I’ve never believed the illogical speculations and I still don’t, but in a bit of fancy I pretend he’s unperturbed because he is a nephilim and accustomed to the presence of a deity.
Tristano is definitely going to hell for the filthy things he said to me earlier.
And so am I because I liked it. Alot.
I shove that train of thought aside and fix my gaze on the priest as he approaches our group. He walks with a slow gait, as if “haste truly makes waste,” and then stops in front of Octavia.
“Good afternoon, Father Diego,” Octavia says in English. She completes the greeting by kissing his cheeks. “I’ve brought the visitor you’ve been expecting. This is Señor Silvestri.”
“Welcome, my son.” The priest gestures to the front pews and says, “Please sit. We have much to discuss.”
Beni ushers me to sit three rows behind the priest and Tristano, to give them privacy. But not too much. Beni’s gaze darts back and forth and his hand rests close to his body, lessening the time it’d take to withdraw his firearm.
Danger is not a foregone conclusion.
Octavia takes a seat in the row directly behind the two men and I find myself leaning forward slightly, eager to hear their discussion. Is it a sin to be nosy? I guess my Maker can add it to my list, along with the desire I have for Tristano.
“I want to know who ordered that text message to be sent to me,” Tristano says. He stares at the priest and his gray eyes are sharp like the blade of a knife, piercing and deadly.
Father Diego nods slowly and maintains his calm demeanor, despite Tristano’s abrupt manner. Not that I blame him. If I left my house in the middle of the night and traveled to a foreign country based on a simple text, I’d want answers immediately too.
“Let me ask you a question instead.” Father Diego laces his fingers together and tilts his head. “If the message came from a person in your past, could you find it in your heart to forgive them?”
Tristano’s lips thin and his mouth pinches at the corners. He remains quiet and I’m curious as to what his response will be, based on the anger seeping through his expression. “It depends,” he finally says. “God may forgive all transgressions, but I am neither a divine being nor a perfect man, and that’s beyond my realm of capability.”
The priest nods again and the judgement I expected to find on his countenance isn’t there. “Forgiveness, like doing the right thing, is difficult. Let me give you some context and see if that helps you understand. Many years ago a person came to me, battered and broken, both physically and emotionally. They needed sanctuary and I gave it to them, encouraging and praying for them while they slowly healed. Later on, this individual ended up becoming involved with one of the most known drug lords we have in Guatemala, and in doing so, they hoped to earn enough money to assist them in getting revenge, but they never left.”
Tristano’s chest rises and falls with breaths that cannot be full of anything other than impatience. He doesn’t give voice to his ire, but it’s written all over his face. In my time spent with him I’ve learned he chooses his words carefully and refrains from saying too much because everything is a tactic, a strategic move on the chessboard of life.
Father Diego is a bishop who’s going to be taken out of the game if he doesn’t give the king what he wants. I look to Beni, who represents a rook, more than ready to slide across the room and remove anything blocking his king. Octavia is a queen, powerful and able to conquer anything. And I’m a pawn.
We all have our roles.
“Is this person from your story the same as the one who knew something private concerning me?” Tristano asks. “Because if not, then spare me the rest. I am not here to give sympathy or offer forgiveness. What I want is an answer.”
“Yes,” the priest says. “This person is one and the same.”
Tristano swallows deep and his skin pales right before my eyes. Octavia notices as well because she frowns at Father Diego’s back. My heart squeezes painfully in my chest at the stricken look on Tristano’s face. He comforted me when I was upset after the policemen tried to assault us, and I would love nothing more than to go to him and offer my support. I have no idea if he’d accept something like that from me, but the urge to give him solace is there nonetheless.
“Is this person still alive?” Tristano’s voice is thin, far from the confident tone I’m used to hearing.
Father Diego shrugs. “What does it matter if you don’t want to make amends?”
Tristano shoots to his feet and towers over the priest with his hands fisted at his sides. His gaze is narrowed to little more than slits and he works his jaw side to side as though ready to call the priest everything but a child of God.
“Ah, fuck,” Beni mutters right before rising. “Killing in a church, of all places. Can’t say I’m surprised.”
I make the sign of the cross, just in case.
“I didn’t come all this way to be fucked with,” Tristano grits out between clenched teeth, glaring down at the priest.
Father Diego, on the other hand, doesn’t do more than hold Tristano’s gaze. It’s admirable because Tristano is very intimidating. “Your anger is understandable and justified, my son. I cannot tell you anything more until you give me your word that you won’t shed blood in the house of God.”
Tristano narrows his gaze further and Beni exhales. “Yup, I’m going to hell,” he says quietly. “Murdering a priest has to put you on the fast track to purgatory.”
I make the sign of the cross. Again.
“I’m not here for revenge.” Tristano’s voice is less abrasive, however, his body is still taut and his features are pulled tight with anger. “I want answers, and not just for myself but for my brothers who have a right to the information you’re withholding. If you’re not going to give it to me then I’m leaving. It’s that fucking simple.”
