Page 19 of SINS & Lies

I’m not fifteen anymore. And sooner or later, this has to end.

With one of us dead, no doubt.

A weaker man might have crumbled, willing to say or do anything to end the torture. But not me. I simply endure it, familiarizing myself once again with the metallic taste of blood and redirecting my pent-up aggression elsewhere.

My fists clench tightly at my sides, and my jaw tightens as I struggle to regain my composure. I shove Father Malone against the nearest wall, the frustration boiling inside me. “You let Rocco in here,” I growl, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the ground.

“All are welcome,” he replies, unbothered by my hurling him into a brick wall. “It’s literally written at the entrance.”

Like all my outbursts, he takes it in stride. Marc Malone, once a prizefighter who could’ve easily gone pro, stripped his DNA of all inclinations for violence long ago. A subject he often revisits in one too many sermons.

Which means he’s here for me.

Because he’s under the insane impression that my body needs protection and my soul can be redeemed.

On both counts, he’s wrong.

Part of me still needs to lash out, but as the world whirls all around in a dizzying blur, all bets are off. Fuck. Do I need a hospital?

With a deep sigh, Father Malone gently guides me to the nearest bench. “You’re the one who insisted on having this meeting here. I complied and stayed out of sight.”

He wets a corner of his robe from the fountain and gently dabs my face. I wince from the initial blinding pain, which thankfully subsides.

“Keep it up,” he says, “and your brain will be pummeled like Play-Doh.” I try to pull away, but his iron grip on my chin refuses to release.

“I’m fine,” I growl.

“You’re suicidal is what you are,” he declares as he finishes cleaning me up and inspecting me thoroughly. “But alive. For the moment.” He holds up two fingers in a V-shape. “How many fingers?”

I flip him the bird. “One.”

He chuckles. “Fine motor skills and humor. Good to see your mental processes haven’t completely turned to mush.”

“I said I’m fine,” I snap, then press. “How many?”

His warm smile holds as he nods. “Fifty.”

Pride floods his features, but the number pisses me off. “We were aiming for three times that. A hundred and fifty.”

“It’s a marathon, not a race.” His hand rests reassuringly on my shoulder. “Fifty women and children taken from Andre’s grasp to safety, right under his nose, was a win, Enzo. More than your father could’ve accomplished. You should be proud.”

Ignoring his last comment, I refocus on the task at hand. “And the rest of them?”

“We’ll stagger them in two waves. One next week and one the week after,” he explains. “If we move too many at once, the capos will catch on.”

“And if we move too few, some will die.”

“You can’t save them all. Not today, at least,” he reminds me. With a plastic cup from a stack by the fountain, he fills it. As kids, we’d drink straight from it. Today, even in the cup, I’m a little skeeved out.

With enough convincing, I sip as he takes a seat beside me. For a moment, I just breathe. “This courtyard is almost a retreat—without the benefits of lavender-scented, half-naked masseuses.”

“Considering your money transformed it from a heap of trash, I’d say anything is possible.”

I notice the idyllic grin across his face and scold him. “Why, Father Malone. Fantasizing about half-naked masseuses? Shouldn’t that earn you at least a timeshare in hell? With you being married to God and all.”

“Not exactly God,” he corrects, deflecting with a teachable moment. “The church. The bride of Christ,” he explains, using any excuse as a Sunday school teachable moment.

“Whatever.”

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