Page 8 of Sinner
What kind of priest am I?
The question burns through me as I force myself to clean up the spilled wax, scraping the hardened drops from the stone floor with methodical precision. Each movement is penance, each scrape of the blade a reminder of my failure. I've spent fifteen years in service to God, taken vows that should be unbreakable, yet one touch from Caterina Benetti and I'm ready to forget everything I've sworn to uphold.
I know what she is—what her family represents. The Benettis' donations keep this parish running, but I'm not naive enough to believe their wealth comes from legitimate sources. The way Paolo's men genuflect with callused hands that have likely spilled blood, the whispered conversations that cease when I approach, and the respectful distance my parishioners maintain around the family speaks volumes about the power they wield.
And yet, when Caterina kneels before the altar, she seems untouched by that darkness, her faith as pure and luminous as the candles she lights for her grandmother's soul.
I finish cleaning and lock the church, my hands shaking as I turn the heavy key. The Brooklyn street stretches before me, bathed in the amber glow of streetlights, and I wonder if she's already home and safe. The thought of her walking alone through these streets at night sends an unexpected surge of protectiveness through my chest.
*She's not your responsibility,* I remind myself, but the words feel hollow.
Back in the rectory, I pour myself three fingers of whiskey—a gift from a grateful parishioner whose son I'd counseled through his addiction to harder substances. The irony isn't lost on me as I drain the glass, welcoming the burn that spreads through my chest like absolution in reverse.
I try to read, to pray, to lose myself in the familiar rhythms of evening vespers, but her image haunts every shadow. The wayher cashmere sweater had clung to her curves, the vulnerable flutter of her pulse, those hazel eyes that seemed to see straight through to the man beneath my collar—the man I'd thought I'd buried years ago.
Sleep, when it finally comes, brings dreams I'll have to confess but never will.
Chapter 5
Caterina
I smoothmy dress as the cab pulls up to my parents’ brownstone. Saturday dinners at the Benetti home are mandatory, unquestioned rituals. However, tonight my mind is elsewhere—still trapped in that moment in the church when Father Nico’s fingers encircled my wrists, his touch burning through my skin like a brand.
“You’re late, Caterina,” Mama says as I step through the door, her critical gaze sweeping over my simple black dress and minimal makeup. “I told you six o’clock sharp.”
“Traffic,” I lie, when the truth is I’d spent an extra forty minutes trying to make myself look effortlessly beautiful, as if the right shade of lipstick might erase the memory of being sent away like a scolded child.
The house smells of garlic and basil, of simmering tomato sauce that’s been reducing for hours—the scents of my childhood, of safety. But tonight they twist in my stomach, making me nauseous. How will I face him tomorrow at Mass? Will his eyes avoid mine as he places the host on my tongue? The thought sends an inappropriate shiver down my spine.
“Your father has guests,” Mama says, adjusting my hair with practiced fingers. “Go freshen up. Use the Dior I bought you, not that drugstore perfume.”
I nod obediently, climbing the stairs to my old bedroom, preserved like a museum exhibit of my adolescence. The cross above my bed seems to watch me accusingly as I dab the expensive perfume at my pulse points—the same wrists he held.
When I descend, male voices drift from Papa’s study—low, serious tones that immediately silence the moment my heels click against the marble foyer. Papa’s business associates know better than to speak freely around the women of the house. It’s a courtesy, Papa always says. A protection.
I’m about to turn toward the kitchen when I hear my name.
“Caterina is a good girl,” my father’s voice, tinged with that particular cadence he uses for negotiations. “Educated. Respectful. She’ll make an excellent wife.”
I freeze, one hand gripping the banister.Wife?
“Anthony has always admired her,” replies a voice I recognize as Leonardo Romano, the Staten Island family’s patriarch. “Since they were children at the Christmas parties.”
My blood runs cold. Anthony Romano—with his too-tight suits and hands that linger too long when he kisses my cheeks in greeting. The man who once cornered me at my cousin’s wedding, his breath reeking of whiskey as he told me all the things he’d do to me once we were alone.
“The week before Thanksgiving would be perfect,” Leonardo continues. “Family will be in town for the holiday.”
“Six weeks to plan is tight,” my father replies. “Maria will want more time.”
“Time isn’t a luxury we have, Paolo.” Leonardo’s voice hardens. “The Gambinos are making moves in Red Hook. This union solidifies our territories. Makes a statement.”
“And the import business?”
“Your ships, our distribution network. Clean. Untraceable. The feds won’t know which way is up.”
My legs tremble as I sink to the steps, suddenly unable to stand. Six weeks. They’re selling me like a parcel of land, a merger of assets. A business transaction wrapped in white lace and sealed with a kiss.
“We’ll announce it next weekend,” Papa declares. “At the charity gala. Make it official.”
