Page 14 of Mafia Priest

“Will do, boss. And uh… want me to ride with you, just in case—”

“I don’t need a fucking nursemaid,” Nonno snaps.

Robby nods. “Got it, boss.” He closes the door.

Nonno stretches his legs out, closing his eyes. I stare out at the city passing by, but I don’t see any of it as memories of last night wash over me, so strong I can physically feel them. Salvatore’s hands on my body, inside me, his mouth between my legs… My bottom still stings from him spanking me, and I want him to do it again. I want him to do that and so much more. But can I be that selfish?

For the past two years, he’s been the person I turn to when I need to talk to someone. But who do I turn to when he’s the problem? Not for the first time, I wish Mama was here, but I’m on my own—exactly as I’ve always been.

* * *

Salvatore

One of Mancini’s thugs leads me through empty rooms and silent hallways, stopping in front of the don’s office. He orders me to wait inside, then leaves.

The room is sickening, as if there’s a knockoff IKEA where only the top echelons of Cosa Nostra shop. A wet bar and a massive mahogany desk. Old wood and brocade curtains. Leather-bound volumes lining the walls, spines never cracked. If it weren’t for Bianca, I’d flee—this room, this house, this entire fucking city.

She and the don left directly after communion today. But afterward, one of Mancini’s men informed me that the don’s dinner invitation still stood—and made it clear that refusing wasn’t an option. Not that I would have. The need to be near her is a bone-deep ache. A sick need circulating in my blood. A soul-searing sin for which I’ll burn.

Of course, the don demanding my presence in this particular room is its own form of torture. It reminds me so much ofhim. But as I wait, I notice details that my father would never be so weak as to allow a guest to see. Reading glasses. Pill bottles. An oxygen tank. Mancini really is slipping.

Walking over to the bar, I nearly fix a drink, desperate to keep the past at bay, but then stop. I need a clear head. Besides, this isn’t the same room, isn’t the same house. I stare at a portrait above the unlit fireplace. Evangeline Mancini.

“I trust you’ll be discreet, Padre.”

At the sound of Mancini’s voice, I turn. “Of course, Don Marco,” I say as he slowly crosses the room, Moretti hovering at his side. “Keeping secrets is part of my profession.”

Lowering himself into a chair near the fireplace, Mancini dismisses Moretti and gestures for me to sit opposite him.

“I suppose you’ll say that’s why you can’t tell me what my granddaughter said last night,” he says once Moretti has left and I’ve taken my seat.

I keep my voice level. “She attends confession every week, yet you’ve never asked me to break the seal of the sacrament before.”

“It’s not every week that her stubborn disobedience has the family on the brink of civil war. Her rebellious nature is becoming problematic.”

“Rebellious?” I raise an eyebrow. “She’s always struck me as most obedient.”

“She may confess to you, Padre, but you don’t know her the way I do. She doesn’t just have her mother’s looks but her stubbornness, too.”

I suppress a shudder. Is that what this is about? Vengeance on his dead daughter?

When I met Bianca, of course I noticed the resemblance. But as I got to know her, it became apparent how little else they shared in common. How is it I can see that and Mancini can’t?

Apparently not expecting a reply, he sighs. “You know I forbid her to marry Franzetti?”

I weigh my words carefully. “I heard rumors.”

“If my Evangeline had just listened, so much heartache could have been avoided. I never should have made him capo. Yet what was I to do? Allow my son-in-law to remain a mere soldier?”

Mancini starts coughing, a bluish cast to his lips. I stand, pulling out my phone, ready to call an ambulance.

“Put that damn thing away,” he gasps. “It’s fine.”

I remain standing as he struggles with the plastic tubing of his oxygen tank, content to let the bastard suffocate. I promised BiancaIwouldn’t harm him, but I never said I’d stop him from choking on his pride. Finally, though, he gets his oxygen on and continues.

“Can God forgive an old man? I had no choice. There’s only one way to deal with disloyalty. But I tried to atone.” He gestures weakly toward a framed photo on the desk behind him.

Crossing the room, I examine it. A healthier-looking Mancini stands in front of the cathedral holding a toddler—Elise? A serious-faced butmuchyounger Bianca is next to them, holding a pair of oversized scissors, poised to cut a ribbon stretched across the cathedral’s doors.

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