Page 13 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

“I get it. So that’s not what this is about?” I ask skeptically with a gesture at the plane.

“You’ve worked for me for ten years.”

“Eleven,” I correct him.

“Jesus,” he sighs. “Okay. Eleven. You show up on time, you always make sure your shifts are covered, you’re discreet, polite, efficient. Like I said—I trust you. And there’s no harm in this town trading on connections. Believe me, if I thought you were a loser, I would have found something for you, but it wouldn’t have been as my doorman. Especially not at Gramercy.”

It helps to hear that. That maybe I got the chance because of my father, but I’ve proven myself, too. “Fair enough.”

“Do you want me to go over the details ofthisopportunity, or would you rather jump in cold?”

“You can tell me what you expect me to do for six to eight hours a day.”

“Wear the suit and take notes.”

“That’s it?”

“More or less.”

“And when you saymore…”

He grins. “Since we have a few minutes…wanna grab your laptop?”

“Someone took it from me.”

“I’m sure we can get it back.”

For the next few hours,Gibson tells me why he’s going to Rome, who he’s meeting with, the places he needs to visit, and what he needs an assistant for in general. It’s nothing complicated. It seems like he needs a second brain for himself, preferably one with a knack for remembering details, and I have one of those. For words especially, which would make me useful in meetings or reading emails.

He assures me real estate is more common sense and intuition than anything else, but the exchange of money is where it gets complicated—laws and regulations are involved. He gives me access to his business email address where he has theDo Not Ignorecontacts already flagged. He works for a few hours while I read through his emails, trying to piece together what he does for a living.

There are a lot of moving parts. Whenever I have a question, he stops what he’s doing and answers it. By the time we land, I’ve got folders made for each of his properties, and I’ve made a game of sorting his emails into the corresponding file.

A car picks us up on the tarmac. It’s dusk in Rome, and I stare out the window like I’ve never ridden in a car before. New York has some old stuff, but nothing compares to what unfolds before my eyes as we enter the ancient city.

“What are you looking forward to seeing the most?” Gibson asks.

“St. Peter’s,” I answer without having to think about it.

“Any particular reason?”

“It’s complicated,” I say. “But I’ve got a bone to pick with God.”

He doesn’t respond, and I realize I sound like a raving lunatic, but he asked.

“My hotel where we’re staying isn’t far from Vatican City. It’s an easy walk.”

“Yeah? Great.”

“I’m guessing you won’t want company for this reckoning.”

I turn and look at him, sensing something behind the question. If it was emotion, his face doesn’t betray it. But my confusion makes it harder to answer the question. “Do you believe in God?” I ask instead.

“I think so.”

“I hate to break this to you, but I don’t think that’s the answer that gets you into heaven.”

“I definitely don’t believe in heaven.”

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