Page 6 of Sinner
My heart pounds at the irony: talking marriage while I harbor forbidden feelings for a priest. I hang up the towel, avoiding her perceptive gaze.
“I should go. I have an early meeting tomorrow.”
Mama sighs but doesn’t press. “Take some leftovers. You’re getting too thin.”
I kiss her goodnight, make my excuses to Papa, and slip into the cool night air. My apartment is only fifteen blocks away, but tonight the distance feels immense.
The streets are quiet; most storefronts are closed, only a bodega or bar spilling light onto the sidewalk. I walk quickly, my heels clicking. The neighborhood has changed—gentrified in spots, stubbornly resistant in others. St. Francis’s stands at its heart, a constant amid the flux.
Passing the church, I slow down. A single light burns in the rectory window. Father Moretti will be there, perhaps reading or preparing tomorrow’s homily. Alone, just as I will soon be.
The thought sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the autumn chill. What does he think of when he’s alone?
Chapter 3
Caterina
The weightof sin drags me through the massive, ornately carved wooden doors of St. Francis’s, their ancient hinges groaning in protest. The air inside is cool and heavy with incense, a stark contrast to the scorching sun outside. Three excruciating days have passed without seeing him, and each moment has stretched like an eternity, resembling purgatory itself. In this torturous limbo, time crawls and every heartbeat echoes with longing.
I dip my fingers in the holy water, tracing a cross I no longer feel worthy to bear. The church is nearly empty this Wednesday afternoon—just two elderly women fingering rosary beads in the front pews and a businessman with a loosened tie, head bowed in what might be prayer or exhaustion. Perfect. Anonymous. Safe.
The confession booth waits at the far end like a secret keeper, its dark wood gleaming under the flickering votive candles. My heels echo against the marble floor as I approach, each step a heartbeat, each heartbeat a sin. I slide into the penitent’s side, the velvet cushion cool beneath my thighs. The wooden kneeler creaks as I settle my weight upon it.
I exhale slowly, hoping Father Donnelly is on duty today. He’s ancient, half-deaf, and kind—the perfect priest to hear what I’ve come to say without truly understanding. The screen slides open, and I close my eyes.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession.”
The silence that follows lasts only seconds, but I feel it in my bones—a particular quality of stillness that makes my skin prickle. Then Father Moretti’s voice comes through the latticed screen, low and resonant, unmistakable.
“I’m listening, my child.”
Father Nico. Not Father Donnelly. My throat tightens as if squeezed by an unseen hand, and I clutch the narrow ledge in front of me to keep my balance. Peering through the intricate lattice of the confessional grille, I can discern only the outline of his form, but it’s sufficient to recognize him—the resolute angle of his jaw, the wide expanse of his shoulders draped in the flowing black fabric of his cassock.
“I’ve been...” I swallow hard, feeling the weight of my confession dissolve into the air like smoke. “I’ve been thinking too much about things I shouldn’t.” The words, once carefully practiced in my mind, now escape with a tremor.
I hear his breath catch, a soft inhale that signals his attention. The subtle rustle of his robe accompanies the gentle shift of his body as he leans closer to the grille. The confessional, cloaked in shadow, is simultaneously comforting and oppressive.
“What things?” His voice has dropped to a hushed murmur, scarcely louder than a whisper, yet it feels like a lifeline in the dim, cloistered space.
My heart pounds against my ribs like a prisoner begging for release. “Desires,” I whisper, my lips brushing the grille betweenus. “Thoughts that burn through me at night until my sheets are damp with sweat.”
The air between us thickens, heavy with incense and something darker. I can hear every breath he takes, slightly labored now, the rhythm matching the pulse throbbing at my throat. Through the latticed screen, I see his fist clench at his side, knuckles white against the black of his cassock, the fabric pulling taut across his shoulders as he shifts closer.
“These thoughts...” he begins, his voice like velvet dragged across stone. He pauses. I hear him swallow, the sound intimate in our shared darkness. “Do they involve another person?”
“Yes.” The word escapes my lips like a plea. It hangs between us, trembling in the sacred space, heavy with the weight of flesh and forbidden touch.
“Someone... inappropriate?” His voice catches, a frayed rope about to snap.
“Very inappropriate, Father.” My voice emerges like warm honey, thick and sweet, pooling in the space between us.
Another silence stretches, elastic and dangerous. The wooden partition feels paper-thin, Father Moretti's breath warming my cheek through the lattice. My fingertips trace the edge of the kneeler, finding a groove worn smooth by countless penitents before me.
“For your penance,” he finally says, each word measured like footsteps on thin ice, “three Hail Marys and an examination of conscience. Focus on the virtue of temperance.” His cassock rustles as he shifts, and I imagine his collar suddenly too tight against his throat.
I close my eyes, feeling heat bloom across my chest. “Yes, Father.” The words taste like surrender on my tongue.
“Go in peace,” he murmurs softly, yet peace is the last thing I feel as I make the sign of the cross and whisper, “Amen,” my voice barely audible.
