Page 3 of Savior

“That’s good, Ardesia. That’s a good idea.” I let my back straighten, clapping him on the shoulder.

Human trafficking in the Big Apple is becoming more common than I’d like to acknowledge, but I feel an absurd, profound responsibility to do so.

“Go on, Father. Get home and take a shower. You’ll feel better. We’ve got it from here,” Ardesia says.

I nod, looking down at the woman once more as I pass. I think better of it and turn back, crouching before her.

She’s blonde and beautiful, only eighteen. Her eyes are still leaking, but her shaking has stopped. The cassock I wear gives people a sense of calm. An idea that someone is here to help them.

I cross myself in the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost. “These men are going to help you get your life back. Do not let this define you, understand me? The Bible tells us that God is within us all. We will not fall; God will help us during the day’s break. (Psalm 46:5) Tomorrow is a new day, child. Grasp it by the reins and control it. You are stronger than what happened to you.”

She lifts on her knees and wraps around me, nearly knocking me back on my ass. “Thank you, Father.”

She’s going to be okay.

When I stand and leave, a shining love in my heart is unbound and flowing as if I’m gleaming from within withHislight, from doingHiswork.

I get outside into the alleyway where I’d left my car, and now it’s a massive scene of Ricci men getting girls from the abandoned building into the vans for transport to the team of medical professionals waiting to see them, and from there, the police will take over.

This all started because of a confession I couldn’t let go of. The faceless man stepped out of my confessional, leaving lighter.

I was sitting on the other side of the screen, my jaw dropping and my heart hammering.

I had to do something. So I went to the only powerful man I knew in this city. Ardesia Ricci, head of one of thefive families, is the husband of Brynne Bianchi, head of another family in the organization. Both of which have been instrumental in slowing the flow of human trafficking in this city and at its ports.

However, the things I’ve seen while working with the Grim Reaper of New York have my faith wavering.

And for a man of the cloth, that’s the worst thing that could happen to me. My faith needs to be as solid as the walls of the cathedral I preach inside. But as of late, it’s not.

I’ve seen the worst of humanity since I stepped into a darker world with Ardesia and his men. He warned me that this would happen if I went down this path with them. I hadn’t listened.

Now, I’m a priest in a world of innocents becoming prey while I spout the gospel and lead communion.

And even though I knew this side of the city existed, I hadn’t been ready to face it head-on.

Because I don’t have the conviction to believe that god is going to fix this for us, I think that man will have to step in on behalf of the innocent lives at stake.

And we have. But the question is, where does it end? When is the point at which I lose my confidence altogether? Will there come a time when I walk away from the father I serve? The one I’ve led my parishioners to think is all-knowing and loving.

As I pull around to the back of the church, under the small carport next to the rectory, I let my head rest against the steering wheel.

To keep going in this world, in this life, is taking so much out of me.

Too much, in fact.

My phone rings, and I look down to find Ardesia’s number on the screen. I silence it and let it ring to voicemail.

I’ve saved enough lives tonight, and I need to rest. The Lord says to come to him when you are weary, to give your burdens to him, and unload yourself. But the last thing I want to do tonight is talk to him. He’s allowed too much damage to occur under his watch.

So once I’m inside, I quickly get out of my cassock and into some low-slung gray sweats. Sliding into bed, I forgo the prayers and let sleep cradle me in its arms.

“Bless me,Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was two weeks ago,” the breathy voice on the other side of the confessional screen mutters.

Oh hell, she’s back.

Facing forward, I let my head drop back to the confessional wall behind me.

A steady breath hovers through the space as I wring my hands and wait for her to speak again.

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