Page 97 of Damiano De Luca (The Five Syndicates)
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” My pulse quickens, the fear simmering beneath my skin at what I know I have to do. Run. “It has been four years since my last confession.”
The grating separating us smells musty, but I lean my cheek against it anyway. The walls of the confessional moan. Old, like everything else in Devils Ridge, Texas. The heart of the De Luca mafia syndicate. The heart of Hell.
“What ails you, my child?”
Everything.
I am helpless to men, to fate, the insignificant pawn housing a future queen in a game far greater than her. I don’t say the things my heart feels. Instead, I cradle my stomach. I’m not showing. I still have some time. Not much but perhaps enough to figure out my options.
“I slept with a married man.”
And I liked it.
Until I didn’t.
And still, he wouldn’t stop.
Father Luciano says nothing. I can picture him. The scattering of blond hair covering next to nothing on his receding hairline. His pudgy fingers pressed together like a steeple. His white clerical collar choking his thick neck. The all-black attire and stuffy booth running sweat down his hunched back.
Father Luciano. Two years my senior. The twenty-four year old who looks a day shy of forty. I’d pity him if I didn’t need to reserve my pity for myself. My lips let loose a breathy sigh as I wait for his response, unsure why I bothered coming here. It felt right at the time.
The sigh is too seductive, but I can’t help it. Half the men in this town tell me I am a goddess. The other half tells me I’m a curse. I know which half I believe. It is not the same half that visits me at the Landing Strip, leering at my body as I strip away my clothes and dignity to their praises.
I wonder, for a moment, what Father Luciano thinks as his breathing deepens, and the wooden bench on his half of the booth creaks with stilted movement. He knows who I am. He knows what I do for a living. I suspect he knows who I do, also.
He wants you, the Devil in me whispers.
I always listen to my Devil. She controls my future. Sometimes, I get antsy in this small town. One I stumbled upon after listening to her voice, following the pit stop of a groupie tour bus.
I’d call her Fate if it weren’t for the series of bad decisions I’ve made. My Devil encouraged me to stay here. She wiped away my conscience and begged me to sleep with Angelo De Luca, a man unfit to run his own syndicate let alone lay his hands on me. I know I am my Devil, but I prefer distancing myself from the blame.
Because now, I live trapped in a world of four mafia syndicates pitted against one another.
Andretti versus Romano.
Camerino versus Rossi.
Two fractured coasts, warring within themselves.
And the fifth syndicate, cast to the side. The De Luca syndicate. Undeserving. A breeding ground for resentment. Ridiculed as inconsequential for centuries. Run by a mad man whose attention I have caught.
Father Luciano clears his throat and, perhaps, his lust. “Do you feel guilt, my child?”
“Yes.”
Not to Angelo De Luca.
Not to his wife.
To my child.
A girl, my Devil predicts. If my Devil is right, she will die in this town like me. Insignificant. An illegitimate princess unable to claim her throne. Surely, there’s a better way.
Run.
The urge seizes me once again. I feel it down to my toes.
“Guilt is a weight on your shoulder. Your body’s way of telling you to pause. Think. Make better decisions. Repent.”
