Page 27 of Sinfully His

“Christ, can a man get no peace?” I growled.

My father stood in the doorway, not saying anything for a moment. He just stared at me, taking me in. I knew enough to know that he would not talk until he was damn well ready, and I was just over it.

I took off my priest collar and flung it across the room, unbuttoning the top couple of buttons of my shirt so I couldbreathe. Then I collapsed into the overstuffed armchair and closed my eyes for a moment, trying to will away the impending headache that was forming between my temples.

Dealing with Lucian Manwarring was the last thing I wanted to do today.

He would be dealt with soon enough. As soon as Mary Quinn was right where I wanted her, destroyed, destitute, and desperate, I would come after him.

What Mary Quinn did to me was despicable. That didn’t change the fact that my father was the one who put me on that plane. He was the one who had banished me to a lifetime of serving God instead of myself. He was the one who didn’t have my back when I needed it most.

Family came first, my ass.

“What happened in Rome?” he finally asked, walking fully into my rooms and closing the door behind him before sitting. As if it fucking mattered if anyone overheard us.

I shrugged.

“Tell me,” my father demanded, not enjoying repeating himself.

“Apparently Cardinal Benetti didn’t take too kindly to me fucking his bastard daughter,” I answered. The sooner he got the answers he came for the sooner he would leave.

“Where?”

“In the ass.”

I could feel him rolling his eyes at my glib response.

“I meant, in what location did you fuck her?”

“I know what you meant,” I said, sitting up and opening my eyes. “In St. Peter’s chapel. On the altar… then again across his desk, and there might have been some foreplay in the baptistry.”

He rubbed his jaw the same way he did every time he was calculating bribes in his head.

“She said she wanted to see God. As a man of the cloth, how was I supposed to deny her?”

“Thought we agreed you’d keep it off holy grounds.” He smirked, trying to hold in his laughter. God forbid I take his humor as a sign of approval.

“Sorry to be yet another disappointment, Father,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest and waiting for him to get to whatever his point was.

He stood, re-buttoning his suit jacket, and took a few steps to the door. Really, if he wanted his visits to be so short, why did he even darken my doorway? He could have just called or texted.

“I’ll fix it. The right donations in the right hands will bury all of this excommunication nonsense. You’ll be back in Rome by the end of the week.”

That was why he was here, to send me back into exile.

I wasn’t a scared child anymore. I wasn’t just going to do as I was told.

“No,” I said, watching as my father froze, his back straightening before he turned toward me. I loved telling him “no.” I was pretty sure it was the only time he ever heard the word. Putting my feet up on the table, I stretched back and linked my hands behind my head. He didn’t get to know that he got to me. “I think I am going to stay in New York for a while.”

“Why?” he asked, his eyes narrowing, studying me as if he could see my plan written across my forehead.

“What’s the matter, Father? Not happy at your prodigal son’s return to his family’s bosom?” I was playing with fire, and I didn’t give a single fuck.

What could he possibly take from me now?

“You can’t go after Mary Quinn,” he warned.

“Who says I am?”

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