The Deadliest Sin Series Complete Collection, page 87
Rowan.
Even before I see her step out, the smell of honeysuckle floats from the open door and settles over me, stirring my cock. I freeze and press myself back against the wall, hoping she won't see me in the darkness, but she steps out and turns to face me like she knows exactly where I am.
Her green gaze zeroes in on what I'm wearing with laser focus. “Where are you coming from dressed like that?”
I glance toward Sister Agnes' door and step toward Rowan. “Keep your voice down.”
She opens her mouth to say something else, but I step forward, grab her by the elbow, and push her back into her room, closing the door softly behind me.
No way in Hell we’re having this conversation in the hall when Sister Agnes could come out any moment.
She pulls out of my hold and whirls to face me, her lips pressed together in a tight line. “What are you doing?”
I step closer to her and drop my head toward hers. “Trying to keep us from being caught by Sister Agnes. Keep your damn voice down.”
Rowan inhales a sharp breath, her eyes wide. She’s never heard me talk like that, and her shock shows across her soft features. “What is going on? Where were you?”
Waiting for my response, she assesses me in the faint moonlight streaming in through the window. If the lights were on in here, she’d likely be able to see the spots of blood glinting on my black shoes, but the darkness gives me a modicum of protection. And I won’t give her what she’s asking for. The answers to those questions aren’t anything she should ever be privy to.
She reaches up and grabs at the collar of my white dress shirt. “Lipstick on your shirt. And you smell like—” She takes a little half step back. “Like sex. What the hell is going on, Father?”
¡Ay hijueputa!
It's always a risk going to the hotel and sneaking back in here dressed like Rose, but I can't exactly walk out of there in my priestly garb, either. Nor can I change in the car or anywhere else before coming back. Too much risk someone might see me enter as one person and leave as another. If caught, it might cause a scandal I can't afford right now.
But apparently, the stupid whore’s lipstick just gave me away and exposed something I never intended for Rowan to know about.
I take another step toward her, and she doesn't retreat, standing her ground with her hands fisted at her sides. “What I was doing is none of your business, mi palomita.”
“Don’t try to blow this off. You need to tell me what is going on!” She shakes her head and motions wildly toward the hallway. “You show up at Kat’s Cradle and tell me that my life is in danger being there, but you won't tell me why. Then, you bring me here and practically hold me hostage, telling me I can't leave. And then, you show up with your identical twin brother and one of Kat’s men both shot up and tell me not to question it.” She releases a heavy breath. “And now, you're dressed like him coming in here smelling like one of my clients.”
Her outburst brings a heat of pink blush to her pale cheeks, one I often fantasize about watching spread over her entire body if I ever got my hands on her the way I want to.
I doubt this woman has ever had a man touch her who actually saw her as more than a whore, someone to pay to fulfill a need. Her clients were always worried about their own desires and urges.
With a man who is determined to see her reach the pinnacle of pleasure, it would be something completely new for her, something she has only ever fantasized about. And I intend to show her that.
I take another step closer to her until my chest brushes against her heaving breasts in a way that sends a visible shiver through her body. “We all succumb to sin at some point, mi palomita.”
Those beautiful, plump lips of hers that tempt me every day open and close, but I don’t know whether it’s to issue some sort of reproach or to ask questions I won’t answer. Before she can utter a word, I reach out and brush my thumb across her bottom lip.
She practically sags against me, her small body pressing to mine, her hands coming to my chest. “I don't understand what's going on.”
The confusion and fear in her voice mingle with the waver brought on by the tension of standing so close, of touching each other in a way completely inappropriate but that somehow still feels so right. “I know you don't. And I can't tell you yet.” I cup her chin and tilt up her head until her eyes meet mine. “When the time comes, mi palomita, you will see what I'm truly capable of.”
I press a kiss to her lips before she can process my words or even consider responding, savoring the sweet taste that's all Rowan. The taste I’ve denied myself for what feels like an eternity but that is more than even I have ever dreamed of.
My hard cock presses against her belly in a way she has to notice, but before she can react, I step back, let my hand fall from her face, and duck out the door.
It clicks closed behind me, leaving her bewildered and alone in her room while I stand on shaky legs in the hallway.
That kiss shouldn’t have happened. It’s too soon to push her toward where I want her. Too fast. Especially when she doesn’t know the truth. But I couldn’t help myself. Not with her right there in my arms. Not with her scent invading every breath I took.
I can't keep what’s really happening from her much longer. Not if I want to keep her on my side and get her in my bed. The truth will blow up everything she knows, but it always comes out no matter how hard we try to bury it.
I just hope the lie my dear brother and I created can maintain its integrity until I step into the role of Rose. Because if it crumbles before then, all Hell will break loose before I’m ready for it.
FATHER FELIPE
Scanning the attentive faces of those gathered for early morning Mass, I raise my hands and force myself to offer a kind smile despite the tension and unease wracking my body. “The Lord be with you.”
“And with your spirit.” The congregation’s response, said perfectly in sync, echoes through the space.
But it’s missing one very important voice.
The only one I want to hear.
I glance at the empty space in the front pew, where Rowan typically sits, for the thousandth time during today's service, but of course, nothing has changed. She’s still absent, but I can’t dwell on the potential meaning for her skipping service at this exact moment. Not when I have dozens of people waiting for me to conclude and dismiss them.
“May almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
Their reply comes back, practiced and automatic. “Amen.”
“Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord.”
“Thanks be to God.”
While services during the week are never as packed as they are on Sundays, especially the early morning ones, I spot all my usuals. Mostly elderly, they come like clockwork, brought in by a sense of duty or obligation; though, I’m sure some of them actually do enjoy coming as an excuse to get out of their homes at least once a day.
It’s the last place I want to be today, but still, I make my way down the aisle, nodding to the parishioners, and take up my position at the rear of the church at the top of the steps to shake hands and offer smiles or a few words of encouragement as everyone migrates toward their vehicles.
Slipping into the role of a caring and pious parish priest has become so rote, it isn’t even a conscious shift for me anymore.
Smile. Shake. Nod. Bless.
Smile. Shake. Nod. Bless.
On and on and on.
It feels like it takes another hour before the last parishioner finally trickles out and down the steps slowly. Sister Agnes approaches with her old mouth twisted in a frown.
“Is that the last of them, Sister?”
She nods, her shrewd eyes assessing me like she can see right through my act, as they always do. But if she suspects the truth, she has yet to ever call me out on it. “Yes, Father.”
I rub a hand over the stubble forming on my jaw. What happened last night with Rowan in her room shook me badly enough that I completely forgot to shave this morning. “And what about Rowan? Is she feeling any better?”
When Rowan didn’t appear as usual for early Mass, I sent Sister Agnes to check on her. Though, I’m certain the “illness” keeping her in her room is complete bullshit. And I suspect Sister Agnes does, too.
Last night clearly shook Rowan as much as it did me, or maybe even more so. Perhaps I pushed it too far, pushed her too far. Without knowing the truth, I'm sure her seeing me that way made her question everything and lose trust in me—the one person she has followed blindly and believed in since I first showed up at Kat’s Cradle.
But I hadn't anticipated her completely avoiding me to the point of missing service. Not when the one constant since she first arrived here has been her desire to seek some sort of connection to God. Whether she’s seeking absolution for her life as an escort like she suggested in the confessional or for her attraction to me—or for something else completely—she’s sought it here. Missing church just isn't like her.
Sister Agnes glances behind her even though she just confirmed for me that we are alone. “I just checked her room, and I found this.”
She hands me a folded piece of paper, and I reach out slowly to take it, a chill of trepidation over what it may say already hardening my stance and sending my hair standing on end.
“Did you read it?”
The old nun shakes her head. It's addressed to you, Father.”
Felipe is scrawled across the front of the folded page. It’s impossible to overlook that the word “Father” is now missing from the woman who has only ever referred to me in that formal way.
Things have changed.
And I’m sure Sister Agnes noted the missing word, too. Her shrewd assessment seems to focus right on it even now.
“Thank you, Sister. That'll be all.”
She huffs slightly at my dismissal, then retreats through the nave toward the rectory to complete the day's tasks while I make my way to the sacristy to change out of my vestments.
Once I’ve closed the door and locked it behind me, I lower myself into one of the chairs and finally flip open the note.
I couldn’t stay. Not after last night.
Thank you for everything you've done for me.
- Rowan.
¡Mierda!
I crumple the letter in my hand and squeeze until my knuckles whiten before I slam my fist down on the arm of the chair.
The timing for this couldn’t be worse. Just when I'm attempting to cement an alliance with the Russians and the Irish, I have to shift my focus to finding her…and fast. Before someone else realizes who she is and uses her for their own purposes.
I toss the note into the garbage can in the room, grab my cell phone from the drawer where I keep it during service, and dial.
Keeping the truth hidden for the last twenty years hasn't been easy. It has meant “Rose” making all the calls, so I either had to direct my brother what to do and say, or I had to do it and then keep him updated on what I had done so that he wasn't surprised when one of our men mentioned it to him later.
Our rift has only complicated things further. I’ve had to bring in new men who answer only to me, who will think I am Rose. But it's necessary to keep my hands clean for as long as possible and maintain the charade. I don’t have the time or the freedom to handle things completely on my own, and I can’t access the network my brother and I have built without alerting him to what I’m doing.
The line rings twice before someone finally answers. “Sir?”
“I need you to find someone. I'll text you the information I have on her. When you locate her, bring her to St. Mary of the Angels church.”
“Sir?”
I growl low into the phone. “Don’t question me. When you find her, bring her to the church. It's a safe place of refuge. Somewhere I can hide her.”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”
I end the call and immediately text him a photo of Rowan from my phone along with all of her stats and anywhere I think she might've gone. But it won't be easy to find her.
Before she went to work at Kat’s Cradle, she was living and working the streets in New York. She only ended up here because one of the other girls told her to come to Chicago. Rowan had no idea that fate was intervening, bringing her halfway across the country to play the starring role in my plan.
But she's smart. Smart enough to lay low if she needs to. Still, there's always a chance she’ll reach out to one of her old friends from the brothel or make some other mistake. People always do.
I just have to hope that she does and that I can get my hands on her first; otherwise, everything I've done may be for nothing.
FATHER FELIPE
Baptisms are horseshit.
Definitely my least favorite part of being Father Felipe. Not because I have to deal with parents or godparents, but because the symbology of the act seems so ludicrous no matter how I look at it.
The cleansing of original sin. The idea that blessing water and raining it over some baby’s head somehow removes some unseen mark on them, some sin they didn’t choose yet will prevent them from finding eternity. The whole thing is almost comical, given what’s happened in my life.
I had two baptisms. One Mama y Papa had the parish priest perform in our church in Cali and one I did myself where I was bathed in their blood.
That day changed everything.
It wasn't the first time I had killed, nor would it be the last, but when I pulled the trigger, I sealed my own fate. I was accepted into a different kind of religion, one where death and destruction and sin were just ways of life.
Yet, here I stand now, in front of the baptismal font, with smiling parents and godparents and an innocent child before me asking me to save his soul from something that happened at the beginning of time—if you believe Genesis.
I never did. Even at a young age, I saw the hypocrisy of religion and hated the way everyone, including Felipe, was pulled so easily into it and convinced they needed to say certain prayers at certain times to feel the love of some deity no one has ever seen.
But after my crimson baptism, I became the god. The one who pulls the strings of other people's lives and strikes down those who sin against me without a second thought.
More like the Old Testament God than the one presented in the New Testament, but a god all the same.
I may not have physically been Rose, but I held all the power. Called all the shots and ensured we were respected and feared. It worked for two decades, yet now, that power is fractured, split between two who started out as one from the first moment our lives were created.
How could we have come so far together only to end this way?
It’s a question I may never get an answer to. The only explanation I can fathom is that my dear brother finally succumbed to envy and pride and truly wants what he has pretended to have all these years.
The hands have been dealt, now. He wouldn't fold his cards, so that means it's time to remove him from the table altogether. It's the only way this works. And until I can accomplish that monumental task, I’ll keep up the act, going through the motions, and as soon as Rowan is back in my grasp, I’ll act.
No more delays.
No more hopes I might step up as Rose without drawing more familial blood.
All I need is her.
But she’s been on the lamb for days. Days I’ve spent waiting for word about her and for the other shoe to drop now that at least part of my secret has been revealed by the attack here at the church.
Though Kat walked away relatively unscathed, the fact that the rest of the families now know Rose has a twin brother could make things quite complicated. Every day, I wait for the door to open, either Rowan coming home or one of the cartel’s many enemies appearing to try to use Father Felipe for their own purposes.
It’s what I would do if I were in their positions. A kidnapping to use as leverage against Rose. Someone who might offer insider information. There are any number of reasons Father Felipe might be useful to one of our enemies…yet none have appeared.
That can’t last forever. But until I have Rowan back, I can’t move. So until she’s here, it’s business as usual…
“I baptize you in the name of the Father…”
I cast a glance out at the congregation before I cup my hand and dip it into the baptismal font so I can pour Holy water onto the baby’s forehead. It splashes against his smooth skin and elicits an angry cry from the newborn.
“…and of the Son…”
My focus drifts to the watching crowd again, seeking out a familiar redhead, and I give him another dousing.
“…and of the Holy Spirit.”
After a final pour over the child, his father lifts him from over the font and cradles him close to try to stop his crying.
Who can blame the poor kid?
The shock of the noise of Sunday Mass coupled with having water poured over him can’t be pleasant, especially when he doesn’t understand what’s happening. But it’s one of my duties. One I must perform to keep up appearances and serve the people of St. Mary of the Angels until I can get the fuck out of these suffocating vestments for good.
And that day may be coming sooner than I had hoped.
If the text I got from my men who have been out looking for Rowan the last few days is correct and they managed to locate her, it will be the sign I need that it’s time to move now.
But I still don’t see her seated in any of the pews, and my frustration only grows as the baptism ceremony continues.
I clear my throat and offer a smile to the parents and Godparents standing in front of me near the font. “God the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ has freed you from sin, given you a new birth by water and the Holy Spirit, and welcomed you into his holy people. He now anoints you with the chrism of salvation. As Christ was anointed Priest, Prophet, and King, so may you live always as a member of his body, sharing everlasting life.”
“Amen.”
I take the bottle of sacred chrism and anoint the child on the crown of his head. His pale-blue eyes stare up at me in confusion, and he releases another wail of protest.
