Page 10 of Mafia Priest

He laughs. “Bastard was probably drunk. We got there late enough that he likely had started tying one on, thinking he was off the hook for the night.”

Part of me wants to defend Salvatore, but I tell it to shut up. Frankie believed me. That’s what matters, right?

“Don’t judge,” he says, misreading my silence. “I’d be a lush, too, if I got stuck in that line of work, particularly if I’d been as good as him.”

I wasn’t always a priest, angel. Let’s just say I got a lot of practice in my former career.

“What was he good at?” I ask, hoping my voice sounds casual.

“Shit, you didn’t know?” He shakes his head. “Costa was one of the most ruthless capos on the eastern seaboard before he found Jesus.”

Salvatore is a made man? And not only that, but he was a freaking capo?

I open the book, feigning disinterest. “I can’t think of any big crime families named Costa…”

“Not his real name. Man, the don’s kept you too sheltered.”

“Forcing me to marry Guido is a funny way of sheltering me.”

“You’re nearly twenty, right? Grow up. You’ve been sulking all week.”

“Explain how marrying a man old enough to be mygrandfatheris a sign of maturity,” I retort, voice icy.

“God, you’re such a brat sometimes.” He shakes his head. “I never said marry the fucker, but if you don’t want to, then don’t. What’s the worst the don can do? Take away your trust fund and make you earn a living like the rest of us? What leverage could he possibly have over you?”

I stare at a crack in the sidewalk. “Elise.”

“What?” he demands, visibly upset. “He’d force that sweet angel into an arranged marriage? She’s not even legal.”

Surprised by his emotion, I shake my head. “No, but Guido becomes her guardian when Nonno dies, so if Idon’tmarry him…” I shrug. “You know how bad Nonno’s been lately.”

Beneath the glow of the streetlight, I glimpse a new side of my guard. Sure, most of the time he’s little more than a glorified babysitter slash jailer. But there’s a reason Nonno hired him, and I’m reminded of that now. He looks… dangerous.

But all he says is, “Best we forget this conversation happened.”

Numbly, I nod. I’m not sure why I even told him. Salvatore said he’d take care of it, and I believe him…

Crap. What have I done? My stupidity hits me as I wait for Frankie to finish smoking. The orange ember of his cigarette feels like an accusation even though he doesn’t know how badly I’ve screwed up.Because he was right—I’ve been much too sheltered. And yet even I know you can’t ever leave la famiglia, not truly…

And Salvatore is a made man.

Five

Salvatore

With Bianca gone,I consider returning to the rectory. But I can’t leave the statue here for the janitor to find, and I’m not ready to face the mess just yet.

Both lust and guilt are terrible reasons to drink in the confessional, but I’m a rotten priest. Opening an innocuous-looking cabinet, I retrieve a tumbler and bottle of scotch from behind a stack of hymnals and pour out a finger of whisky. Downing the shot, I pour another. The minutes tick past as I nurse my drink, hoping the broken statue isn’t an omen.

All the choices that led me here—to the priesthood, to this parish—felt necessary. Theywerenecessary. But they’ve left me trapped like a goddamn rat in a cage.

Roaring in frustration, I throw my glass against the wall, but it fails to shatter. I follow it down, dropping to my knees.

I intend to pray, but I’m so far down the road to hell that I’m pounding on its gates. Instead, I simply beg God to just fucking end my suffering—in this life at least. If the price of having her is eternal damnation, so be it. I’d give my immortal soul to be the first and last man to fuck her, to fall asleep inside her and wake with her in my arms…

Why did I let her leave? Already I ache for her. Now that I’ve tasted her, my obsession has become a full-fledged addiction and I need my next fix—bad.

Desperate to touch some part of her, however small, I pull her still-damp panties from my pocket. Pressing them against my face, I inhale her scent. And then my belt is undone and my cock in my hand.

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