Page 54 of Primo DeLuca

The man complied, dragging his body up and falling onto the couch next to his friend. Blood still oozed from the head wound he must have suffered when he drove his Jeep into the hole.

The other man looked like the brothers had tossed him in a cage with a man-eating lion. They had obviously had a little fun with him based on the bruises painting his face and his badly disheveled and torn clothing.

When the door was pulled open, Romigi stood in the open door in his dark cleric's robes. Two large white crosses sat high on either side of his chest and stood out against the black cloth. The crisp white of his collar gleamed just as bright as those crosses.

Romigi had a supernatural presence that would either creep you out or intrigue you. His unblinking gaze was fixed on our prey, and with that bible tucked against his chest, he could put the fear of God in someone with only a look.

Even Umberto and Lenni stared in wide-eyed anticipation. They were aware that Romigi put in work on behalf of the family, but they’d never had the privilege of seeing him in action.

Romigi finally stepped inside, his gaze lifting from the men to meet mine.

“Primo, my favorite cousin,” he greeted, reaching his hand out to shake mine.

“Father Romigi,” I greeted, addressing him by the proper name used in his official church capacity.

“Umberto. Lenni,” he said, acknowledging them with a perceptive nod and smile.

“Father Romigi,” they said in unison. Although they showed him respect, straightening their postures and with the slight bow of their heads, it was being overshadowed by the deep well of intrigue pouring from their upturned eyes.

Many in the community came to Romigi for spiritual guidance, upliftment, and help when they were down on their luck. They never considered that his last name gave him a different set of job duties. He may have been a spiritual advisor to most and was good at his job, but his bloodline made him a savage.

He stepped in front of the men, glancing down at them with an unreadable expression on his face. At thirty-five he’d made his mark on the community as well as earned a tremendous amount of respect among the Catholic church hierarchy.

“Are you the fallen?” he asked the men, who glared at him like they were one breath from hopping up to slap him in the face. His clean shaven and fresh faced appearance would make one think he was an imposter. Therefore, the men didn’t hold any respect for Romigi and eyed him from head to toe, no doubt wondering if he was really a priest.

“Let me pray for you, my children.”

His voice, like himself, was so calm and unassuming it was difficult for me to see him as anything other than a priest.

Romigi flipped the bible open and held it out to the men palmed in one of his hands. One took a look at the bible and glared up at Romigi with death flashing in his gaze. The other hawked up a big wad of spit, aimed, and painted the bible with his spit.

“Fuck you, your prayers, and that bible,” he snarled, his lips pulled back like a wild dog’s. Now, I understood why he already carried bruises upside his head from Umberto and Lenni.

Romigi didn’t say anything. He simply reached into his robe and extracted a snow white cloth. He shook the cloth out with one quick flick, unfolding it before he started cleaning the bible. His eyes would lift to the man every few seconds until he was satisfied with the cleanliness of the bible. His facial expression had never changed and gave away nothing. He placed the cloth back in his pocket, then…

Whoop!

Blood splatter flew across the floor from the mouth of the man who had just had the shit slapped out of him with Romigi’s bible. He shook off the strike, closing his eyes, wiggling his jaw, and wiping at the blood dripping down his cheek.

The smug fucker still hadn’t given up his contempt. It sat in the depth of his glare and shined through like the flames flaring from two torches. At least my enemy, whoever the hell they were, had employed a tough man in this one. He spit a wad of blood at Romigi’s feet, along with a tooth that hit the wooden floor with a low, wet clink.

The cover of Romigi’s bible was pitch black and many didn’t give it too much attention. However, very few people knew that the material that covered the outer layer of Romigi’s bible wasn’t leather or cloth. It was made of shavings of the same type of lead as the tips of the flagrum that Jesus was beaten with. Handling the bible the wrong way would leave you cut and being hit with it as the man just had been, would rip your skin apart.

This man had gotten a lesson in what it meant to turn-the-other-cheek. The skin of his left cheek was missing and he had no other choice but to accept the outcome.

Romigi didn’t wipe the man’s blood or skin from the bible’s outer covering like he had the spit. He repositioned the-good-book in his hand, laying it gently in his palm until he flipped to the page he wanted.

He extended the bible again, unbothered by the disdain covering both men’s faces. His fatherly disposition was gone. The true savage in him sat just below his cool demeanor like that of a ghost; silent, watching, and waiting.

Umberto and Lenni side-eyed each other before the two returned their attention to Romigi, watching with rapt interest.

If the men had doubts about him being a priest before, they likely didn’t know what to think of him now. I knew him well enough to know that he was seriously about to quote scripture to these men.

With a deeper look, I spotted the hint of reluctance and question in the spitting man’s eyes. Was that a touch of fear I spotted as well?

The man I pulled from the Jeep kept flicking his eyes up and down from the bible to Romigi. The viciousness they had to possess in order to work in their profession had been knocked down a few pegs by the vibe in the room. They had no idea this was the quiet before the storm because I hadn’t even laid hands on them yet.

“Each of you, place a hand atop this bible and I will bless you with the only peace you shall have for the rest of your lives.”

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