Page 4 of Mafia Priest

If I have to, I’ll beg.

Heart racing, I cross the sanctuary. My heels resound like gunfire in the empty church. Shoving down my fear, I leave Frankie in a pew and enter the confessional.

Father Costa stands. His eyes are hooded, expression unreadable—annoyance probably that I’ve arrived so late.

As I close the door, my apology dies on my lips. I feel so small next to him. The difference in our sizes has always reassured me, but tonight I’m frightened.

Yet it isn’t his body I fear—it’s mine.

Hands shaking, I unbutton my coat, and his eyes darken. My nipples tighten into hard points. Pulse racing, I hang up my coat, afraid he’ll scold me for the dress.

Still not speaking, he crosses the room and stands behind me, his hands on my body. His fingers encircle the bare skin of my upper arm as his other hand curves possessively around my hip.

I draw in a shaky breath.

“Relax, princess, everything’s fine,” he says, his strained voice belying the words.

Not trusting myself to speak, I shake my head. Nothing is fine. I’m about to combust.

A strange tension builds between us. I’m torn between demanding an explanation and begging him to never let me go. But then he steers me over to the couch and takes a step back, releasing me.

Sinking onto the sofa, I struggle to bring my treacherous body under control. But then he sits beside me, and my panties are soaked. Shame floods me, but this close to him, it’s impossible not to sin.

“Bianca, why are you here?”

There’s a note of calm authority in his voice—frustration, too, even if his tone is neutral. It’s a simple question, but I can’t answer him. I’m too ashamed.

I’m ashamed of this dress. Ashamed that I want to beg him to commit a mortal sin. Ashamed that such a casual gesture on his part has shaken me to my core.

What’s wrong with my body? What’s wrong withme?

I want to beg him to burn with me, but I also want to run. Except running isn’t an option. And not just because Idoneed his help. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself to confess everything—my shame, my sins, my utter hopelessness.

Not looking up, I begin. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been—”

Firm fingers grasp my chin, shocking me into silence. He holds me there, forcing me to look at him, to reallyseehim. No. That’s wrong. He isn’t forcing, he’sallowing. He’s allowing me a glimpse behind defenses I didn’t know existed.

Releasing my chin, he brushes a strand of hair away from my face. “I’ll only ask one more time, so do us both a favor and cut the crap,” he says, the barest hint of desperation lacing his voice. “Why are you here, angel? Because it sure as hell isn’t to confess.”

Three

Salvatore

Touching her was madness,impulsive, utterly thoughtless. But that’s the thing, I didn’t think. I can barely think straight now, not when she’s wearing that dress. Sheer white silk, barely concealing what little it covers, revealing more than it hides. The dark points of her nipples. The soft swell of her stomach…

I shouldn’t pressure her, but the silence is killing me. “Where have you been?”

“Nonno wouldn’t let me leave the house. He’s afraid I’ll run… like Mama.” She bites her lip.

Bianca never talks about her parents. I knew the old man shielded her, but I thought she knew… “Angel, your mother didn’t run away. She—”

“Killed herself.” She cuts me off. “I know. I found her.”

Fuck. NowthatI hadn’t known. Christ. She had to have been what? Five? Six? I take her hand, the urge to comfort her overpowering my sense of self-preservation. Because even if Bianca’s tone was neutral, her expression carefully blank, I relate all too well to the pain beneath that statement. And yet telling her so would invite questions I’m not ready to answer. Not now, possibly not ever.

At a loss, I squeeze her hand. Her fingers are so small, so fragile, a reminder of why I should resist this, resisther.

Voice less steady, she stares at our entwined hands. “Don’t worry. I’m not suicidal. But Mamadidrun off once. Before I was born—to be with Papa.”

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