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“You bought Madison,” he says. “Isn’t it the same thing?”
“I didn’t buy her.” The nerve of this asshole.
“You took her to erase a debt. That’s a financial transaction.”
I didn’t buy her for sex. I did it for proximity to her—for a change to win her. How dare he compare this situation to what he did to my mother.
My jaw clenches. “You really have a fucking death wish, don’t you, Father?”
But we both know he’s on borrowed time. Now that he knows this isn’t about which of my secrets he knows but instead which of his I know.
I cock the hammer, take a few steps back, and aim the gun at his head.
He starts praying. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”
Rossi flinches at the sound of gunfire, but he isn’t hit. At first I think he thinks it’s a miracle, but then he realizes it’s a blank, and he knows the game we’re playing. I go through all the rounds like this, him praying the Hail Mary the entire time.
I’m not worried anyone will hear the gunfire. After all, this building was built pretty sound proof, and being three tall floors down, as well as all the tanks and water, and the recorded ocean sounds and music that plays on large speakers throughout all the exhibit areas of the aquarium, there’s no chance the sound will carry to any curious ears.
When I’m finished, I put the gun back on the table. It’s clear he thinks that was it. That I was just going to shake him up a bit, threaten him, scare him, that somehow his prayers have been answered.
I pick up the blade from the table and unsheathe it.
“I’m going to do you the favor of making this quick, both because I have a party to get back to and can’t be gone too long, and because I feel like you and I have bonded over the past couple of years as my confessions have gotten more colorful.”
I move in for the kill.
“Wait! Wait, who will you confess to?”
I actually pause. It’s not as though I haven’t realized I’ll be breaking a part of my ritual. It’s not as though I haven’t thought about this. I should have put him farther down on the list. I should have left him for last, but who would I have confessed his death to? Besides, I couldn’t let this opportunity slip away.
“Aidan?” Brian says. “Don’t let him inside your head.”
“Don’t need a pep talk right now, Dad,” I say. He hates when I call him that, and we both know it’s sarcasm. We also both know there are many ways in which Brian is the father I never really had.
I turn back to Father Rossi and slit his throat.
His eyes hold a split second of shock as the blood gurgles out—like he had just one more thing to say that he was sure would stay my hand. But it’s too late, now. Maybe he should have talked faster. My confessor and yet another one of the men who hurt my mother is gone.
I’ve only been away from the reception for about fifteen minutes. When I return, Maddie looks like she wants to ask where I went, and I wonder if she thinks it’s connected to when I left earlier. She doesn’t say anything, though.
“There you are!” Carol says, guiding me to the cake table.
The kill may have calmed me from the fireworks and given me back one form of control, but it took away another. My entire routine and ritual is broken now. I should be the one disposing of that body, heading home, going downstairs, burning the clothes in the incinerator, showering, marking out the photo and the name with the red Sharpie. And then later… confession.
I underestimated how much these changes would affect me. Brian and Mina ran a blacklight over me to check for any blood splatter from the knife when I changed back into my suit. There was none, but they were ready to deal with it if there had been.
I know they can handle the cleanup and disposal. They’re professionals. They’ve been doing this shit for decades. But still. I take Maddie’s hand as we move behind the cake table.
We cut the cake, Maddie’s warm hand covering mine over the knife. One of our drunk guests shouts, “Smash it in her face!”
I turn to Carol and quietly ask for her to have him removed from the event. I don’t know who the fuck it is, but if someone doesn’t get him out of here, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to remain civilized. I am absolutely not going to smash the cake in her face.
The photographers snap pictures as we feed each other cake and link arms to drink our champagne. People clap and tap their glasses with their forks to get us to kiss again. I’m so tired of kissing her in front of people. I want to have her all to myself. All these kisses with an audience feel fake and performative—like a role in a play. I want it to just be me and her. I want to feel her surrender under me like she did for just a moment in the church.
I move through a fog for the rest of the party, the garter removal, the bouquet toss—each little ritual that can never replace the ones I’ve lost tonight.
My uncle Martin approaches us and pulls me aside. “I hope you know what you’re doing, kid.”