Page 93 of Priestly Sins
“Just like your father,” he hisses as he hacks up blood and spits it onto my shoe. When his eyes meet mine, he holds them and continues, “No. Worse. Your father had a heart. Your father wasn’t as selfish as the man too chickenshit to keep his name.”
“My Father…” I stop. Fuck this. I’m not having this conversation with him. He is not worth my breath. Nor was the man whose DNA I carry.
“Your father at least cared about people.” He coughs, spitting up more blood. “He wasn’t so hell-bent on making everything about himself. He didn’t steal from me or cheat me!”
Staunchley’s voice rises on each word.
“He understood my family’s needs. He was never petty.” His last word comes out like a curse.
I shake my head and repeat the word on a mumble.Petty.
My words come out like shards of ice. “You think I’m petty” —I emphasize the word— “and that was worth killing Sirona’s parents over?” No clue what my face says, but my tight voice, my taut muscles, and the ice running in my veins tells me—even if he’s too stupid to read it—that he is treading on deadly ground now.
“Her mom, yes, but I didn’t kill her dad. He did that himself.”
The sob gasped out behind me is my undoing, and I roundhouse kick him in the ribs as close to the last spot as I can. The chair falls to the side and Staunchley’s head hits the floor with a hollow thunk.
His gasping intake of breath is music to my ears.
“Fuck you, you disgusting piece of shit. You don’t deserve to live.” I raise the knife I pulled from the floor and am ready to plunge it into his heart when one word stops me.
“Wait!”
When Sirona’s soft hand lands at my side opposite the knife, I pause. My world is righted as I look down into her eyes. I don’t want her to know this monster inside me. I need the peace that she emits. More so, I need her absolution.
She steps around and gets between us, squatting down to look him in the face.
“You didn’t kill my dad?”
Staunchley must be out of it or in too much pain, because his words flow like a confession.
“Your dad was being investigated by the New Orleans police for his involvement with Enzo. Apparently, his debt mounted regardless of how much he ‘paid.’ Patrick had NOLA PD in his pocket with bribery and pay-to-play schemes they helped facilitate on his behalf. He had the bad apples under his thumb the whole time. They looked the other way when he ordered the hit on your dad and one even helped line up the hitman. None of them were paying attention and didn’t know Enzo beat him to the punch. Bad intel meant the hitman wasn’t able to find your dad and found your mom to send him a message.”
Sirona looked at him, mouth agape.
“And why would Patrick want my dad dead?”
“Your dad tipped off an investigator who was working to out those bad apples. Wrong time. Wrong place.”
With that, she turns to me, before walking away.
“You disgust me, Staunchley. The blackmail? My house? Bobby? Sirona’s mom? All of that pain for what? For money? To feel powerful? To think you were somebody?”
His eyes swiveled from me to Sirona who, returning from the kitchen, face steely, brandishes a butcher’s knife. Without preamble or second thought, she slices it across his throat with both hands.
Forty-Three
When I got the call this morning that I needed to go to Athlone for some paperwork related to Clara, I was surprised, but not wary. So much of what we’ve done legally could be done and has been done via email. An in-person visit, while unusual, didn’t set off any red flags. That is, until I got to the address given, which was actually a pharmacy. The second was when I got the call from Killian that Clara had showed at his house holding pink daisies. My Clara holding the sign of death, and I was forty minutes away. I left them vulnerable… open to be attacked.
I was driving well over the speed limit. All I could think of was my girls and if they were safe and alive. Killian put my second fear to rest, only as far as Clara was concerned.
Now the question is Sirona. Her silence is controlled, calculated, as if her speaking will allow a torrent of emotion to burst forth that she’ll no longer be able to control.
Sirona goes to Killian and with bloody hands, too bloody, she pulls back the corner of his shirt and sees the gash that needs to be staunched and treated. Her blood mixes with his, but she won’t be deterred.
“Killian?”
He stirs and reaches for the shoulder.