The food arrives.
My salad is artfully arranged, probably photographed for Instagram a thousand times. Whitmore’s steak bleeds across his plate, rare enough to still be mooing.
He cuts into it with relish, and I watch the juice run red, thinking of blood money and thirty pieces of silver.
“Let’s talk business,” Whitmore says, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I invited you here.”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
Patricia slides a folder across the table.
Inside, I find a formal purchase offer for St. Michael’s property.
The number makes my stomach drop. It’s insultingly low, barely enough to cover our outstanding debts with nothing left over for relocation or rebuilding.
“We believe in preserving history,” Whitmore says, his tone dripping with false sincerity. “That beautiful facade, the bell tower, the stained glass. We’d keep all of it. Just modernize the interior, bring it into the twenty-first century. Imagine your congregation worshiping in a space with proper climate control, state-of-the-art sound systems, and comfortable seating.”
“Imagine my congregation not existing at all,” I counter, my voice carefully controlled. “Because that’s what this offer represents. Dissolution.”
Richard leans forward, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the light. “Father Cross, let’s be realistic. Your attendance is down thirty percent year over year. Your building needs extensive repairs you can’t afford. The diocese is already concerned about your financial viability.”
“How do you know about diocese concerns?” The question comes out sharper than I intend.
Whitmore’s smile widens. “We have friends everywhere. People who share our vision for modern ministry, who understand that sometimes the old must make way for the new.”
I think about Charlie, about the way her hazel eyes shift between green and gold when she’s worried.
About Marcus’s protective fury and Elijah’s quiet strength. About the family we’ve built in the shadows of this crumbling church.
Whitmore wants to take it all, to gut our sanctuary and fill it with his prosperity gospel poison.
“The answer is no.” I close the folder and slide it back across the table. “St. Michael’s isn’t for sale.”
Morrison’s expression hardens. “Father Cross, I don’t think you understand the position you’re in.”
“I understand perfectly. You want our property because it’s prime real estate in a growing neighborhood. You want to eliminate competition and expand your empire. But St. Michael’s has served this community for over a century, and it will continue to do so.”
Whitmore sets down his fork, his mask finally slipping. The jovial pastor disappears, replaced by something cold and calculating. “You’re making a mistake. We have information that could accelerate the diocese’s decision to shut you down. Concerns about pastoral conduct, inappropriate relationships, and financial irregularities.”
My blood runs cold, but I keep my expression neutral. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a reality check.” Whitmore leans back, his blue eyes hard as ice. “The diocese is already investigating you. We’re simply prepared to provide additional documentation that might speed up their timeline. Unless, of course, you reconsider our generous offer.”
The rage that floods through me is the same violence I spent twenty years suppressing, the underground boxer who nearly killed a man with his bare hands.
My fists clench beneath the table, rosary beads cutting into my palm.
I imagine reaching across this expensive table and wiping that smug smile off Whitmore’s spray-tanned face.
Instead, I stand slowly, my voice dropping to something quiet and dangerous. “Thank you for lunch, Pastor Whitmore. But I think we’re done here.”
“You have forty-eight hours to reconsider,” he calls after me. “After that, the offer expires and we move forward with alternative plans.”
I walk out, leaving Whitmore’s check on the table, my hands shaking with barely contained fury.
The elevator ride down feels eternal, my reflection in the polished doors showing a man barely holding himself together.
The collar feels like a noose, the cassock like chains.
