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Fate.
It keeps messing with us.
Here I was, tempting him toward the straight and narrow, then a criminal walks through the doors, confesses to murder, and a homeless man Savio cares for is evidently one of his victims.
Only God can help me now.
Those words… Savio can’t know what they mean to me.
It’s such an unusual phrase. Okay, it might not seem like it is, but thinking about it, I know it’s just not something you hear every day.
‘For God’s sake.’
‘Goddammit.’
Even, at a push, ‘God, help me.’
But, ‘Only God can help me now’?
Until Gianni, I’ve only ever heard that particular phrase twice—the day Linda tore from my apartment, was abducted by her husband, and he killed her. And Savio—he whispered those words to me too.
Three times—a trinity.
That has to mean something.
The door slams closed and I watch him stride down the hallway and storm into the kitchen. Though he barely acknowledges me, I move over to him, nudging him away as I twist the faucet, let the water run, and then pour soap onto my palm.
As I cleanse him, my focus on his bloody fingers, I’m surprised he lets me, but at my side, he seems to be vibrating. Like an animal trapped in a cage.
I don’t look at him, don’t bother.
I know what he wants—Corelli’s blood.
And I don’t blame him.
“Tonight?” I whisper, not because I’m scared. Not because I’m concerned. But because the mood deserves a whisper.
Gianni’s passing deserves respect.
“I-I can’t not. Corelli invited me to his restaurant tonight,” he scoffs. “More like he thought he was bribing me with the invitation. Butthere, in the territory he values more than the sanctity of human life, that’s where I’ll meet him.”
“You don’t have to justify anything to me, Savio.” I slide my hands over his, rubbing our fingers together and joining them in a tight clasp. “I understand.”
“How can you? You’re light. You’re?—”
“I’m yours.” I don’t let him finish that sentence, not when Gianni’s last words echo around my mind. “I’m what you need me to be.”Even if that makes me an accomplice.“We can do this. But first, you need to wash up. You have a service to?—”
“I don’t want to do it.”
“You must.” He’s full of nervous energy. Just waiting around here would do him no good. “Do it in Gianni’s honor.”
He swallows. “I have to go to the local station tomorrow. They need to take my fingerprints.”
Nervously, I ask, “They won’t find a link to any of your other…”
“Peccadillos? No.” His laughter is bitter. “Gianni didn’t deserve any of this, Andrea.”
I brush his hair from his forehead with my wet fingers. He was pristine this morning. Looking like innocence itself in his vestments. Now, with hair mussed, clothes stained, and the violet stole of confession in an evidence bag after being used to staunch Gianni’s bleeding, he’s actually in a state I prefer.