Redemption (Sempre 2)

Vincent bowed his head as he closed his tired eyes, sullenly making the sign of the cross. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“What else is new?”

Vincent’s eyes snapped open at the sound of the voice, low yet striking, entirely detached and frighteningly familiar. Guarded, Vincent’s heart pounded as hard as a bass drum when he turned around, coming face-to-face with the last person he expected to encounter: Corrado.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Corrado said, standing beside the front pew a few feet away. “You haven’t been stealing your son’s clothes, have you? It’s really not a good look.”

Vincent eyed his brother-in-law suspiciously. Corrado seemed relaxed, his hands in the pants pockets of his black fitted suit as he stared at him, awaiting a response.

“How did you know I’d be here?” Vincent asked.

Corrado shook his head. “Lucky guess. You’re quite predictable, to be honest. Just as predictable as your son.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Vincent,” Corrado replied. “Church sanctuary ended centuries ago. They can’t offer you protection anymore. Well, maybe protection from God, but not from man. Nothing can protect you from man’s wrath. Not the police and certainly not a priest.”

“I didn’t come for asylum,” Vincent said. “I came to get advice.”

“Ah, maybe I can help you, then. Please, continue. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been . . .” Corrado raised his eyebrows expectantly as he trailed off.

o;Technically it belongs to Saint Mary’s, but yes,” he replied. “A former parishioner donated it to the church ages ago. I want to say it’s been nearly thirteen years.”

“Christ,” Carmine said, surprised it still ran, and smiled sheepishly when the priest gave him a peculiar look. “I’m just saying, you know . . . wow. My grandfather had one of these. He used to pick me up from school sometimes when I was a kid and drive me around. Pretty much the only memory I have of the man.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. He died when I was a kid, probably about . . .” Carmine paused as he did the math in his head. “. . . Thirteen years ago.”

The priest smiled at him before climbing into the car and starting it. It hesitated, the engine roaring and car trembling as it sprung to life. Sighing, Carmine climbed into the passenger seat and rattled off his address, staring out the side window as they silently drove through town.

Father Alberto pulled the car into the driveway when they arrived. Carmine turned to the man, about to thank him, and noticed the look of awe on his face. Before Carmine could say anything, the priest burst into a loud, boisterous laughing fit. He laughed so hard tears sprung to his eyes, and he wiped them with the back of his hand as Carmine stared at him with confusion. “What’s so funny?”

“The door is blue.”

“Yeah, so?”

The priest shook his head. “I thought Vincenzo was joking.”

Carmine’s expression fell at the sound of his father’s name. He could only gape at the man in shock.

“He truly did a terrible job painting it,” Father Alberto continued, “but I commend him for doing it, nonetheless.”

“You know my father?”

“Of course I do,” the priest said. “It’s no coincidence you ended up on my front steps tonight, son.”

Carmine shook his head. What was this, a goddamn intervention?

“Merry Christmas.” The priest smiled, waving good-bye. “And for the record, I’ve always suspected Corrado had a sense of humor, too.”

26

Christmas on the Upper East Side turned out to be a more formal affair than Haven anticipated. No gifts were exchanged in the morning, no stories shared in the afternoon. At precisely three o’clock they all gathered in the large dining room, the four of them sitting at a table fit for a dozen. The staff served the meal, quietly and swiftly fixing each of them a plate before disappearing from the room.

Haven stared down at her food as the others started eating, her stomach in tight knots. Those people, the servants—didn’t they have families? Why were they working there on Christmas?

Thoughts of the worst kind infiltrated her mind. They couldn’t be, could they? A senator, a man of the law, wouldn’t keep slaves in his home.