Page 20 of SINS & Lies

“And I wasn’t fantasizing. Not entirely, anyway.” He chuckles, a twinkle in his eye. “I was remembering you and your brothers as kids. If you weren’t pounding the Smith boys, you were knocking the crap out of each other.”

I chuckle as the memory replays in my head. “Their mom was a saint. Twelve boys. Now, they all work for me.”

He turns to me, puzzled. “All of them?”

“Protection for Trinity,” I say wearily. “And if you jumped into the line of fire just to make sure I keep your secret, you can relax.”

It’s no surprise that a former heavyweight would take on fights to keep up his skills.

The fact that he’s doing it for cash might ruffle some feathers with the patrons, not to mention the church.

Which boggles my mind. It’s not as if he’s granting absolution to prostitutes by getting blowjobs, which is definitely how I would abuse my power.

Besides, he donates all his winnings to the church, for which he should be commended, not condemned. It’s part of the reason why I’ve started stuffing the donation box.

That, and the fact that he helps provide safe passage for women and children escaping abuse through old prohibition tunnels right below the very spot we’re sitting.

For a beat, his stare pierces through me, assessing. Then, somehow satisfied, he nonchalantly reaches into my blazer pocket and retrieves two cigars.

“Stealing, too?” I quip, feigning surprise.

He hands me one, then takes the other for himself. “This way, you’ll stop stuffing them in the collection box with all that cash,” he remarks, shaking his head in disgust. “Seriously, I put these in my mouth, and who knows where that cash has been.”

With a grin, I twirl the cigar between my fingers. “Oh, I have a pretty good idea.”

“Exactly what I was afraid of.” He reaches into his robe for a small book of matches.

I recognize the print. “Seriously? Dante’s Inferno? Was it priest night at my brother’s club?”

He chuckles, flicking the flame to life and igniting each cigar with deliberate care. “You left them in the confessional with your, ahem, ‘girlfriend,’” he says with air quotes and a knowing smirk.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

He nods. “So you vehemently denied to your uncle.” When I stay silent, he adds, “So, you’ve set your sights on Kennedy?” I puff my cigar, refusing to answer. He exhales a sigh, shaking his head. “You need to be careful, Enzo. She’s been through enough.”

Great. Just what I need. A sermon.

The man’s God-given superpowers include rote memorization of the Bible, spotlighting every last one of my sins, and doling out lectures like candy on Halloween.

And, of course, he knows Kennedy. He’s a priest. He knows all the saints and sinners in this godforsaken town. And as much as I appreciate his protectiveness of sweet Bella, the last thing I need is advice from Mr. Virgin of the Year.

Kennedy needs to be unleashed, not restrained. Though I could kill two birds with one stone...

“There’s something you should know about her?—”

Instantly, I shut him down. “No, there isn’t.”

“All right, all right,” he concedes, both hands raised in surrender. After a tense pause, he probes, “How is Trinity?”

I blow out a long string of smoke. Damn, I need weed for this conversation. “Better in some ways,” I reply vaguely, avoiding his hopeful gaze.

Instead of answering for the millionth time if she remembers him, I take another long drag and let the cigar ease the pain pulsing from my face.

She doesn’t remember how close they were.

Or that for a stretch of years between age one to the day she was attacked, Marc was a staple at Sunday dinners—one of us. Grayly defined somewhere between best friend and brother.

Or that he kept vigil by her bedside all sixty-five days in the hospital—until she finally opened her eyes and screamed, terrified at the stranger by her bedside.

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