Raphael;
Fragments of my mind scatter in spots I'd definitely kill not to have them be.
Incense burns, warding off any unclean entity lurking beyond the purity the cathedral is steeped in.
However, my demons still roam freely—rearing their ugly heads at every opportunity they get. A reminder that I can run, but I can't hide.
The pages slip between my fingers as I stare at the words that are nothing more than blurs. The sound softly pierces the silence until the thick tome flips to an end.
And the silence becomes deafening.
It feeds my demons.
"Raphael," comes the voice before knuckles rasp on the wood.
My permission isn't needed before the door swings open. His robes swish along the ground as he paces to my desk.
"Reverend," the acknowledgment slips from my throat. I don't stand. I refuse to.
His gaze travels around my space, a single white eyebrow lifting sharply as he takes in my still seated form.
"Here." He slips a sealed envelope over the dark walnut desk, the lightweight brown paper skidding toward me, and I halt it with a finger.
"The Millers sent this."
Wood scrapes against tiles as the clergy pulls a seat opposite me—well aware that I don't do courtesy.
He reads the questions in my phlegmatic expression, a sigh leaving him as he lowers himself. "It's an approval to fund the community outreach mission for the rest of the year."
"I didn't apply for one."
The clergy gives me that dull, closed-off look I know is his detestation for what he calls "my pride."
The one he says a holy man of God shouldn't possess.
The first of the deadly sins.
How would he react if he knew the first shouldn't be the one he's more concerned about?
"Well, I figured waiting for you to would never happen. So I did." His frail hands rest on the desk.
"We have enough."
The words nearly come out in a growl.
"More wouldn't hurt."
Greedy fucks.
One would think the church is the one place where righteousness and purity dwell and rule.
However, it is something different.
Just ordinary mortal sinners hiding behind robes and Bibles with the justification that it is for a good cause.
"Besides, he willingly donated the sum—as a thanksgiving for the blessing of his new wife." A scowl tips his mouth.
My gaze snags on the flat envelope. "Then why bring it here? Isn't it supposed to go to the church treasury?" I pin him with a glare that shows every disregard.
The clergy shifts on his seat. "Well, the union is today, and your presence is requested at the Millers' residence tonight."
"You're the antidote of St. Augustine Grove. Of course your blessing is important." He leans forward.
"You can't refuse, Bellanti."
My jaw grinds, my pulse thrumming with a need I've desperately buried—locked away with my demons. They still bang on the doors of my mind, yearning to be freed.
I sit up, releasing a breath and hoping it eases the tension in my muscles.
"Fine," I concede. Something I've learned in order to belong. "What time?"
His wrinkly cheeks tug at my obedience.
"Seven. That'll be…" He lowers his eyes to his wrist. "You've got an hour to be there."
"Preston Miller doesn't appreciate lateness," he warns.
I tamp down the fury simmering in my blood.
Snatching the envelope from the desk, I tear off the seal holding it in place.
A stupid ass cheque sits inside.
The seat groans in relief as the clergy rises to his feet.
"Well then, I leave you be."
I ignore him until the door shuts.
Miller union dinner, is it?
I glance at the clock swinging its second hand around. I'm left with fifty-five minutes.
Regardless, I don't rush to get ready.
I take my painstakingly sweet time going through the other tomes like I'm at leisure and not supposed to be kissing some rich ancestor's ass.
By the time I'm done, it's thirty minutes left, and I pull into the rectory—I'd have gone to my flat instead, but we don't want old clergy Lloyd getting a heart attack, do we?
That would have been delightful, but I suppress the thought as fast as it comes.
Once inside my assigned room, I stroll to the wardrobe, doubting I left any emergency clothing, but I'm wrong.
Snatching simple slacks and a T-shirt, I don them, grab my keys, and head straight out—envelope in hand.
My black 4Runner beeps as my fingers press down on the button. Getting in, I don't check the time; my foot presses on the gear, and I zoom out of the cathedral.
The drive is hectic, traffic a hassle as citizens of the small town rush through the road.
And while I'm at the red light, the flash drags me down memory lane.
One I don't want to be in.
Screams. Rain. Blood… death.
Blaring horns yank me back to the present. My mind reels, my fingers tighten on the wheel, and I step on the brakes.
The Miller estate isn't foreign to me.
No one in Pennsylvania doesn't know who they are.
A scowl tugs my lips lopsidedly.
Their butler stands outside the porch as usual. I put on a slight smile as I pass his bowing figure.
"The Lord's peace."
He rises. "This way, Father," he says, taking the lead.
Sophisticated lighting drenches the entire place; the clinks and dins of silverware and glass are audible before I even reach the dining room.
And once I do—
"Oh! Good evening, Father Bellanti. A pleasure to have you here."
Preston Miller's blaring chuckles greet me.
Though he says that, the furrow lining his creased forehead and the flick of his gaze toward the wall clock clearly display his annoyance.
It isn't obvious, but I catch it. I always do.
The table is full, family members seated at length.
I cruise through, the clergy's words resonating as I attempt to identify the unfortunate woman joined to the man—obviously for money.
But I can't see any old or middle-aged woman.
Until my gaze catches on the empty seat—the figure next to it, foreign yet familiar.
As if my gaze is pins prickling through her skin, slowly, hers meet mine.
For the third time—