Page 43 of A Beautiful Crime

As I stare ahead there is an antique wooden cross that hangs above the door. And besides me there is a latticed opening in the small shapes of crosses that makes it difficult to see the person on the other side clearly.

Although the divider provides us privacy, allowing me to have anonymity, I know who sits on the other side.

I’ve attended Father Frank’s Catholic Church since I was born.

My papa and mamma are heavily Catholic but it was my mamma who respected the religion.

She had faith, blind faith in God. And that blind faith led her to strike the fear of God in her children.

But mamma didn’t realize before it was too late that papa was more godly thanherGod. What papa said was sacred. Andhe passed on his own religion, the religion of La Famiglia, the religion of The Mafia, to his two sons.

And they studied his religion as if they were the chosen ones. They did anything to earn their God’s praise. And they worshipped at his feet, and did his bidding like precious soldiers.

All in the name of La Famiglia.

All for their God, Savio Fiore, their papa.

Until one had had enough of worshipping at the altar of a God and wanted to become one himself.

That sin, that betrayal led him to his demise.

Both of her sons lost to sin.

And she wrongfully accused New York City, The City of Death, for corrupting the men in her life.

But it wasn’t the city.

It was papa.

All our paths that have led us to sin and have damned our souls to Hell have been because of papa.

“In order for this to work, child,” Father Frank says softly but encouragingly, “you must tell me what you want to confess.”

“Sorry, Father. I was thinking of my late mamma,” I say wistfully, a small sorrowful smile straining my lips.

“Do you think of her often?” It’s an innocent question. One free of prying.

And of all the sins I’ve committed, lying to a priest in a confessional is one I do not want to add. “As of late, yes.”

He hums in response, letting my truth sit in the air for the both of us to breathe. Then he poses a question, “Why do you think that is?”

Because I’m questioning the darkness and the light.

Good and evil.

Right and wrong.

I’m questioning if there can be a blur.

And if such a blur exists am I too deep in the depths of the dark abyss to ever see the grey line. To see a glimpse of the light.

The Pandora Box has been unlocked and with it comes the questions of my existence. With it comes the Catholic guilt that mamma had taught me.

And along with that guilt, the guilt that I have become someone my mamma would’ve been highly disappointed in, one she would’ve been terrified to see, comes with the ultimate sin, a man who is an embodiment of it, that I can’t help but be tempted to fall deeper in.

Constantine Donati.

And yet with this deep loathing I hold for him, with this bitterness that sits on my tongue, and the fury that laces in my veins, there is also an intrigue.

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