Page 87 of Forgive Me For I Have Sinned

"You may now kiss your bride," the priest announces.

I take her lips, placing my one hand softly on her womb, one hand cupping her cheek and kissing her passionately. The church erupts in applause and sniffles.

I pull back, whispering across her lips, "I love you, Mrs. Riordan."

CHAPTER 34

Alaric

I watch the bastard sitting in his office with his horned-rimmed glasses. Lighting up a cigar, reading something on a piece of paper. I wait a few seconds and then walk inside.

"Who let you in?"

I sit unbuttoning my suit jacket. "I think you have an idea."

"You think because you have my daughter, you can waltz in here like you own the place."

"In a fashion. Yes, and we both know she is not your daughter."

"My name is on her birth certificate."

"I could put Al Pacino's name on her birth certificate. It doesn't mean she is his daughter."

"You're a cocky little shit."

"I am, and I'm not little. Ask your stepdaughter."

He chuckles, puffing on his cigar. You can tell he’s a prick, even in the way he holds it in his fingers.

"You've been having fun with her. I can tell."

A message comes through on his phone. He picks it up, and a wicked gleam crosses his eyes when he opens the message. He holds it up, and it's a picture of a young woman with her legs open, showing her unshaven pussy. "Now she has an amazing pussy."

"Let me guess, she's French. And you fucked her without a condom," I answer dryly.

He guffaws, throwing his head back. When he calms down, he opens a little drawer in his desk, takes out a little bag of coke, snorts a line with a hundred-dollar bill rolled up like a straw, and holds it out to me.

"I'm good."

He shrugs. "It's all just a little fun, and you're right. She is French. I met her in France while the wife was sleeping in the hotel room. I went to have a drink after a meeting, and she offered.

"How much did you pay her?"

He doesn't answer and smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. No man likes another one to point out that he has to pay for pussy.

"Why are you here, Alaric?"

To kill you.

I lean forward. "I need the names of the men who attend your little rituals," I say confidently.

I have them, but I want him to know that I know. I’d like Charles Devlin to know why he has to die. The smile slides off his face, his expression cold with hatred. I'm sure no one has ever asked who the bastards are that jerk off and hit my wife with their belts while they watch her bathe. Telling her she needs to be cleansed of her sins.

"I'm afraid that is above your head, even for you."

"I'm afraid," I mock, "I have been above your head since the day I was conceived. I don't think you understand. I want all the names. I know Dorian Black's father is one of them. Just like I know you jerk off to your stepdaughter, watching her bathe herself and then beat her with a belt, careful not to leave marks on her skin."

I watch his face turn ashen when I pull out a serrated knife and slide it into his throat, blood spraying all over his desk. His eyes bulge, quickly filling with blood. The copper smell mixes with the cigar now dropped to the floor. Gurgling sounds can be heard as he chokes on his own blood. His arms twitch like a mechanical robot. "We all have to pay for our sins, Mr. Devlin. Your first one was the day you touched my wife." His eyes roll to the left full of blood. "Don't worry; this is just the beginning. Oh, did anyone mention that I have a thing for knives?"

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