The look she gives me is pure venom.
14
ADRIAN
The heavy wooden doors of St. Michael’s close with a satisfying thud, the sound echoing through the empty sanctuary behind me.
Evening Mass ended an hour ago, but I’ve been moving through the building slowly, checking windows, straightening pews, doing anything to avoid returning to my quarters where the silence will force me to think about everything threatening to destroy us.
The PI’s surveillance photos. Victory Life’s escalating attacks. The constant fear that someone will discover what Charlie has become to us. What we’ve become to each other.
My hands shake as I turn the key in the ancient lock, the metal cold against my palm.
The street is quiet, most of the neighborhood already settled in for the night.
Streetlights cast pools of yellow across the pavement, and I’m about to turn away when movement catches my eye.
A man stands across the street, half-hidden in shadow between two buildings. He’s watching the church. Watching me.
My blood runs cold.
Even from this distance, even after twenty years, I know that face.
The broad shoulders that come from years of physical labor.
The way he stands with his weight slightly forward, balanced on the balls of his feet like he’s ready to move.
The scarred knuckles visible even in the dim light.
Tommy “The Hammer” Delgado.
Our eyes meet for a brief second, and I watch recognition dawn in his expression.
A slow smile spreads across his face, predatory and knowing.
He raises one hand in a casual wave, like we’re old friends who just happened to run into each other.
Then he turns and disappears into the shadows, leaving me standing on the church steps with my heart hammering against my ribs.
It’s coincidence, I tell myself, forcing my hands to steady as I finish locking the doors.
He’s just passing through. He doesn’t know I’m here. This doesn’t mean anything.
But my body knows I’m lying.
My hands won’t stop shaking as I pocket the keys. The rosary beads wrapped around my knuckles cut into my palm, and I welcome the pain.
It grounds me, reminds me I’m Father Adrian Cross now, not the man who used to destroy opponents with his bare hands for money and the sick thrill of violence.
I should go to my quarters. Should pray. Should do anything except what I’m about to do.
Instead, my feet carry me toward the parish hall kitchen, drawn by the scent of chocolate and the knowledge that she’ll be there. She’s always there when I need her, even when I shouldn’t need anyone.
Charlie stands at the counter, flour dusting her apron, her auburn hair pulled back in a messy bun that’s already coming loose.
She’s making brownies, I think, or maybe a chocolate cake. The mixing bowl is cradled against her hip, and she’s stirring with practiced precision, her whole body moving with the rhythm.
The domestic scene should calm me. Instead, I’m hyperaware of how the dress clings to her curves, how the neckline dips low enough that I can see the swell of her breasts rising and falling with each breath.
