Page 24 of House of Sin
The man blinked, and his jaw shifted like he was about to speak, then thought better of it. Elona reached out and touched his chest, barely a graze, like she was testing the fabric of his vest for quality or searching for a heartbeat.
“Name’s Elona,” she said, though it hardly mattered. He wouldn’t remember it tomorrow, and if he did, he’d never say it aloud. Not to anyone that mattered.
After the money was exchanged, she took his hand and turned, leading him toward the stairs, the same way she might lead a dance partner to the floor. They disappeared up the staircase, her laugh trailingbehind them, while I returned to the bar, flipping over a chipped shot glass and filling it with my favorite whiskey.
Violet sipped on her brandy. “Think he’ll cry?”
Maeve, still in the corner, glanced up. “I'd bet my left tit on it.”
The piano faltered for a brief moment, its notes slipping uncertainly before pushing forward with a jagged, off-key tune that rang unevenly through the room. Slowly, people began to trickle in—first just two at a time, then more and more, until the space was steadily filling with the sound of voices and movement. Chairs scraped against the floor, voices overlapped in rising chatter, and the space came alive. The piano shifted gears, breaking into a quicker, livelier melody that instantly put me in a good mood. Finally, the night had found its rhythm.
That is until an unexpected sound cut through the music. At first, it was soft, barely audible over the clink of glasses and the hollow piano. But then became clearer—a sharp gasp trapped in his throat, followed by another, deeper sound that was impossible toignore, and the bar fell into a particular hush only the guilty and the curious know well.
The sound filtered down from the ceiling, through the thin plaster, as a slow, dragging moan filled the silence. Then a cry, high and bright, that shattered the silence completely. Somewhere in the corner, someone let out a quiet chuckle, breaking the tension, while nearby, another person shifted uneasily on a barstool, the scrape of wood against the floor.
“Well,” Violet said, swirling her brandy again, “either she’s killing him, or saving him.
Maeve shrugged. “What’s the difference?” She asked casually, and that earned some nervous, wayward glances from the men sitting at the nearby tables, eyes glinting with a mix of amusementand caution.
13
THE PEARLY GATES CAN KISS MY ASS
THEN
The weather was pure shit. It was only drizzling when I first stepped outside, just enough to be irritating, but not enough to justify turning back. Then, like some kind of sadistic misttrap from the heavens themselves, it began to pour the moment I reached the part of town with no awnings, no trees, and no hope of cover. Naturally, I’d left my umbrella at home, a decision I began to regret with increasing intensity around the second block. I paused on the church steps, letting the rain soak into my hair, trail down the line of my neck, and cling to my dress until the fabric grew heavy against my skin. The wind picked up, and I let my eyes fall closed, bracing against a rush of cold air. And there, in the quiet roar of rain, I let my thoughts drift to John.
I used to meet him on evenings like this, when the world had folded in on itself, soft and gray and utterly private. He would bring me wildflowers he’d found out in the fields, wrapped in crumpled old newspaper, because he knew I hated anything that felt too perfect or polished. He used to tell me I looked beautiful when I was soaked to the bone, as though the rain couldn’t put out the fire burning inside me. I’d laugh, saying he needed his eyes checked. He’d laugh too, but he never stopped looking at me like I was something worth surviving for. And now he was gone.
Now they were both gone. Ray’ssmile, gap-toothed and full of innocence, haunted me more than the loneliness. When I buried him, I buried pieces of myself too, pieces I never got back. The storm pressed down on me, mirroring the weight of my grief. It was both cleansing and cruel, relentless in its truth.
I made my way through the entrance of the church, my hands gripping the rosary that dangled from my wrist. The beads felt cold against my skin, and the familiar scent of incense clung to the air like it always did, wrapping around me like a shroud. Inside, the quiet of the church felt unusually oppressive. It had always been a place of solace, but today it felt like the very walls were holding their breath, waiting for me to speak the words that were going to change everything.
Father Cyrus had been my confessor for years, not just a priest offering absolution, but a man who had witnessed every shade of me: the good, the bad, and the messy, unguarded parts I rarely showed the world. The lines etched into my face were familiar to him, as were the subtle sparks in my eyes, whether I was about to crack a sarcastic joke or silently carry a secret too heavy to speak aloud.
He wasn’t the kind of priest who delivered lectures or fired off brimstone-laden sermons. Instead, he carried a warmth that gave a feeling of safety, as if you could lay bare every truth and every lie without fear of judgment. I could hear his voice in my head, as if he had already expected something like this from me:I know you, Birdie, you’re not someone who hides her truth.
I took a deep breath, silently willing my heart to stop racing, and made my way to the confessional booth at the back of the church. The sound of the rain tapping against the windows followed me, a steady percussion to match my nervous steps. I pushed open the small wooden door and settled into the narrow seat, the wood creaking softly underneath me. While the confessional was by its nature a confining little box, it offered a strange kind of refuge.
Father Cyrus was already there, waiting in the other side of the booth, his presence unmistakable in the gentle rhythm of his breath and the soft rustle of fabric as he folded his hands. I couldn’t see him, but I could picture him clearly—silver hair neatly combedto the side, glasses perched low on his nose in that familiar, grandfatherly way.
“Ah, Birdie,” he greeted me, his voice a rich rumble. He didn’t use my full name anymore; to him, I was always Birdie, a nickname that had, at some point, overtaken Bernadette.
I leaned back slightly. “Not sure if it’s a compliment that you recognize me before I even speak, Father,” I said, dryly. “Could mean I’ve spent far too much time in this booth.”
He snorted, the sound soft. “Or that you’ve always had a distinct way of entering a room, even one you’re not seen in. So, what brings you here today, my dear?”
I raised an eyebrow at him, a smirk tugging at my lips. “Father, I’m surprised you haven’t moved to a warmer place by now. You know, somewhere where people aren’t so prone to confessing sins about, oh, I don’t know ... running brothels?”
The screen between us was a mercy and a torment all at once. I couldn’t see his face, only imagine it, but I heard the smile in his voice, heard the quiet huff of laughter he tried, and failed, to suppress. “Running abrothel, you say? Well, I suppose I’ll have to hear this confession before I pass judgment.”
I folded my arms over my chest and let out a short bitter laugh. “Good thing you’re sitting down, Father. I’ve got a lot to say, and I’m not interested in keeping it short and sweet today.”
He shifted slightly on the other side of the screen. “I’m listening, Birdie,” he said, the warmth never leaving his tone. “Go ahead.”
I stared down at the rosary in my hands, fingers running over the cold, smooth beads. I’d held them so many times, clutching them during every confession, every moment of doubt or regret. They were my security, the last thread that had kept me tethered to something resembling normalcy. But today they felt different. Today they were just ... beads. Taking a deep breath, I turned my eyes back towards Father Cyrus, trying to steady my shaking hands before the words came tumbling out. “I opened a brothel,” I said flatly. My voice didn’t waver, but it was quieter than I’d intended.
When Father Cyrus spoke, his voice carried no judgment, only that same calm patience I had cometo count on. “And how did that come to be?” He asked gently.
