Page 55 of Billionaire's Sins
I stare at his profile through the screen. This is the person responsible for turning the lives of me and my friend’s upside down. If he hadn’t shared information on us... Someone else would have? Maybe. Maybe not. Right now, as the facts stand, it is this man—this pathetic, wretched excuse of a human being—who shared information on us, who is partially responsible for the emotionally deficient, heartless men that we have become. And maybe he hasn’t fared that well either. But it doesn’t change the fact that if he hadn’t reported on us, if he had turned down the offer of the Mafia, there’s a small chance we might have turned out normal. Normal? Hah! What’s that? What do I know about it? Except, that it is what most of the Seven now have.
Not me, though.
Never me.
And this guy… This bastard sitting on the opposite side of the screen is responsible for the sodden, tragic-comedy farce that my life has become. My vision tunnels and my senses pop. I rise to my feet, walk around and yank the curtain open.
The man stares up at me. "Father?" He frowns. "Is something wrong?"
"Nothing." I smile at him. "Everything is just how it should be. You couldn’t have picked a better church and a more apt priest to confess your sins to."
His shoulders sag in relief. "Thank you, Father. I’m so grateful that you listened and did not judge."
"Me, judge?" I chuckle. "No, I wouldn’t do that. Why would I? After all, kids are young and resilient. They bounce back from such traumatic memories, don’t they? Assuming they survived to tell the tale, that is?"
"Oh, they did." He bobs his head up and down. "They all survived, thank God for that."
"You sure ‘bout that?"
"What?"
"That it was better that they survived?" I lean down and peer into his face, "Are you positive it was better that they survived?"
He blinks rapidly. "Uh... Yes. Of course. I mean, better to live than to die, right?"
"Wrong."
He gapes at me. "F…father, is everything all right? You…you…seem pale."
"Do I?" I reach out and clamp my fingers around his neck. "Wonder why that is?"
His gaze widens. I tighten my grasp and he coughs, then grabs at my hand. I haul him up to his feet.
"Wh… what are you doing?" he chokes out.
"What does it look like?"
I drag him out of the booth and toward the altar.
"Father…" He tries to speak, but I squeeze his neck, apply even more pressure. His body jerks. He opens and shuts his mouth, then digs his fingernails into my wrist. Pain shivers up my arm; all noise in my head fades.
"Do you know who I am?" I stare into his widened gaze. "Answer me."
He opens and shuts his mouth, but no words emerge.
"Nod, if you recognize me," I order.
"I... I..." He gags. "Edward Chase." He finally says, " I know who you are."
I blink. "And yet you came to me to confess?" I say in a low voice. "Why is that?"
His gaze widens, but he doesn't speak.
"Tell me, what game are you trying to play with me? Why did you walk into my church? Why choose to confess to me?" I squeeze harder, and his eyes bulge. He begins to choke, to scratch at my wrists. His shoulders shudder, tears leak out from the corners of his eyes.
"Did you think you'd get Absolution for your sins? After all isn't Absolution an integral part of the Sacrament of Penance, is that why you came to me? To be forgiven? And who better to do so than one of the Seven who was a victim of your wrong doing?"
He shakes his head, and a cold sensation grips my chest. My belly knots, and my pulse rate slows down.
