Page 98 of Avenging Azalea

“No, my child, that is not what I’m saying. Only you can determine what is right for you,” he said, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Titus, it may not be my place to say this, but you’re no longer a young boy, so I will. I’ve known you since the day you were born. I christened you right there.” He pointed to the raised altar. “You, my child, may feel like you’re tainted by darkness, but when I look at you, I see a shining light. You are still the little boy who brought in flowers to hand out because you didn’t want anyone to feel unloved. You’re still the teen who helped every man, woman, and child in need and carried those who were weary.”

Tears pricked my eyes, and I looked away from the man who saw through my walls.

“God does not judge your mistakes, only how you rectify the situation, and on the character of your soul. Your heart has always been kind. You will find the right path, in this, I have faith.”

“Thank you,” I said as he slowly stood.

“Father?”

“Yes?”

“Before you go…this won’t make up for the sins of my past or those that I’m sure I will commit, but can you please see to it that this gets to families in need?”

Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pulled out a check and handed it over.

Father Francis unfolded it, then grabbed the edge of the pew before looking at me.

“This will help many souls.”

I nodded. “I’ve been blessed financially, it’s the least I can do.”

“Ohhh, Father, there you are,” Vera sang as she came in and broke the peaceful moment. “Would you be able to come with me for a minute? I found a perfect spot for photos and just want to make sure it’s okay with you.”

“I’m more than happy to help,” he said, and squeezed my shoulder before walking off with Vera, who was chatting happily like a yappy little dog.

I glanced up at the statue.

“I’m sorry for thinking that, but she reminds me of a Chihuahua,” I said, laughing when my voice echoed in the cavernous space. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

Chapter

Thirty-One

FAWN

This was my first time in a limo, and it felt incredibly fancy. The car had picked me up and then stopped at Mikhailov Enterprises for Mr. Mikhailov. Dimitri sat across from me, but it was so long he might as well have been in another vehicle. He was dressed in a suit that I knew from Titus’s wardrobe cost a fortune. The watch on his wrist was encrusted with diamonds, and I’d bet every single one of those little bits of sparkle was real. Like Titus, Mr. Mikhailov had tattoos on his fingers and hands, but unlike his son, there was something far more intense and threatening about him.

They wore the same clothes, had the same family tattoos, and even shared the same facial shape, but the look in their eyes was drastically different. Within five seconds of getting in the car with this man, I felt trapped, like a starving thing who dared to hope and choked on the bait disguised as kindness.

All of Titus’s warnings about staying away from his family, specifically his father, rang loudly in my mind. But other than pleasantries, Mr. Mikhailov hadn’t said another word.

My imagination went off the rails as we rode in silence to the restaurant. I kept expecting the car to head out of town, somewhere secluded, where this man could shoot and dispose of me with no witnesses. Instead, the driver took us to the front entrance of Stoneridge. A man was waiting to help me step out onto a red carpet when the door opened. This was a far cry from the burgers and milkshakes that Titus and I enjoyed. The entire situation had me glancing around for photographers like the ones that followed him and Vera around.

“Shall we?”

Dimitri was staring expectantly with his elbow out for me when I turned back toward him. My stomach turned like I was committing a mortal sin when I accepted his offer. He placed his hand over mine, and an unexplainable terror shot through my body.

“There is no need to look so scared. I don’t intend to harm you,” Dimitri whispered.

Others may have been comforted by his words, but intentions and actions were two very different things. It didn’t help that another SUV filled with Mr. Mikhailov’s guards had been following us the entire time. I knew from Naji that each of them was expertly trained, armed to the teeth under their well-made suits and one-hundred percent loyal to Mr. Mikhailov.

As we approached the front door, another man stepped out and held it open for us to walk through.

“Thank you,” I said, and Dimitri chuckled.

“There is no need to thank those doing their job,” he said.

“I’m sorry, but I disagree. There is a direct correlation between the productivity of those who feel oppressed and under-appreciated versus those who are appreciated and praised.”