Page 35 of Vicious Games

When we die, the worms eat us, and that’s that.

You get one life. Might as well enjoy it.

That’s my philosophy anyway.

Jude, Marcello, and Annamaria, though? They like to believe in a higher power. That maybe something or someone out there might absolve them of their sins.

Enzo, Stella, and I?

We’re a little more logical.

But hey, whatever floats their boat. Who am I to tell them otherwise?

As usual, St. Mary’s Church is packed to the brim—mostly with syndicate families, plus the odd parishioner who isn’t involved in the life. The ten o’clock mass also brings out the nuns from Sacred Heart and the orphans from St. Mary’s Orphanage. The older kids sit through the service while the younger ones get shuffled off to Sunday school.

Poor fuckers.

I shift in my seat and glance over my shoulder, easily spotting Frankie among the lineup of orphans in attendance.

But if she’s serious about this nun thing, then Sunday Mass must be her version of a Kendrick Lamar concert—spirit-shaking, soul-hitting, and absolutely not to be missed.

Her blonde hair is tightly braided over one shoulder, and her frumpy dress looks like it came straight from a Goodwill bin circa nineteen-fifty.

My frown deepens.

She’s always in uniform at school, but here, out in the wild, she could’ve worn something else.

But this is probably her Sunday best.

Shit.

It looks like one of those housecoats women used to wear back in the day.

She’s eighteen.

She should be wearing something that fits her, and that accentuates all her God-given attributes.

Despite all her talk about weight, Frankie has curves in all the right places.

Yes, she gets on my nerves like no one else, but I can still acknowledge the facts—Frances O’Malley is stunning.

Even in that green monstrosity of a dress, you can see it.

Her boobs practically beg for freedom. Her wide hips and fuck-me thighs are impossible to ignore, even buried under all that scruffy fabric.

She’s far too tempting a treat for any red-blooded man to ignore.

If only she didn’t open her mouth.

A mouth, by the way, that looks damn good on her. Full, pouty lips. High cheekbones. Eyes the color of a perfect summer sky.

It’s honestly a miracle no one has tried to hit that.

And trust me, I checked.

The unspoken rule among the guys at Sacred Heart is that they don’t fuck below their station.

In other words, no orphans.

---