The Vows We Break: A Twisted Taboo Tale

by Serena Akeroyd

“I-I tried, Father. The temptation—”

  “Temptation is meant to be fought,” Savio snaps, and once again, fire zooms around my veins. While the excess of energy should tire me, it doesn’t.

  It energizes me.

  “I-I tried.”

  “Not hard enough. What did you do?”

  “I-I can’t—”

  “You can and you will.” A harsh breath escapes him. “She’s your niece, Paulo. She’s fifteen years old. What on Earth is the matter with you?”

  When the man starts sobbing, I’m not surprised. He’s painting himself as the one who’s being wronged here, and it makes me hate him. Makes me loathe him.

  I think of Linda. Of how she passed away at the hands of a man who vowed to love her. I think of this poor girl, whoever she may be, being touched by a man who is supposed to love her like she’s his own daughter. Blood of his blood.

  Flesh of his flesh.

  Sickness pools in my stomach, but instead of making me want to puke, I feel anger.

  It vibrates inside me, just like it throbs in Savio.

  I’ve never felt this way before.

  In the past, I just wanted to help.

  I wanted to get the person I was helping away from their abuser.

  This is different.

  This is...

  I suck in a breath.

  Violent.

  It whispers through my veins, poisoning where it touches.

  Clenching my eyes closed, I wait for his next words, dreading them even as I know to brace myself.

  “I never mean to—”

  “But you still did.” Savio’s ire is real. Just like mine. It seems to choke us, even as it floods us with life. “Do you feel repentance for what you did?”

  His sudden about-face has me jolting in surprise.

  While I had no desire to hear whatever that bastard had to say, for Savio to suddenly give him an out?

  It doesn’t make sense.

  “Yes, I do. I truly want redemption. I’m sorry, so sorry.”

  “They all say that,” I hiss under my breath, even though neither man can hear me.

  They all whisper words of apology, begging for a forgiveness they haven’t earned as they weep, on their knees sometimes, trying to get their victim back.

  I tip my chin up, silently pleading for Savio to condemn this man. The only weight a priest can truly throw around is the refusal to absolve someone. He can’t go to the police, can’t do anything to make someone truly ‘behave.’ But he can refuse to let them atone.

  It’s what always pissed me off about the mob and stuff. Maybe it was all in the movies, but the idea that a priest would condone murder and shit never sat right with me, and it told me someone beneath a cassock was taking bribes.

  Jerks.

  “I want to stop this,” Paulo whispers. “I don’t understand why I do it. Why I need—” Savio says nothing, and Paulo’s gulp is audible. “I hate myself. I-I tried to kill myself yesterday, Father. Anything to avoid these feelings, these thoughts—”

  I blink at that, taken aback. And the anger whirls from me. Not because his niece’s abuser doesn’t deserve my anger, but because now I’m confused.

  When Savio sends him on his way with a few token Hail Marys, I’m even more confused.

  What just happened?

  How did we go from a fury so strong it made the church vibrate with it to a penance so weak, the kid earned more time on his knees than Paulo did.

  For a second, I falter.

  I’d admit it.

  But then, I think about the darkness in Savio’s eyes, think about what I saw in them, and I know something isn’t right.

  When Paulo retreats to a pew, almost flinging himself on his knees, his shoulders shaking, I wonder if it’s all an act. Then I ask myself who he’s playing the role to. God? Savio isn’t watching, and he’s the only one Paulo thinks knows his dirty secret. So is he truly sorry?

  As I pluck my bottom lip, another parishioner wanders over to the booth, and when she confesses to getting jealous over a neighbor’s lasagna recipe, it’s such a contrast to what I heard before that I almost want to laugh out loud.

  I’m not sure what makes me do it, but when Paulo clambers to his feet, I get to mine too.

  He’s a slender man, but his belly’s large. Rotund. It’s weird because everywhere else he’s skinny. He slips his sunglasses on, and I know why too—his face is red from crying. He also hunches his shoulders, hiding his expression by dipping his face under the upturned lapels of his coat.

  I find it interesting that, even though it’s warm, to the Italians it’s like it’s freezing out.

  Here I am, sweating in a thin anorak and scarf the second we make it out of the church and into the sun, and he’s huddled in his coat like it’s midwinter. And he isn’t the only one. I pass a woman in a frickin’ fur coat! Like it’s snowing or something.

  Being outside of the church, after what just happened, feels weird.

  Off.

  Like the world has changed, or I have. I’m not sure which, but I feel uneasy even as I follow Paulo around. I’m not sure why I’m doing it, but I feel driven to nonetheless.

  We pass the Vatican, which I still gape at as I wander by. The lane toward it is packed with people, and the coffee shops and stores that line it are heaving too.

  Beggars are almost ornamental on doorways, sleeping on pieces of cardboard, pleading for food even as they sleep amid the tumble of life.

  It’s strange, because they aren’t even actively busking. They just sleep. Like they know they’ll be ignored.

  One thing that has astonished me so far is just how many homeless people there are.

  So close to the Vatican, maybe that makes sense. They come to where they believe they will get help. And yet, there doesn’t seem to be much of it.

  It feels wrong.

  Wicked somehow.

  There’s so much affluence in this boulevard, and yet, so much poverty too.

  As I follow Paulo over the Ponte Vaticano, which necessitates us avoiding a tangle of traffic that’s crossing the River Tiber, I pass a priest dressed like Friar Tuck, and then a nun who’s wearing a full-on toga.

  It’s perplexing how many different priests and sisters I’ve seen, each of them wearing a slightly different ‘uniform.’

  Like how the thick hemp rope the friar wears around his waist is a stark contrast to the flimsy fabric of the toga-wearing nun.

  Even as I wonder if they’re cold, if drafts get up their skirts, we finally make it to the other side, leaving the Vatican area and heading into Rome proper. I mean, it’s all Rome, but once you cross the river at this point, the vibe in the air changes.

  As we amble down a few back alleys, I’m not surprised when Paulo stops at a restaurant.

  He’s the kind of man who doesn’t look like anything impedes his mealtimes.

  That belly is proof of that.

  Although, by the time I’m done with my visit to the city, maybe I’ll have a food baby too. The pasta here? Yum.

  When I slip inside the restaurant, I tuck myself in at the back.

  It’s small, dark, a little cramped, and there’s a TV on in the background. It’s also full. I’m lucky to get my table.

  I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing here, I just know this feels right, and a long time ago, I decided that going with my gut was my best option.

  Whether my gut was the cyst forcing me to be daring when I should be proceeding with caution, well, I don’t know. I can’t exactly answer that one, can I? But I just know that I can’t stop going where my instincts guide me.

  When the server comes, I barely look at her as I order a tonic water.

  She purses her lips when I decline the menu, but promptly gets me my drink.

  Paulo orders a bottle of chianti and what looks like a board of antipasto. As he eats, he watches the news on TV, and I can’t tell whether what I witnessed back in the church was bullshit or if he just wants to comfort eat.

>   I can see him quite clearly—the bar has very little artifice. The décor consists of small tables, uncomfortable, rickety chairs, little tablecloths in red and white checkers, and a small shot glass with a tiny flower propped in it. The bar is scrubbed oak, scored with the passage of time, and the register looks like it’s vintage too.

  It’s not the kind of place a tourist comes to. It’s for the locals, and that’s why, when I see Savio walking into the establishment, my brows rise in surprise.

  He’s a local?

  I mean, I guess, technically, he is. I know he’s French-Italian, but he was born on the Côte d’Azur, not Rome. Still, the waitress seems to know him, and when he sits beside Paulo, who tenses at the sight of him, she brings over a glass of what appears to be water to their table.

  I’ll admit, whatever I expected next, it didn’t happen.

  I kind of thought they’d discuss what Paulo had confessed. I thought there might be an intense discussion.

  Instead?

  They chat.

  Over the news.

  And even though that anger is brewing inside me once more as I ask myself if Savio is for real, I watch as he astonishes me further.

  He gets Paulo drunk.

  Literally.

  He pours the man wine, buys another two bottles. He barely touches the glass the waitress brings for him with the next bottle, and as the afternoon progresses, he helps Paolo get wasted.

  Why?

  Hell knows.

  Still, I watch, in bewildered amusement as Paulo bursts out into song.

  When the entire bar starts singing too, my lips twitch despite the bizarreness of the situation, and I hum along even though I have no idea what song they’re singing.

  About two hours after they first arrived, Savio declares, “Right, time to get you home, Paulo.”

  The waitress snorts. “You’ll need to carry him. He’s sbronzo.” Wasted. She frowns at Paulo. “It’s not like him.”

  Savio shrugs. “He had bad news today.”

  Her face softens with sympathy, but I grow tense at his lie.

  Savio curves his arm around Paulo and, together, they maneuver through the small bar. Winding along the path between the tables, I wince as Paulo nearly topples one over before Savio finally gets him outside.

  Leaving a ten euro note, I quickly follow.

  It astonishes me to realize that, in the time I’ve been in there, the sun has set.

  I noticed yesterday how dark it got here and so quickly too. I’d actually been on the phone with Diana, who’s still in Madrid, and had commented on how dark it was. It hadn’t been in Madrid. Maybe that has to do with just how tall the buildings are here, I’m not sure. But as I peer overhead, there’s no denying the indigo sheen in the sky.

  Or the dampness in the air, the chill that pervades now that the sun has disappeared, making me huddle into my anorak and wish for the fur coat I saw that woman wearing earlier.

  I watch as Savio begins to wind through the streets with as much ease as he had the tables, but when he shoves Paulo down an alley, my brows soar.

  As does my pulse.

  That had to hurt.

  Unless Paulo lives on the streets, which I doubt, because his clothes are too nice and he’d been able to afford to eat in that restaurant—and nothing is cheap here in the city—then Savio had just tossed him down that alley like he’s trash.

  Which he is, sure, but still...

  I hurry along, cringing at the sound of my boots tapping against the cobbles, before I look around the corner. Paulo’s too drunk to even realize what’s happening, but in the morning, he’ll feel it. Every moment of it.

  His head is in for a world of pain after all that cheap wine he drank at the bar.

  A part of me wonders if Savio’s intent is to beat the shit out of him, but when he grabs Paulo and drags him so his back is to the wall without kicking him?

  I’ll admit to being disappointed.

  And a little more confused.

  What on Earth is happening here?

  In the inky shadows, I struggle to see, and I squint a bit until I hear the sound of a switchblade.

  Taken aback, I surge forward, uncertain and needing to know more.

  The closer I move, the more I see. Paulo is slouched over, butt to the ground, legs splayed before him, his eyes closed, head bobbing like it doesn’t belong to his neck.

  But Savio, crouching over him, has his sleeves pulled high with leather gloves on his fingers where they’d been bare before. He’s shoved Paulo’s cuffs high up on his forearm too, and his knife?

  Aimed at the soft flesh of Paulo’s wrist.

  I watch as he goes to push the knife into the man’s arm, and I freeze.

  I know this is a ‘flight or fight’ moment. A true ‘kill or be killed’ decision. Except, this isn’t my life on the line.

  But Paolo’s.

  He just confessed to hurting his niece.

  He said she tempted him.

  Temptation doesn’t go away.

  You have to move temptation out of your life.

  Even as I see Savio’s reasoning, something in me feels edgy. Like this is wrong. The violence that brewed inside me coagulates to a point where I have no choice but to grab his shoulder.

  And I do it in the nick of time.

  He flinches, his head twisting around to stare up at me. When our gazes connect, my heart begins to pound, and just like at the church, it feels like a wildfire soars between us, but he freezes it with ice.

  “Stop,” I rasp.

  He jerks at my words then leaps to his feet. The knife’s pushed into his pocket as he begins to walk backward, running from me.

  From me.

  Not to me, like he should.

  I frown at the sight, because doesn’t he know I’m not his enemy?

  I’m here to help him.

  Paulo moans, making me jolt in surprise. When he surges forward, suddenly wide awake, I rear back, then he pukes between his legs, and I know I can relax. Though I grimace at the sight, I walk away, cautious with each step I take, not wanting to alert him to my presence. Sure, he’s as drunk as a skunk, but I don’t want him to think he got here by any foul means.

  Though his retches make me gag, I force myself to focus on Savio. I’d love to run after him, but I don’t. Not only because I physically can’t, but also because he’s fast.

  By the time I make it out of the alley and onto the main street just beyond, I can’t even see him anymore. He’s blurred in with the rest of humanity.

  But he can’t run from me.

  Not forever.

  I won’t let him.

  Savio

  My heart’s pounding, and it has nothing to do with how fast I’m running. People look at me in surprise, aghast at a priest doing something so vulgar in public, but I ignore them and their scolding looks.

  Every day, I run through these streets, but I don’t wear a dog collar, and I slip under the radar.

  Now, I stand out, even as I try to bypass the crowds. Sweat slicks my palms, coating my temples as I dart through the masses of people returning home for the evening and toward my church.

  Vespers calls me, but how can I just carry on as though nothing happened?

  She saw me.

  She saw what I was about to do, and Paulo is only alive because she stopped me.

  The second I make it across the river, I find myself braking to a halt. A tourist screeches, “Whoa!” at me, like he thinks I’m going to crash into him, but I’m always aware of my surroundings. Always.

  Except where she’s concerned.

  I didn’t hear her.

  Didn’t feel her.

  The hair on the back of my neck didn’t stand on edge at her presence, making me aware she was in the alley with me.

  My throat tightens at what that might mean. Hell, I don’t even know.

  I shoot them an apologetic, “Sorry,” before swerving around the irate tourist, who’s glowering at me like I tried to do to him w
hat I was about to do to Paulo, and start to head for my church.

  I have service to attend. But she saw me there, she knows me. She’ll know where I’ll be.

  Will the police come for me?

  There’s no proof.

  There never is.

  She saw me, but it’s my word against hers, isn’t it?

  She just had brain surgery. Who are the cops going to believe? Me? A priest? Or a...

  I feel guilty even thinking it.

  Just because she was sick doesn’t mean she’s addled, or that her wits aren’t there.

  I scrub a hand over my face, somehow finding myself in the middle of a crowd and feeling utterly isolated.

  But then, there’s no real difference, I suppose. Aren’t I always alone?

  No one sees the real me.

  No one wants to.

  And even as the melancholic thought crosses my mind, I recognize how things were different when she looked at me after this afternoon’s service.

  Somehow, she didn’t see me as a priest.

  She saw me as a man.

  God, it’s been such a long time since that happened.

  I pass one of the smaller stores where a homeless guy lives—his name is Gianni. He refuses to wear shoes, has feet blacker than soot, stinks worse than a sewer, but his smile?

  Genuine.

  Honest.

  I always slip him five euros whenever I see him, and he’s there, touting for coffee.

  It’s frigid in the shadows, and I’m not even sure why he refuses the boots I offer him, but even though I’m in the middle of a crisis, I hover by his side.

  “Gianni, come to the church. I have another pair of boots for you.”

  He grins at me, and his teeth are somehow perfect. In stark contrast to the mouth of the wealthy parishioner, Lara.

  Isn’t fate strange sometimes?

  “My feet are fine, Father.”

  I scowl down at them. “How they’re still attached to your legs, I don’t know.”

  He winks. “Never had a Father been so concerned about my feet before.”

  “That’s me, I have a fetish,” I tell him dryly, making him cackle.

  The homeless around here aren’t used to me or my humor. They laugh, but they’re always taken aback, and I can’t blame them.

  The last Father needs shooting for the state he’d left the soup kitchen in. It was critically underfunded, and the food bank was just as sparse. I’ve spent most of the past twelve months seeking ways to improve both, but it’s hard going.