Page 22 of Kept

“Oh. Ah, no thank you.”

He smiles again. “Sugar?”

“Do you think he has Splenda?”

“No, but there is a bag of monk fruit in the pantry, next to the coffee beans.” He points off to the side of the kitchen at an unmarked door. “He thinks it’s hilarious, monk fruit.” Then the man waves his hand over his outfit.

I smile and take my cup into the pantry. The massive walk-in pantry that includes an entire second fridge. I return and find him causally flipping through his paper again. He looks up and nods at the open stool across from him, which I take.

“Sooo,” I start, before abruptly realizing I have no idea what to say. I sip the remarkably good coffee instead.

The priest closes his paper and turns to face me directly. “He did not want you to be alone when you came out of the room.”

“Afraid I’m going to stab him with a kitchen knife when he comes back? Or chew my way through the door?”

He laughs. It’s a pleasant, relaxed sound. “I got the impression he didn’t want you any more upset than you would already be, given the circumstances.”

“The kidnapping circumstances?” I ask.

“Yes, those.” He sips his coffee. “Though to be fair, it’s not like he makes a habit of it, can’t blame him for not knowing all the ins and outs.”

I snort. “I find that highly doubtful.”

The priest nods sagely. “That’s reasonable.”

“So he sends a priest. To keep his kidnapee entertained.”

He shrugs. “More or less.”

I open and close my mouth a few times, trying to form words. Finally, I just blurt out, “But why?”

“Of the three of us, I’m supposedly the least threatening. Perks of the job and all.” He tugs at his collar and wiggles his eyebrows.

“Us?”

“Ah, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Alessandro De Luca. Vincent and Marco are my younger brothers.”

“You have got to be shitting me,” I blurt, dumbfounded.

He just smiles and makes a little bow.

“The head of the fucking mafia has a priest for a brother?”

“Can you think of anyone who would need a priest more?”

I laugh nervously. “For what? Last rites?”

The priests shrugs. “Yes, more often for confessions. I do hear a lot of confessions.”

“He goes to confession?”

“Of course, who would need it more?”

“Satan?”

“Naw, not Catholic.” He smiles at his joke. “Are you Catholic, Sarah?”

“Me? Um, yes. No. Sorta. It’s complicated.” Really fucking complicated, I think to myself.

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