Possessed by the Killer (Dark Possessive Mafia)

She followed me inside. I shook hands as I went, smiled and said hello to men and women I only half recognized. My father once knew them all, names and relations, knew their birthdays and anniversaries, knew their fathers and mothers and their loved ones that passed on. One day, I’d know them too.

I introduced Mags and she didn’t disappoint. She was gracious and kind, listening to inane stories, laughing at bad jokes. We reached the pew and she sat next to me, her back straight and her hands in her lap, and I felt a stab of pride.

I leaned over and whispered, “You know, for a girl that works at a strip club, you’ve got a lot of class.”

Her grin didn’t falter as she leaned back to me and said, “For a guy that kills people and sells drugs for a living, you’re not so bad yourself.”

I put my hand on her thigh and let my fingers linger there until she brushed them aside.

Father Giovanni started Mass then. The ceremony was fine—I spent most of it watching Mags. She was Catholic, so she knew how it went, knew when to kneel and stand, knew the words and the gestures, but I didn’t care about that.

I liked the way she listened. I liked how she leaned forward when the music started. I liked her voice when she sang, very soft and sweet. I liked how she brushed hair from her forehead, only to have it fall down again when she knelt. I liked the shape of her calves and the curve of her lips and the slight white lump of her teeth when her mouth fell open whenever she glanced up and caught me staring at her.

After the service, we did everything in reverse: more smiling, more boring stories, more men and women I barely recalled. Father Giovanni joined the fray, and after a while I managed to pull him aside. Mags followed as we ducked into a side room where he kept his vestments and a small desk toward the back.

“Glad you could make it today, Dean,” he said, smiling a little. “Or I suppose I should call you Don Valentino.”

“Call me whatever you like,” I said. “I think I’ll be coming most Sundays now.”

“Your father always made time for the church.” He sat behind his desk with a sigh. “He was a good man, your father.”

I glanced at Mags and smiled a bit as I took the chair on the left. She sat to my right, legs crossed primly.

“I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say he was good, but he certainly did what he could for the family,” I said. “Just as I plan on doing.”

“That’s good, Dean, that’s very good,” Father Giovanni said, nodding his head. He had a slight paunch and a double chin, and I guessed the man didn’t want for more. His office was well lit from a large window, and another, smaller stained-glass window depicting a dove cast colors all across the slick wood of his desk. The room was cramped and old, but his things spoke of comfort and wealth.

The church certainly wasn’t hurting.

“I wanted to talk to you about your arrangements with my father,” I said, switching into business mode. I leaned forward and stared at Father Giovanni, who smiled back benignly.

“Oh, do you?” he ask. “Well, I suppose so.”

“The shipments that came through here. I want to start those again. I’ve got guys waiting, and we can distribute—”

Father Giovanni held up his hands. “I’m sorry, Dean, this is awkward,” he said quickly, interrupting me, which made my hands clench. Mags sat stiffly and glanced at me, like she could tell I was annoyed.

“What’s wrong, Father?” I asked.

“I already spoke to Roy about all this,” he said, smiling apologetically. “He said that the shipments wouldn’t need to come through my church anymore.”

“Did he now?” I asked, leaning back, surprised. Roy did have control over most of the drug trade, since he was second-in-command of the family, but he shouldn’t have made any major decisions without consulting me first.

“He stopped in a few days ago. Said other arrangements were made and that you knew already.” He laughed a little and shook his head. “I’m sorry if there was a miscommunication. He also mentioned that the family would still provide the church with its usual donation?”

I grimaced slightly. The donation was a nice way of saying a percentage cut of sales in exchange for acting as a front for our drug smuggling and sales operation. Product came up from the south and was dropped off here at the church then moved out discreetly across the city. Cops didn’t bother checking a church for kilos of heroin and cocaine, so it worked out for everyone involved. Father Giovanni got rich, and we had an easy base from which to distribute everything.