Billionaire’s Sins by L. Steele

22

Edward

When he’d asked the question, I’d agreed at once, yet I can’t get his words out of my head. Do my vows mean more than my very breath? Yes, they do. But so does she. It’s why I had turned her away. It’s why I am here, kneeling in front of the altar in church late at night after the entire world has gone to sleep. I hadn’t even bothered going to bed. Instead, I’d stayed up, working on the paperwork needed to ensure that the funding for the various charities I support through FOK media remains uninterrupted. There are always new requests coming in and it is up to me to scan and decide which ones to support next. Children, the elderly, abused women, the most vulnerable among us, including pets... I want all of them to benefit from the dividends of the investments that the Seven have made. While I don’t broker any of the deals, the rest of the Seven involve me in all decisions. It’s why I am up-to-date with everything and have enough knowledge, if needed, to run the deals myself. Not that I am tempted…I haven’t even thought about how it would be to drive those deals until…now… Until her… Until something inside me had wondered how it would be to come home to her every night, to live a normal life with her, to have children like the rest of the Seven are going to do.

I’d thought through all possibilities before enrolling in the seminary. At least, I thought I had. At nineteen, it had been easy to embrace the idea of never falling in love, of never having children. But with everything that has happened so far, I can't help but thinking, what if we were meant to be?

What if that’s why God brought her to me? What if His intention all along was not to test me, but to encourage me to return to the real world?I blow out a breath.

Clearly, I am spending too much time with the Seven. Their thinking is beginning to rub off on me. It’s the only reason I am beginning to question myself so much. I love the Seven like my blood brothers, but when it comes down to it, not one of them has any idea what it’s like to be in my shoes. And the only one who does… He is gone. Except for sporadic, snail mail letters once every year or so. Mostly, ones addressed to all of the Seven, assuring us he is alive. Which is why the last one was strange. It had been addressed only to me—I hadn’t mentioned that to the Seven. How could I when I, myself, couldn’t fathom why he’d done that? Did he mean that the Mafia’s threat was centered on me? Why would it be? What do I have that they want? Why would they zero in on me?

Why did they single out me and Baron for what they did when they took us? Maybe I could put that down to being in the wrong place at the wrong time… Maybe. So, what did it mean that Baron had addressed the letter to me?

And why did you have her cross paths with me, my Lord?

I close my eyes, raise my head up to the skies, open my arms to His grace. His benevolence. The only reason that I am here today. Believing in You, throwing myself at Your mercy and asking You for Your forgiveness is what I believe in. It’s why I exist today, my Lord, for You saved my soul. You took me in, redeemed me, saved me and gave me purpose. Show me the way now, my Lord. Tell me what to do. Take everything I am—my heart my soul, my life. Take anything you want from me, my Lord, but spare her. Let no harm come to her. Grant unto her, her heart’s desires, keep her happy, for that is all I need. Tell me, my Lord, that you hear me?

I draw in a breath, and the complex notes of the incense fill my lungs. The notes of Frankincense and tea-tree tease my nostrils. I inhale and let the scent waft over me, sink into me, fill my blood and go to my head. My breath grows deeper and my muscles relax as I allow my mind to focus on His benevolence, His grace, the complete self-assuredness with which He’s guided me thus far.

Surely, you’ll not let go of me, when I need You the most? When everything in me insists that the right thing to do is to turn to You.

And yet my heart… My heart disagrees. My heart persists in choosing her. And I can’t bear it, my Lord. I can’t fail you. I need to find a way out. I need to return things to what they were. I need You to show me the way. Tell me what to do, my Lord.

I pray and pray, but the Lord remains silent. I beg Him, plead with Him, cajole Him to, at least, talk to me again. But He stays silent.

I stay there until the chill invades my clothes, my skin, until my knees threaten to give way, and my arms ache from being held aloft. My thigh muscles tremble, my biceps protest and yet, He remains silent.

I will not move until You answer me, not this time. I need You to steer me. Give me a way out. Please. I swallow down the anger, the hurt, the helplessness that fills my chest and clogs my throat.

Talk to me. You can’t be silent, not anymore.

"Father," a voice says from behind me, "can I pray with you?"

I open my eyes, turn to find a man walking up the aisle. As he draws closer, the acrid scent of cigarette smoke deepens. I take in his features. He seems familiar. Where have I seen him? Where... He steps into the beam of light from the illumination above and that's when it clicks. He's the homeless man I’d seen near the hotel when I'd gone to see Ava.

"The church is closed, though you are still welcome." I frown, "How did you get in?"

"I used the side entrance." He nods to the heavy door that leads to the rectory. Huh. Had I left the door unlocked? But then, I haven’t been thinking clearly since I returned from meeting the rest of the Seven, so I guess I might have forgotten.

The man stops next to me. He glances up at the figure on the cross. "Do you ever wonder if He was happy?"

"You mean Jesus?"

He nods.

"We have no reason to believe otherwise."

"And you, Father?" He turns to me. "Do I have reason to believe otherwise with you?"

I peer down into his features. The uncombed hair falling about his face, his worn-out but clean shirt, the faded jeans that hang off his hips, hinting that he may have been healthier at one point in time, which is, honestly, not too difficult to imagine, and it’s not because of his clothes. It’s the defeated slump to his shoulders, the faded look in his eyes, as if he’s lost all hope. Something I am used to… For it is when they’re at their lowest that people most often approach me. Is that why I chose this profession? Because I recognize kindred spirits?

Because I want to cling to that part of me that feeds on my grief, my helplessness, my lack of control I had in that time when I was taken and made to do things which I’ve never confessed to another. Maybe to her? Only to her. Where did that thought come from? I let go of her, remember? I walked away from her. I chose Him. Which is why I am here, ready and willing to do His bidding. To help others. Like this man.

"I am happy with my lot." I hold his gaze. "How can I help you, my child?"

"I need to confess."