Page 1 of Priestly Sins

Prologue

Chicago

“May the God of righteousness and purity forgive your sins and may the vengeance taken by His servant make Him rejoice with the faithful. May He forgive you your trespasses—and me, mine—as I bathe my feet, and this city, in the blood of the wicked.”

* * *

I slicethe knife across his throat, feeling the warmth of his lifeblood spill across my fingers. The gurgling that bubbles from the gap there is music to my ears.

His eyes tell a story of shock or awe. I care about neither. I care only that one sinner no longer preys on the innocent, that he no longer causes fear in my parishioners…that this fuckwad is no longer one of my flock.

Besides, he isn’t mine to pastor. He works for my father and is muling information back to him in exchange for drugs to sell to inner-city kids looking to score a hit or make a buck. And since both are untenable, I’m making my message clear.

Sometimes this collar is suffocating.

Other times, like now, I’m glad for it.

I slide the knife into my sock, after wiping it on his hoodie, and pull out my phone.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

“We need an ambulance. Hurry. This is Father Sean O’Ryan. I just found one of my parishioners on the sidewalk outside my church. Saint Anthony’s. Cicero, near 141st Street. Please hurry.”

* * *

“Go forth,Christian soul, from this world in the name of God the Almighty Father and sleep in eternal rest. Amen.”

One

New Orleans

Ten years later

Mardi Gras time in New Orleans can mean several things. Mostly it means drinking, eating, and enjoying the hedonistic things of the world. I’m not supposed to celebrate these things, so they say.

I do anyway.

Besides, Bobby O’Shea is in town.

What would I have done without my brother from another mother in college? My roommate, my wingman. He’s everything I wished I could’ve become—doting husband, devoted dad. Hell, he probably has the award for yard-of-the-month club or some such shit.

He’s the best friend a guy could ever have. Even a guy like me. And almost sixteen years in, that’s saying something.

“Fucking Bobby O’Shea!” I say discreetly, pounding his back in a hug.

“Fu… Sean! You know I can’t say ‘fucking’ to a priest, no matter how long I’ve known you.”

“Reservation under O’Ryan,” I add, flipping around to the hostess. She’s a tall blonde, all tits and ass, just my type—or at least she was…back in the day.

“Right this way, gentlemen.”

Ushered to a table on the edge of the main dining room at Sassafras, Bobby and I sit.

“Need a drink. Funeral today. Takes it out of me.”

Interrupted by the maître d’, we place our drink orders—beer for him; whiskey neat for me—and are left alone again.

“That collar still freaks me out, dude.”