Page 34 of Vicious Games

I scowl. “Why the fuck not?”

“Because I don’t have a phone, asshole,” she blurts out, her pale skin turning a shade of red so bright it almost glows.

Shit.

Now I do feel like an asshole.

Of course she doesn’t have a phone. It’s not like the nuns are out here handing out iPhones to every kid who walks through their doors.

“Sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” she mutters.

For being an inconsiderate prick,but I keep that to myself.

“I won’t be late again,” I say instead.

“Good.”

“Great.”

“Wonderful.”

“Amazing.”

We stare at each other, tension still thick, but there’s no heat behind her voice anymore.

“We done here?” she asks.

“Yeah, Frances. We’re done,” I say on a defeated exhale. “See you Monday.”

She doesn’t say goodbye. Doesn’t even look at me as she slams the door in my face.

What else did I expect?

It’s not like I didn’t deserve it.

Go away, conscious.

You’re dampening my already sour mood.

And before I let my guilty conscious come out and say anything else, I dive headfirst into the pouring rain, wondering if a touch of pneumonia will kill the fucker for good.

Even though Father McDonagh’s booming voice echoes through the church, I manage to tune him out. It’s a skill I mastered early in life—not just zoning out the priest of our parish but pretty much any adult who tries to shove their rigid beliefs down my throat.

Yeah, this whole church thing? So not me.

But alas, Sunday Mass is a Romano family tradition and we all attend together.

I’m not sure if it was my mother who enforced that rule or one of my fathers. Honestly, I think they only come out of habit—like muscle memory. It was something that was ingrained in them from early childhood and took root. Skipping Sunday Mass now would feel unnatural to them. However, my family isn’t the only mobbed-upfamigliain attendance. Syndicate families are always hella Catholic when it suits them, especially on Sundays.

After a week of killing, lying, and cheating, I get why amafiosowould want to hedge his bets—just in case heaven is real and a smiting God is waiting for them at the pearly gates.

Me?

I figured out by the time I was five that it was all a load of crap.

Yeah, there’s no big guy in the sky watching over us sinners.

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