Priestly Sins
Page 1
Priestly Sins
Hadley Finn
Priestly Sins
by Hadley Finn
Cover by JM Walker at Just Write Creations
Edits by Karen Hrdlicka at Barren Acres Editing
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials.
This book is a work of fiction. Any likeness to real people, organizations or events is purely coincidental. The food and the cities are real and should be celebrated. They are merely the backgrounds for these figments of my imagination to wander.
Copyright © 2021 by Hadley Finn
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For to my unicorn, every woman’s dream man, who day-in and day-out encouraged me to chase this goal, who cooked and cleaned to give me focused time to write, who learned a business to help me reach this moment by my side…
You are my everything.
This book is dedicated to you—the ultimate gift I’ve ever received.
Prologue
Chicago
“May the God of righteousness and purity forgive your sins and may the vengeance taken by His servant make Him rejoice with the faithful. May He forgive you your trespasses—and me, mine—as I bathe my feet, and this city, in the blood of the wicked.”
I slice the knife across his throat, feeling the warmth of his lifeblood spill across my fingers. The gurgling that bubbles from the gap there is music to my ears.
His eyes tell a story of shock or awe. I care about neither. I care only that one sinner no longer preys on the innocent, that he no longer causes fear in my parishioners…that this fuckwad is no longer one of my flock.
Besides, he isn’t mine to pastor. He works for my father and is muling information back to him in exchange for drugs to sell to inner-city kids looking to score a hit or make a buck. And since both are untenable, I’m making my message clear.
Sometimes this collar is suffocating.
Other times, like now, I’m glad for it.
I slide the knife into my sock, after wiping it on his hoodie, and pull out my phone.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
“We need an ambulance. Hurry. This is Father Sean O’Ryan. I just found one of my parishioners on the sidewalk outside my church. Saint Anthony’s. Cicero, near 141st Street. Please hurry.”
“Go forth, Christian soul, from this world in the name of God the Almighty Father and sleep in eternal rest. Amen.”
One
New Orleans
Ten years later
Mardi Gras time in New Orleans can mean several things. Mostly it means drinking, eating, and enjoying the hedonistic things of the world. I’m not supposed to celebrate these things, so they say.
I do anyway.
Besides, Bobby O’Shea is in town.
What would I have done without my brother from another mother in college? My roommate, my wingman. He’s everything I wished I could’ve become—doting husband, devoted dad. Hell, he probably has the award for yard-of-the-month club or some such shit.
He’s the best friend a guy could ever have. Even a guy like me. And almost sixteen years in, that’s saying something.
“Fucking Bobby O’Shea!” I say discreetly, pounding his back in a hug.
“Fu… Sean! You know I can’t say ‘fucking’ to a priest, no matter how long I’ve known you.”
“Reservation under O’Ryan,” I add, flipping around to the hostess. She’s a tall blonde, all tits and ass, just my type—or at least she was…back in the day.
“Right this way, gentlemen.”
Ushered to a table on the edge of the main dining room at Sassafras, Bobby and I sit.
“Need a drink. Funeral today. Takes it out of me.”
Interrupted by the maître d’, we place our drink orders—beer for him; whiskey neat for me—and are left alone again.
“That collar still freaks me out, dude.”
“Still me behind it, douche.”
“How am I supposed to come back at that, man?”
“Like you always have, man. It’s been a while, but you’ve known me since I was nineteen. Same guy. Curious job is all.”
“Whatever you say. How’s everything going? And… Sorry about your dad. Sorry I wasn’t there for the funeral. I—”
I cut him off both with a look and a low slice of my hand.
At that moment, our drinks slide in front of us and the tuxedoed waiter takes our orders.
“Glad you weren’t. Well, that’s not entirely honest, but it’s all good. Bastard’s dead. Still dealing with his crap, but at least he’s not alive and pulling his regular fuckery while I’m dealing with his bullshit.”
“I get it, but still wish I could’ve been there for you.”
“You were. You are. You’re here. Let’s toast to surviving that prick. To freedom and not waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“Hear. Hear.”
We clink and spend our time together — more precious the older we’ve gotten and the farther apart we live — catching up.
Bobby’s wife, Sherrilyn, is expecting their second child, a girl this time, in four months. Their son is four and a hellion. Guess he is getting a taste of his own medicine with that one.
We eat, we drink, we do New Orleans the way it was meant to be done. The locals call it lagniappe — a little something extra. Tonight, it is King Cake bread pudding. And several more whiskeys.
We chat about college friends from our time in Indiana. Who’s married, divorced, who’s seeing success. We vow to make a game next fall and cheer on the Irish.
Given enough time, I can take the time off work. Even though my job is twenty-four seven and scheduling vacation isn’t like the corporate world, a weekend away could be great.
“Dude, I have to ask… Do you miss the sex?” Bobby asks after several drinks.
“My son…” I begin very solemnly.
He blanches of all color, and I lose it, barking a laugh so loud people turn our way. I drop my head and give him the grin that few people ever see these days.
“Yeah, man, fucking kills me.”
Two
I fucking hate funerals.
I’m sitting beside this casket in these fucking robes and sweating like a pig. Why do we say that? Do pigs sweat? Either way, I do and I am.
I’m sweating, looking solemn, and listening to this man’s niece drone on and on about how amazing her uncle was. This is after listening to his business partner, Enzo Calabrese, sing his praises, lying through his teeth about the bastard. The art of having no facial reaction should be taught in the seminary. Case in point — that self-aggrandizing bullshit when you know the fucker is dancing on the inside, having no competition, no required profit sharing now for his legal—or his illegal—freight enterprises.
Calabrese sits there, smug, with his pretty wife on his arm. He’s the man I suspect pulled the trigger—or at least paid for the hit.
Business partner, my ass.
Calabrese is as revered as he is feared. He’s never met a compliment he didn’t agree with or praise he would refuse. He is untouchable or, at least, that’s his opinion of himself. He’s stupid enough to believe his own bullshit.
At the cemetery following the mass, I see them again—the king and queen. New Orleans’ very own crime royalty. Only heir to his father’s shipping business and to his power, lust, and greed. I should speak to him. If I could stomach it, I know I would. But I’d rather be thought of as rude than have to fake a single smile with him.
“Father?” I turn and see the widow of the man we just buried, chin lifted, as if forcing courage on this most trying day.
“Yes.”
“We’re having a reception at the house. Please join us.”
“I’d be honored. Thank you.”
Louisianians know how to throw a funeral. And they do. First the solemn, reverent wake. Then the resigned, but dignified mass. And lastly, the party that follows. The suit jackets and ties come off. The wine, the liquor, the coffee, and the food are served — the full spread and the family reunion, the laughter, the stories. Then again, Louisianians just know how to throw a party.
I shake hands and I hug necks—their term, not mine. No self-respecting man from Boston would ever say “hug a neck,” but when in Rome—or in this case, New Orleans—you roll with it.
The stories about the deceased flow with the beer—the savory and the unsavory. The remember whens go on and on until I leave the party and fake a show of sympathy for the asshole we laid to rest.
And I’m sure long after that.
No tears now, although they will come later.
If I know one thing, I know God comforts the mourning.
If I know two things, it’s that I, too often, make that introduction.
Leaving the deceased’s old Colonial, I head to my Benz and roll out. Once I’m out of the neighborhood, I slide back the sunroof and adjust the radio to some nineties rock. Don’t look for “Ave Maria” from me. It has its place, but I hear it enough at work. And it’s about to be that sad, somber, darkest time in the liturgical year. Besides, I need the breather.
I take the long way home and follow the tree-covered streets through neighborhoods and then just ‘hoods, until I happen upon a whitewashed, brick shop with patina-colored shutters—real shutters that might suffice against a Category 2 hurricane, but never more than that. It has white metal tables and chairs outside with pink flowerpots full of bouquets of those plastic, spinning flowers that whirl when the wind blows. They’re slowly turning this way and that. The sign above the door reads Petites Fleurs.
I park and consider it as I walk to the front door. Clean flower boxes hold pansies and something else looks to be pushing up from the soil.
Inside smells like spun sugar and vanilla. The sweetness is so overpowering that it takes a moment or two to acclimate. There is a little dark-haired girl in the hallway that leads toward what I assume is the back door. Her ear is pressed against a wall near a door. I’d think the ringing of the bells over the front entrance would have surprised her enough to distract her, but after watching for a few moments, her ponytail swishes and she darts toward the front, only to stop dead in her tracks, staring straight at me.
Our standoff quickly ends as a woman with honey-colored hair comes flying down the hall, a string of unintelligible curses falling from her flame-red face. She assumes the same pose as the child so I’m facing down a pint-sized girl and a real-sized woman. A beautiful woman.
She recovers faster than I do, placing her hands on the girl’s shoulders and plastering on a fake, customer-service smile while tilting her head.
“Father?”
“Yes.”
“Can I help you?”
“I wanted to pick up a few desserts. What do you recommend?”
“The ‘petty-floors,’ of course,” pipes the girl with the bright hazel eyes.
“Tell me more,” I say, nodding to her and tilting my head to the glass cases, as if asking her a question.
She bounds up to the display case and plasters her now-evident dirty hands onto the curved glass. “See? Petty-floors.”
Sure enough there are petits fours staring back at me, each with flower shapes either carved into the poured icing or decorating the top. Petites Fleurs. Clever!
Still addressing her, I ask, “Which is your favorite?”
“The pink ones, but they all taste the same, silly!” And with that, she bounds off toward the back, skipping away.
“Silly,” I mumble. I said it aloud, apparently, because the rambling apologies from her mother begin immediately.
I turn and give her my most genuine smile. Wish I could remember the last time I smiled this big.
“Don’t apologize. It’s cute. I can’t remember the last time anyone called me silly.”
She stumbles to the back of the counter, averting her eyes, and then holding mine for a beat longer than I expect.
“What can I get you?”
“I’ll take six of your petits fours, please, on the saleswoman’s suggestion.” I laugh at my own joke, despite my better judgement. “And a bananas Foster cupcake. And would you add a cup of coffee to that? To go, please.”
“Sure, Father.”
“Sean.”
“What?”
“My name is Sean.”
“Oh.” It’s her only reply as she busily drops the pastries into a turquoise and gray box. She glances furtively toward the back a few times.
“Is she—I’m sorry I didn’t catch the little girl’s name—okay back there?
“Clara. My daughter’s name is Clara. And I hope so. I mean, she should be. Three-year-olds are rarely ‘okay’ when left alone.” She keeps up her distracted babbling. “I may have no office left by the time I get there, or eggs in the cooler, but...”
She looks up abruptly and stops. Handing the box over, she smiles and reaches for the coffee station behind her, turning her back to me, her beautiful ass on full display. “How do you like it?”
Wrong question! Shit! What did she ask?
“Pardon?”
“Your coffee. How do you like it?”
“Black.” That will have to suffice. I’m rendered to one-word answers, apparently.
She hands it over, smiles cordially, and looks confused when I don’t leave. Her eyebrows rise and she shrugs before saying, “Um, okay?” The statement comes out like a question.
“How much do I owe you, Miss…?” I leave it hanging.
She looks jolted from whatever distracted her.
“Sirona.” She turns to the iPad and begins tapping the screen. “Eighteen forty-eight, please, Father.”
“Nice to meet you, Sirona,” I say as I hand her a twenty. I put a ten in the tip jar on the counter and say, “For Clara… she’s a heck of a saleswoman.”
Lifting my cup as a thank you, I leave the shop, hearing the bells clang as I walk to my car.
Three
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. My last—”
“It’s okay, Henry. No need for formality. What’s going on?”
“I can’t do it anymore, Father. Can’t take his shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean shit. Shit! I
can’t ...fuck! Sorry for saying ‘fuck.’”
“Go on. And try to stop swearing, if you can. Makes you sound less educated, they say.” I should take my own advice. “What can’t you take anymore?”
“The yelling. The hitting… Being scared all the time.”
“He’s still doing it?”
“All the time. I’d leave if it weren’t for my mom and Edie.”
“Are you in danger?”
“Yeah. No. I’m fine. Just want to kill him sometimes. Needed a break and came here. Weird, right?”
“Watch what you’re calling weird,” I say, chuckling. “I live here and I like it.”
“Sorry,” says Henry, sounding as if all the fight has gone out of him. “Just needed a break.”
“You’re welcome anytime. Now, do you need to confess anything?”
“Nah, not this time. Maybe another time, okay?”
“Always here for you. Go in peace.”
The wooden door creaks open and the latch clicks as it’s pressed back home. I’m glad for the moment between penitents for two reasons — one to replay that conversation and singe it into my brain, and two, to calm my anger that threatens to boil over.