The Vows We Break - Serena Akeroyd Page 0,62
into a holy chapel, I feel wrong. On edge. But in here, even surrounded as I am by religious prompts and artifacts, I feel freer.
I suppose this room is my personal space. Free from religious prompts that the Holy See insists I have, and more of my own personal preferences.
My faith is in here. Not my religion.
The two are definitely separate, but I only just realize that now.
How can she have changed things for me so much and in such a short space of time?
When I settle against the desk, perching my behind on it, I watch as she flutters around the room, touching everything, leaving me to process how different I am today.
My lips twitch at the sight of the butterfly in my office, but I ask, “What did you feel this morning?”
“I don’t know. Like you couldn’t breathe.” A frown flutters over her brow. “It was strange. I haven’t felt it before.”
“You took it as a sign?”
“Of course.” She grins at me over her shoulder, and I have no choice but to grin back.
I shake my head, though, murmuring, “I had a flashback.”
Her smile dampens at that. “A bad one?”
“Kind of. No worse than usual.” I suck in a breath. “It was short.”
“I’m glad. Can I do anything?”
Gulping at the earnest question, I hold out my hand for her. Instantly, she’s there.
I sigh when she slips her arms around me, and as I press my face into her throat, I smile. She really meant it.
She smells of me. Of us.
“You took enough time to wash off the blood, hmm?” But nothing else. Just came straight to me. My little homing pigeon, I think ruefully.
She snorts. “Didn’t think you’d appreciate me walking around covered—”
“No,” I concede, smiling a little, but my smile dies when I think of the man still in my church.
“Who was he?”
Christ, it’s eerie how she does that. How she sometimes knows what I’m thinking and where my thoughts have turned.
“A capo in the mafia. Marco Corelli.”
She tenses. “Seriously?”
“Yes.” I break the seal of confession without a second thought because, hell, it means nothing to me anymore anyway. And Andrea? She’s not just anyone. “He killed someone last night.”
That has more tension filling her. “How are you feeling?” she queries warily.
“Homicidal?” I tease, and stun myself with the levity in my tone.
“Yeah?”
I pull back so she can see my arched brow. Her hand comes up and she traces it, and I let her.
I love how tactile she is.
I need it. It grounds me. Reminds me I’m a man.
“It cements a truth home.”
“What kind of truth?” she questions, confusion in her eyes.
“That you’re right. I’m not a priest.”
Her lips twist into a smile. “You’ve seen the light. I wondered if I’d have to fight you.”
“No fighting required.”
“How are you feeling?” Her hand comes up to brush over my temple, like a whorl of hair has fallen loose, but I showered and gelled it this morning after I dealt with the blood on the wall.
There’s no reason for her to do that aside from the need to connect with me, and fuck, if I don’t need that connection.
“I’m feeling better,” I say slowly, not altogether surprised that I mean it.
“What about the capo?”
“He killed someone. I’m finding it hard—” My throat closes. “He doesn’t deserve to live. Everyone lets him get away with murder. I might have dealt with him before if he came to confession often.”
“Before me? B.A., you mean?” She winks.
“Yeah. B.A.” Confusion whirls inside me. The past me and the present me is in the air. But I’ve been this Savio without Andrea far longer than I’ve had her, so the tension in me creates a storm that urges me into gently standing up, being careful with her as I move away and head for the window.
As I peer out of the office and onto the street, my gaze drifts over the homeless around me.
There are three who have patches in this locale, and in the next hour or so, more will appear as they come for food.
Lisabetta, Matteo, and Gianni are all in place, huddled under their sheets, but as I stare at Gianni, who’s in front of his supermarket, tucked into the doorway because there are vents there that let out heat during the night, something about his positioning comes across as weird.
Matteo and Lisabetta are tense. Like balls under their blankets.
I always feel guilty for having a spare bed when they’re around, but I actually asked the archdiocese if I could allow