“At what cost?” She moves closer, and I watch her hand rise toward my face before she catches herself. The aborted gesture makes my chest ache. “You think I want you to destroy yourself for money? You think that’s what matters to me?”
“What matters is keeping you safe.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “Tommy knows about you now. He’s watching you, making sure I understand he can reach you. If I don’t give him what he wants…”
“Then we deal with it together.” Her hazel eyes, more green than gold in the dim light, hold mine with fierce determination. “I’m not afraid of your past, Adrian. I’m only afraid of losing you.”
The words break something in me. My hands find her face before I can stop them, my wrapped knuckles rough against her soft skin. She leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed, and I’m lost.
“You should be afraid,” I whisper, my forehead dropping to rest against hers. “You should run as far from me as possible.”
“Too late.” Her breath mingles with mine, warm and sweet. “I’m already in too deep.”
I want to kiss her. Want to lift her onto this weight bench and make her forget everything except my name. Want to claim her so completely that Tommy and the Bishop and every threat circling us will know she’s mine.
But footsteps echo on the basement stairs, deliberate and measured. We break apart just as Bishop Carmine appears at the bottom of the staircase, his steel-gray eyes taking in the scene with unnerving perception.
Charlie and me, standing too close. My hands still raised like I was touching her. Her flushed face and rapid breathing. The sexual tension is so thick it’s almost visible.
The Bishop’s expression is unreadable as he looks between us, but I see the calculation in his eyes. The pieces clicking into place. The confirmation of whatever he’s been suspecting.
“Father Cross,” he says quietly. “Miss Davis. This…will be brought up in our interviews.”
30
CHARLIE
I wake before dawn, my stomach churning with anxiety that has nothing to do with the early hour.
The threats surrounding us have multiplied like shadows at dusk — the Bishop’s probing questions, Tommy Delgado’s menacing presence, and now my mother, watching everything with those calculating eyes that see too much.
The diner shift passes in a blur of coffee refills and forced smiles.
My hands shake as I carry plates, my mind replaying yesterday’s Mass where I caught Diane sitting in a back pew, her bleached blonde head turning to track every interaction between me and the men.
The way she studied Adrian’s face when his gaze found mine during the homily.
How she noted Marcus positioning himself near me during communion. The knowing smile when Elijah’s fingers brushed mine passing sheet music after the service.
She knows. Or suspects enough that the difference doesn’t matter.
By the time I return to St. Michael’s, my nerves are frayed to breaking. I find Diane in the parish hall kitchen, leaning against the counter like she owns the place.
Her too-tight jeans and low-cut top look obscene in this sacred space, and I feel a flash of protective anger for the church that’s become my sanctuary.
“There’s my baby girl.” Her voice drips with false sweetness, the smoker’s rasp making it sound like a threat. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you? So dedicated to your volunteer work.”
I force my voice to stay steady. “I’m working off my debt. You know that.”
“Mmm.” She moves closer, and I catch the scent of cheap perfume mixed with cigarettes. “Funny thing about that. I’ve been watching you, Charlie. The way that priests look at you. The way that deacon can’t keep his eyes off your ass when you walk away. The way the choir director finds excuses to stand close enough that you can feel his breath.”
My face betrays me before I can form a denial. Heat floods my cheeks, and Diane’s laugh is sharp and cruel.
“Oh, honey. I’ve been around long enough to recognize the signs.” She circles me slowly, predatory. “The lingering looks. The careful-not-to-touch proximity. The way all three of them orbit you like you’re the sun and they’re dying planets desperate for your light.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” But my voice lacks conviction.
Diane leans in close, her breath hot against my ear. “Don’t I? I see the way Father Cross’s jaw clenches when another man gets too close to you. How Deacon Reyes positions himself between you and any perceived threat. How Brother Moreau watches you like you’re a symphony he’s desperate to play.” She pulls back, her smile triumphant. “You’re sleeping with them. All of them. Aren’t you?”
The words hang in the air between us, damning and undeniable. I open my mouth to lie, to deflect, but what’s the point? She already knows.
