Page 37 of Priestly Sins

Instead of calling out and making my presence known, I pad toward the restrooms and wait. Voices rise and loud arguing between a man and a woman reaches my ears.

“No. No. I never agreed to this. I won’t—”

“You will,” a man’s voice replies.

“No. God, no. Please don’t make me. Isn’t it enough? Hasn’t all of it already been enough?”

“Boss man says this is your job now.”

What in the world? Sirona is an entrepreneur. She doesn’t have a boss. Who is this man? And why is she pleading with him so desperately.

“I can’t. Oh, God, please don’t make me.” The breaking in her voice and the quiet sobs shred my resolve.

“Enough.” What follows is a crack, followed by a wail of pain.

I can’t listen to anymore and can’t make it known I was privy to their conversation. I crack the front door and close it too loudly and yell down the hall, “Hello? Anybody here?”

“Be right there” wafts down the hall, only to be followed by a quick sniffle. “I’ll just be a moment.”

“Thanks,” I holler back and give my attention to the glass case.

When Sirona comes from the back hallway, I know that more is going on than even what I heard. She’s thinner than she was at the funeral yesterday and she has purple rings under her hollow eyes. She flinches when she sees me and that shreds me and fuels what’s becoming an anger roiling in my gut.

“Hi. May I help you, sir?” she asks but mouths,What are you doing here?

“I’d like a dozen cupcakes, please,” I reply.I had to see you. Are you okay?

“Which flavors?” she continues.You should leave.

“Whatever you have. Surprise me.” I follow that byWhat happened to your face?when I spy the red mark after she turns, grabbing the tongs.

“An assortment then.”None of your concern, she continues our secret conversation.

“Thank you. How much?”I’ll kill him.Little does she know I’m not exaggerating.

Her eyes never change, never flare. The spark is gone. “Twenty-six ninety-eight,” adding,Please go. Nothing you can do. It’s done now.

I hand her the cash and turn for the door and she wipes nonexistent sugar from the counter.

When I hit the sidewalk, I grab my phone and dial the shop’s number.

“Petites Fleurs. How can I help you?

“How long will he be there?

“Two dozen mini cupcakes and seven eclairs?”

“Twenty-four seven? You’re never free?”

“Sorry, not at this time. Thanks for calling.” Click! She disconnects. And she’s just told me she has round-the-clock surveillance.

Twenty-One

She’s engaged to that fucker? No. Nope. Not gonna happen. I know her. I know what makes her laugh. I know the dreams she has for Clara. There is no way that being married to the mob, living in fear, and always watching her back is the life she wants.

It’s sure as shit not the life she deserves.

It’s been just three months since her mom’s funeral. It’s not as if she’s had time to even get to know him. Much less fall in love.