a song. Wait, isn’t it one? Wasn’t that a Bryan Adams song? All for—” Her attention drifts. “No, that’s ‘All For Love.’” Her smile turns rueful. “Same difference, I suppose.” Then she lifts her hand, presses a finger to her lips, and like that, a knock sounds at the door.

  How the fuck does she do that?

  I flinch, but when she pulls it open, I see two carabinieri standing there.

  “Ma’am, you’re still here?”

  The policeman’s surprise is clear.

  “He was attacked. To wake up alone is cruel,” she replies with a shrug.

  “You speak good Italian,” the other praises, and I can see from the glint in his eye that he’s attracted to her.

  I can’t blame him.

  She’s sexy.

  With her ruffled hair, which she hasn’t even bothered to gel, her angelic face, and a body made for sin, why wouldn’t any red-blooded man fall for her?

  She bewilders me by being coy, tilting her chin to the side in a way that reminds me of the stupid games men and women play.

  “Thank you. I’ve been studying a long time for this trip.”

  “I’m just sorry you had to witness this on your first visit to Rome.” The first cop shakes his head, and I don’t know why I look, but I see his hand has a faint marking from where a wedding band once lay.

  Great, more competition.

  I almost roll my eyes at the thought.

  She turns to look at me, and I see mischief on her face before she erases all expression and says, “I can’t believe that man did this to him.”

  The second cop grunts, but he turns his attention to me. His face becomes harder, but there’s no accusation there.

  I have no idea how tonight went so wrong. Where the cops came from, or why it went down the way it did. I have no idea why my hands aren’t tied to the bed—because they’re not. It feels like my fingers are broken for some stupid reason, but they’re not tied down.

  I expected to end the night in a jail cell.

  I didn’t tell Andrea that.

  I knew she’d have protested, but there was only one way to end Corelli’s reign, and that was for me to be sent down.

  To finally repent in a house loaded with others of my kind—sinners to the core.

  Either that or for one of Corelli’s guards to have put a bullet between my eyes as payment for killing their boss—I doubted that though, because they were all Catholic. Shitty Catholics, but supposedly religious men, and killing a priest? Yeah, that was a one-way ticket to hell.

  But instead of death or a jail cell, I wake up here.

  With Andrea at my side and the police standing over me, looking at me with curiosity but no accusation.

  Nothing about this is going down how it was supposed to, and I wonder if that isn’t going to be the story of my life from now on. Now that she’s here, changing everything.

  My guide.

  My angel.

  I blink, a little dazed, when the officer says, “Father? Can you answer some questions?”

  “He’s only just woken up, officer,” Andrea protests.

  “We need answers, ma’am,” the second cop replies regretfully.

  “I already told you what happened,” she complains. “I saw it all! The other guy was getting in the priest’s face. It all happened so fast too. Suddenly, there was a knife, and he plunged it into the Father’s stomach. I don’t even know how the Father did it, but he grabbed the handle, pulled it out, then swiped. Then there was just...” She releases a shaky breath, and because I know her a little more than the police, I can tell it isn’t fake. The blood, the sheer quantity of it, surprised her. “There was so much blood. It was everywhere.”

  I shoot the officers a stunned look. “Did you hear about Gianni’s death?”

  The first officer steps forward. “I’m Esposito, Father. And Gianni? You mean the hobo?”

  “Yeah. I found him today. I took Corelli’s confession, that’s why I went to see him. I tried to contain my distress, but I had to confront him. I went to him with peace in mind,” I lie. “I wanted him to go to the police. But he wouldn’t. When we went outside, he started to get aggressive. The young lady has it right. It played out like something from a film.” I shake my head like I’m astonished.

  “Bianchi, Father. You say Corelli confessed to Gianni’s murder?”

  “The seal of confession should never be broken, but what I’ve witnessed today?” The shudder that racks through my body isn’t feigned. “I want no more of this world.”

  Bianchi’s brow furrows. “Did he say why he killed the tramp?”

  “He has a name,” Andrea rumbles, and I’m glad she does because it pisses me off too, when they use Gianni’s label rather than what his parents gifted him at birth.

  “Apologies, ma’am.” Bianchi shoots her a wary smile. “I think it’s time for you to step outside if you don’t mind?”

  She shrugs. “I guess...” Her eyes cut to me. “Father, I wish you well, if there’s anything I can do to hel—”

  “No, child. Thank you, but you did more than enough for me today. It’s only when you screamed that Corelli became distracted. You saved me from further attack.”

  Bianchi opens the door and wafts Andrea out. She grabs the coat she dumped over the back of an uncomfortable looking armchair, and murmurs, “Officers, you have my contact details if you need any more from me.” Her eyes cut to mine, and there’s fear in them.

  I know she’s concerned.

  I can’t do anything though, not with the cops watching me, so I whisper, “Go with God, child.”

  Her eyes widen, but she slinks off, her lip between her teeth, nibbling all the while.

  The officer closes the door, cutting off our last glimpse of one another, then rasps, “We should really have made her leave earlier. She’s pretty stubborn. Refused to leave your side even in the ambulance.”

  “I recognize her,” I mumble the falsehood. “Why do I?”

  “She’s a famous writer.” Bianchi’s grin is rueful. “She’s not as crazy as the TV made out. They were saying she was ill or something.”

  “Does that affect the providence of her statement?”

  Esposito shrugs. “No. She seems lucid to me, and it’s all cut and dry. Corelli wasn’t the kind of man you confront, Father,” he says, his tone sharper now. “You should have come to us from the start.”

  “The seal of confession cannot be broken. I could only urge him to go to the police. He wouldn’t go.” Fatigue hits me. “I’m tired, my sons. Is there anything more you need from me?”

  Esposito pulls a face. “Father, did you know about the mule operation Corelli was running?”

  “Yes. I knew a little about it. Mostly that, on the days he paid them, the homeless didn’t go to sleep with hungry bellies.”

  “Do you know who those people are? Do you have any names?”

  “The second the cops were around Gianni’s body, you and I both know they scattered in the wind. I have names, but they don’t deserve to be in trouble. Especially not if it leads them to Gianni’s finale.”

  “The police were at Remo’s this evening because we gained enough ground in a case against Corelli. We basically Caponed him, but it wouldn’t have gotten him off the streets forever.” He grimaces. “No one will say it, but you did the city a favor.”

  His candor has me blinking. “Someone else will take his place.”

  “Someone’s always there to plug in the gap, but we can hope they’re n
ot as good as Corelli was at hiding their tracks.”

  “I’ll pray for it,” I rasp, and I mean it. Just because the priesthood is no longer my calling, doesn’t mean I’ve lost my way completely. And if my prayers mean anything, I’d prefer for God to hear that more than anything else.

  Esposito eyes the bandages on my stomach. “Have you spoken with a doctor yet?”

  I shake my head. “No. I only just woke up.”

  Bianchi grimaces. “I should get them in.”

  Esposito nods and Bianchi leaves, but after the door closes, he murmurs, “God was certainly on your side, Father.”

  My mouth works for a second. “What do you mean?”

  “Clean cut, straight through the gut.” He taps a place on his right side. “Didn’t hit a single organ, but you bled like a pig for a while. Someone was definitely watching over you—”

  The door opens and a doctor strides in, a scowl on her face. “Have you been questioning my patient before I’ve even had a chance to check him over?”

  Esposito raises his hands. “We’re going.”

  She glares. “Good.”

  “We’ll be in touch, Father.”

  Eyes wide, I try to appear what I’m not—innocent. “Will there be repercussions?”

  “No. It was self-defense, but if you could get those names to us, I’d appreciate it. And if you could spread the word that we’re not interested in what they were carrying for him, but details on their operation? It would be a kindness.”

  “Of course, my son. I shall try my best.”

  He nods, but his tone darkens. “The Family might be in touch.”

  His statement has me shrugging. “If they come knocking, there’s nothing I can do.” I doubted Corelli’s bosses would be interested in me, but he was right to caution me. In my position, I figured I’d be safe—I just didn’t intend on being a priest for long.

  The carabinieri purses his lips. “We’re here for you, Father. Not all of us are in someone’s pocket.”

  “I never doubted it, my son.” I cut them both a look. “You’ll be in my prayers.”

  “Thank you, Father,” they both reply, almost simultaneously.

  With that, he and his partner go, leaving me with a doctor who prods me worse than the barb-spiked lash does when I whip myself.

  But as she asks questions, takes my vitals, works with a nurse who makes an appearance shortly after the cops depart, I’m left wondering if it was God who’d been watching over me or an angel. One who knows when someone is at the door before they knock, who can guide a knife into my stomach without causing me major damage, and who knows what I’m thinking without my having to utter a word…

  My angel.

  I think I already have my answer to that one.

  Part Three

  Ten

  Andrea

  Five days later

  I haven’t seen him in all this time, and it’s pretty much killing me.

  I get it.

  I do.

  There’s no way he can contact me without causing any suspicion to stir and fall on us. So, even though I know, I hate it. I hate the necessity of it.

  I went into the church yesterday, hoping to see him, but he hadn’t been there.

  Did that mean he quit?

  I tried to google how a priest went about defrocking, but to be honest, I came up with a lot of porn with priests.

  Apparently, I’m not the only weirdo who gets off on the idea of fucking a man in a dog collar.

  Despite my concern and the unease that’s simmering inside me at his lack of contact, my lips twitch at the thought as I settle my coffee cup on the little table I’d set outside on the tiny balcony.

  Leaning over the filigree balustrade, I stare down at the street. The smells are stronger than ever, and the desire to write’s nonexistent. It’s time to do one of two things.

  Go back home and visit the hospital, or start learning how to be a perfume manufacturer. Hell, this super sniffer has to be good for something, doesn’t it?

  My cell number’s different now that I’m in Europe, but my email is the same. Every day, I get pissed off messages from my folks, their anger throbbing through the invisible lines of the Internet. I know that if they knew where I was staying, they’d be on the next flight over to bring me home.

  I feel their concern, appreciate it, but what am I supposed to do?

  Leave Savio behind?

  I can’t.

  I peer over the distance, still in awe of the sights I behold. Ahead of me, there’s the Vatican and a part of Rome, the neighborhoods Borgo and Prati, which I probably wouldn’t have visited if it wasn’t for my accommodation being here and having to use the metro. Deeper in the distance is the more well-known part of the city—the Spanish steps, the Colosseum, the Pantheon, and my favorite, the Forum.

  Every day, I’ve taken to walking around the place, absorbing it, enjoying the marvels that are these beautiful pieces of history that still play such a massive role in today’s world. They’re timeless, endlessly existing, and I find comfort in that, draw relief from them as I deal with the reality of life—no one lives forever. But these edifices will. They will outlive us, see all our downfalls and our successes, and still, they will be there. Just waiting on a civilization that would pillage them.

  There’s nothing like this in the States. It’s beautiful, but it’s just a different kind of beautiful.

  Like you can feel the trillions of people who have walked down these same paths as you over the history of time.

  That?

  Impossible to replicate.

  Bells ring all around me from churches in the vicinity, the noise of a siren from a nearby ambulance pierces the chatter of the crowd down below, and for a moment, I’m lost to it all.

  Blind, deaf.

  Then I realize my buzzer has sounded, and I jerk to attention.

  Unromantic though it was, we’d exchanged telephone numbers before we left for Remo’s, and I’d given him the address where I was staying, but I hadn’t tried to call him, nor had he tried to call me.

  Appearances matter at a time like this.

  But I miss him. I’m scared he won’t return to me, and though I need him with all my heart, he needs me more. I fear for him, fear for what will happen if he doesn’t—

  No. I can’t think like that.

  So, hoping it’s him, I push the button and mutter, “Buongiorno?”

  A flood of Italian sounds, but it isn’t Savio. Heart sinking, I recognize that it’s someone who’s come to clean the place.

  She drops the name of the agency, so I let the woman in and hover by the door so I’m there when she knocks.

  She shows me the message from the agency so I know to trust her, beams at me when I speak to her in Italian, and I tell her I’ll leave her to it before grabbing my computer and cellphone so I can try to write somewhere in a coffee shop.

  I haven’t tried to write since I arrived, so it’s not like I can blame writer’s block on the computer.

  More on my lack of desire to work.

  As I slip the bag over my shoulder, I wave to the lady, let her know I’ll be back in an hour, and head on out.

  The building’s set up oddly. The door leads directly onto a staircase, making me pity anyone who leaves the apartment drunk, then there is a landing before another set of stairs leads you down to another apartment.

  When I make it to the landing, I see him.

  And my heart?

  God, it nearly explodes in my chest.

  I hurl myself at him, not giving him a choice. I saw his anger with me in the hospital ward, had seen it and had known he was pissed at me, so I’m not about to let him dawdle.

  He doesn’t though.

  If anything, he moves his arms around me, hauling me into him, holding me harder than my ferocious hold on him.

  Only when he whispers, “Are you okay?” do I realize he’s keeping this clandestine too.

  No one can see us on the landing, it’s a pri
vate spot.

  Maybe we’re being overcautious, but it doesn’t matter.

  We have to be.

  We’re involved in a conspiracy together, and I don’t intend on living the rest of my life in a jail cell. Nor do I intend for Savio to return to one either.

  So I’ll be vigilant until we leave the country and can be open with our feelings once more.

  “I’m fine now that you’re here. I wasn’t sure—”

  “I was pissed at the hospital. Did you have to stab me?” he complains, making me laugh a little as he rubs his stomach.

  “You looked innocent, didn’t you? Self-defense?”

  He huffs. “I suppose.” Then his lips press against my cheek. “You didn’t notice.”

  I pull back to frown. “Notice what?” My gaze drifts over his face and down to his throat, but I can see his lack of a dog collar.

  I sigh with relief. “You quit?”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes are warm as they drift over me. “I missed you.”

  He says the words hesitantly, softly, like he can’t believe he’s saying them.

  I don’t take offense.

  I know I’m the human equivalent of a whirlwind that’s busted into his life.

  I can forgive him for being wary, especially since I did just stab him the other day.

  “How’s your stomach?” I inquire, feeling dumb for not asking sooner.

  “Fine. Someone’s aim was perfect or I’d still be in the hospital.”

  His arched brow has me wrinkling my nose. “I researched it once.”

  “Never practiced it though, right?” he says grumpily.

  “First time’s the charm?” I quip.

  “No more stabbings, hmm?”

  “Agreed.” My lips twitch at his very masculine pout, and I reach up, press my fingers to his lips, and whisper, “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” he replies instantly, and my heart sinks through my body to hit the floor before bouncing back up again and beating me in the face.

  “Really?” I ask softly, but my eyes are wet and he’s hard to see.