Page 90 of Broken

The part of my soul that craves vengeance and penance snarls at the sight of him.

Paolo Lorenzo is a nothing, anobodyby comparison. This bastard affects the city in ways few will ever understand.

I know from the homeless I deal with how he uses them as mules. I know Corelli keeps men like Gianni afloat. His henchmen often visit me for confession. I’ve heard all about his deals and how his business thrives on his homeless staff.

They risk their freedom, but he doesn’t pay them enough to make a life for themselves away from the streets.

No. That wouldn’t suit Corelli’s purpose, would it?

He’s scum.

There’s a reason he’s come here today, one that has nothing to do with the sins he’s committed.

This is a sign.

Maybe I’ve smoked whatever Andrea has, but the truth of it rumbles through me. Since I started on this path, it’s the first time I feel God’s hand on my shoulder

The urge to tip my head back, to bask in his guidance is strong.

Corelli’s end could shape the city, perhaps, even, the country.

After I step down from the lectern, my heels tap against the stone flagons as I walk toward him.

Yesterday, I might have refused to take his confession.

Yesterday, I might have listened to said confession and declined to absolve him.

Today, I’ll listen.

I’ll take his confession.

I’ll absolve him.

Because Andrea is right.

It’s bullshit.

God will not let this scum into heaven, and if that means I’m going to Hell, too, because there is no salvation in confession and everything I’ve ever confessed to Him was for naught, I’m fine with that.

Especially if this animal and the others I’ve eradicated burn right alongside me.

I don’t greet him, do nothing other than maintain eye contact with him.

When I jerk my chin upright, telling him silently to follow me, he scowls, and I know that’s because he’s used to having his ass kissed. These bastards get the royal treatment by far too many, but not me.

A few inches taller than Corelli, I glance down at him, irritated to note he’s armed. His reputation tells me that it’s a dagger. Talk of Corelli and his knife skills go hand in hand in the city, but that he’s brought a weapon to church disgusts me even more.

And things aren’t exactly improved when, after settling in the booth, for some reason, I’m taken right back to goddamn Oran.

For endless moments, the tiny walls, the cramped space, and the pressure of my injured back against the chair are like being thrown in time to another day, another age.

I can scent blood in the air,mine, and the same cold sweat that would drench me from head to toe whenever I’d been beaten has returned with a vengeance. It didn’t matter how hot it was. I always felt cold. The stench, the screams, the click of guns being assembled—nightmare.

To head off the panic attack, I focus on the differences between then and now.

One, the faint lemon and beeswax scent of the polish the cleaners use.

Two, the scraping of the door after me. The way Corelli’s feet shuffle into the confessional and the chair creaking under his weight.

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