Page 14 of Sinner
Behind us, the sanctuary candles flicker, casting our writhing shadows against the ancient stones. Nico’s hands slide beneath my skirt, calloused fingertips tracing the sensitive skin of my thighs. I arch against him, feeling the hard evidence of his desire pressing against me.
“Nico,” I gasp, but it’s not his title that falls from my lips. It’s his name, moaned with such naked want that it seems to echo in the sacred space.
He freezes, reality crashing back. His eyes clear, horror replacing desire as he looks at his hands on my bare skin, at my swollen lips and disheveled clothing.
“My God,” he whispers, stumbling backward. “What have I done?”
The loss of his warmth is physical pain. I reach for him, but he backs away, shaking his head.
“This can’t happen.” His voice breaks. “I can’t—we can’t?—”
“Nico, please,” I step toward him, but he holds up his hand.
“No.” The word is final, devastating. “This was a mistake. A terrible mistake.”
Shame and rejection wash over me. I straighten my clothes with trembling hands, dignity in tatters. “A mistake,” I repeat, the word bitter on my tongue. “Of course. How convenient for you to remember your vows now.”
“Caterina—”
“Save it for confession, Father.” I spit the title like a curse. “I’m sure God will forgive you. He always does, doesn’t He? While I’m left to live with the consequences.”
I turn to leave, but he catches my arm. “Wait. We need to talk about this. About your wedding?—”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” I pull free of his grasp. “You’ve made your choice. Now I’ll make mine.”
The walk home is a blur through tears and rain. Each step away from the church feels like moving through molasses, my body physically resisting the separation. But with every block, a new resolve hardens within me.
If Nico won’t fight for me, I’ll have to save myself.
Chapter 9
Nico
I haven’t slept.How could I? The memory of Caterina’s body pressed against mine, the taste of her still lingering on my lips—it haunts me like a beautiful, terrible ghost. I pace my sparse bedroom in the rectory, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath my bare feet as I move from window to desk to bed, unable to find peace in any corner.
Dawn breaks with a violent thunderclap. I flinch, looking up to see dark clouds rolling across the Brooklyn skyline. The storm mirrors the chaos inside me—this tempest of desire and guilt, duty and longing that threatens to tear me apart.
I kneel beside my bed, hands clasped so tightly my knuckles turn white.
“Lord, give me strength,” I whisper, but the prayer feels hollow. For the first time in my life, I’m not sure God is listening. Or perhaps He is, and this is my test—my desert, my garden of Gethsemane.
I rise, legs stiff, and prepare for morning Mass. Each movement is mechanical—the shower scalding hot as if I could burn away last night’s sin, the razor scraping methodically across my jaw, the black shirt buttoned to the throat. When Islip the white collar into place, my fingers tremble. It feels like a noose.
The church is nearly empty this morning, the storm keeping most parishioners at home. Those few hardy souls who brave the deluge sit scattered among the pews, their wet coats releasing the scent of rain that mingles with incense and candle wax. I move through the liturgy by rote, my voice steady even as my thoughts scatter like leaves in a gale.
She isn’t here. I tell myself it’s relief I feel, not disappointment.
After Mass, I retreat to my office, burying myself in parish paperwork. The rain pounds against the windows, occasional flashes of lightning illuminating the room. Sister Agnes brings coffee, her concerned gaze lingering on my face.
“You look unwell, Father,” she says, her Irish lilt softened by decades in Brooklyn.
“Just tired,” I reply, forcing a smile. “The storm kept me up.”
She nods, unconvinced. “There’s soup warming for lunch. Don’t forget to eat. I’ll be back this afternoon.”
I promise I won’t, knowing I’ll likely break that promise. Food is the furthest thing from my mind.
Hours pass. The storm intensifies rather than abates. Water begins to pool at the corner of my window where the old frame has warped. I press a towel against the leak, watching as dark stains spread across the cloth.
