The Vows We Break - Serena Akeroyd Page 0,59

just on the brink of the old Father leaving and my taking his seat in this parish.

There’s more blood on his hands than anyone I’ve met since Algeria. If anyone needs eradicating, it’s him.

The part of my soul that craves vengeance and penance snarls at the sight of him.

Paulo Lorenzo is a nothing, a nobody by comparison. This bastard?

He affects the city in ways few will ever understand.

But I do.

I know from the homeless I deal with how he uses them as mules. I know Corelli is how men like Gianni stay afloat.

He’s scum.

True Godfather material.

There’s a reason he’s come here today.

A reason that has nothing to do with the sins he’s committed.

This is a sign.

A shaky breath escapes me even as I go through the motions of stepping down from the lectern. My heels tap against the stone flagons as I walk toward him.

Yesterday, I might have refused to take his confession.

Yesterday, I might have listened to said confession and refused to absolve him.

Today?

I’ll listen.

I’ll take his confession.

I’ll absolve him.

Because Andrea is right.

It’s bullshit.

God will not let this scum into heaven, and if that means I’m going to hell, too, because there is no salvation in confession, I’m more than okay with that.

Especially if this fucker burns right alongside me.

I don’t greet him, do nothing other than make eye contact with him.

When I jerk my chin upright, telling him silently to follow me, his eyes narrow, and I know that’s because he’s used to having his ass licked. These bastards get the royal treatment by far too many, but not me.

I glance down at him, irritated to note he’s armed. His reputation tells me that it’s a dagger. Talk of Corelli and his knife skills go hand in hand in the city, but that he’s brought a weapon to church?

I’m even more disgusted.

And things aren’t exactly improved when, after settling in the box, for some reason, I’m taken right back to goddamn Oran.

For a second, the tiny walls, the cramped space, and the pressure of my injured back against the chair, is like being thrown in time to another day, another age.

I can scent blood in the air, mine, and I can feel the same cold sweat that would cover my brow whenever I’d been beaten. It didn’t matter how hot it was, I always felt cold. The stench, the screams, the click of guns being assembled—nightmare. A true bad dream.

Two things get me through it, stop me from having a panic attack.

One, the faint lemon and beeswax scent of the polish the cleaners use.

Two, the scraping of the door after me. The way Corelli’s feet shuffle into the confessional, and the chair creaking under his weight.

The overwhelming smell of pine-scented aftershave comes next, and each action is a prompt, a reminder that I’m not in Oran.

This isn’t Algeria.

I’m no longer helpless.

I could act.

Fuck that, I can act.

Shivers run down my spine, not helped by the fact I’m bleeding again. I’m always weaker after I’ve taken the lash, but after last night? I guess it makes sense that I’m feeling it more than usual.

Normally, I just sleep. Last night, I didn’t do enough of that.

Not that I’m about to complain, but still, it explains why I’m shaky. Purging my sins to her, and dealing with the emotional volcano that erupted probably didn’t help much either.

I run my finger over my upper lip, hating that there’s sweat beading there.

The hatred for this booth, this act, this man, and this life overwhelms me. It’s such a stark contrast to how free I felt earlier this morning when I was flying in Andrea’s arms...

God, is she heaven sent?

Maybe she’s the only slice of paradise I’ll ever feel in my miserable life, and the desire to act, to make a change, bombards me.

This will be the last confession I ever take.

I knew that was coming. I’m no hypocrite. I’ve broken my vows, and I have to resign my post, but I was intending on sticking around, letting the new priest come, take over the parish, show him the ropes.

There’ll be none of that now.

I want out.

I need out.

And I want Andrea.

At my side.

Glued to me.

The crazy, out-there, life-changing decision made after barely twenty-four hours of knowing her?

Insane.

But maybe she infected me with her kind of nuts, because I can deal with that.

Can deal with it so long as she’s there.

What I can’t deal with?

This man.

This life.

This world.

“Father,” Corelli greets, when I say shit to him. “The roof looks like it might need patching