Page 5 of Sinner
The drive home blurs into streetlights and shadows. I barely register the familiar turns through Brooklyn’s streets, my mind still trapped in that storage room with him—the way his voice deepens when he says my name, how the fluorescent lights catch the silver strands in his dark hair.
Papa’s brownstone looms ahead, windows glowing amber against the twilight. I park across the street, taking an extra moment to compose myself before facing my family. The Benetti household demands performances from everyone, and tonight I need to be particularly convincing.
The scent of garlic and tomatoes envelops me as I step through the front door. Voices drift from the dining room—Papa’s commanding baritone, Mama’s softer responses, the occasional laugh from one of my brothers. I hang my coat in the entryway, smooth my hair, and pinch my cheeks for color.
“There she is,” my father announces as I enter the dining room. “Our little saint, feeding the hungry.”
Papa sits at the head of the table, a glass of red wine in one hand, his gold rings catching the light from the crystal chandelier. At sixty-two, he still commands every room he enters, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, his tailored shirt unbuttoned at the throat to reveal a gold crucifix nestled against silver chest hair.
“Sorry, I’m late, Papa.” I bend to kiss his cheek, breathing in the familiar scent of expensive cologne and cigar smoke. “The food drive ran longer than expected.”
“Father Moretti works you too hard,” Mama says, passing me a bowl of pasta. “A young woman should have her Saturday nights free.”
Heat creeps up my neck at the mention of his name. “It’s for a good cause, Mama.”
“Good causes don’t keep you warm at night,” Marco adds with a smirk. At thirty-five, he’s Father’s right hand in all his businesses—both the legitimate fronts and the ones nobody speaks of.
“Marco,” Mama scolds, making the sign of the cross. “Not at the dinner table.”
I ladle pasta onto my plate, grateful for the distraction. The weight of Father Moretti’s hand on my back lingers like a phantom touch. I take a sip of wine, hoping the burn will dull the memory.
“How is Father Moretti?” my father asks, those dark eyes studying my face. “Still fighting the good fight against poverty in our neighborhood?”
Something in his tone makes me uneasy. Publicly, Paolo Benetti respects the church—he donates generously, attends Mass on major holidays—but privately, he views religion as merely a tool.
“He’s well,” I reply carefully. “The food drive helped over two hundred families this week.”
“Admirable,” he says, cutting into his veal. “Though I wonder if he knows where some of that donation money really comes from.”
My brothers chuckle. I stare at my plate.
“Your father made another substantial donation to St. Francis’s building fund yesterday,” Mama says proudly. “Ten thousand dollars. Father Moretti must be very grateful.”
I taste the irony—blood money funding the church’s good deeds. Everyone at the table knows the real fortune comes from other sources.
“He mentioned the donation,” I lie. “He was very appreciative.”
“Good, good.” Father nods, satisfied. “I always say, keep the priests happy and God looks the other way.”
More laughter around the table. I force a smile, chew my pasta, respond when spoken to, all while my mind returns to that storage room, to Father Moretti’s blue eyes, to the electricity that passed between us.
What would Father think if he knew my thoughts about the parish priest? The man who blessed our donations with the same hands that touched my back today?
After dinner, I help Mama clear the table while Father and my brothers retreat to the study for brandy and business talk. The kitchen feels warm and fragrant—a sanctuary from the tensions of the dining room.
“You’re quiet tonight, cara,” Mama says, handing me a plate to dry. At fifty-eight, she’s still beautiful—dark hair expertly colored, figure maintained by rigorous exercise and careful eating. “Is everything all right?”
“Just tired, Mama.” I dry the plate, focusing on the circular motion of the towel. “The food drive takes so much out of me.”
She studies me. “There’s something different about you lately. A brightness in your eyes.” Her voice softens. “Is there someone special?”
The plate nearly slips from my fingers. “No, Mama. Who would there be?”
“You’re twenty-nine, bella. It’s natural to want companionship.”
“I have companionship. I have family, friends, the church?—”
“The church is not a husband, Caterina.” Her words are gentle but firm. “It won’t give you children or keep you company in your old age.”
