To Have & to Hurt by Morgan Bridges
Violetta
Imake the sign of the cross upon entering the small church.
Is it because I feel guilty at what transpired between Tristano and me earlier?
Or because I enjoyed it and I don’t feel guilty, but since I was raised to be a good Catholic woman I should?
The building has a very rustic feel with the wood raw and unrefined like that in America, and I like the authenticity of it. The pews are not fancy, and lack the traditional velvet cushions as well as kneelers. There’s a single octagonal window above the pulpit, as well as three rectangular windows on each side of the building, and nothing else. The room lacks the gaudy decoration some places of worship display and I admire that, even though it’s probably because it’d get stolen to be sold. The poverty in this country isn’t secret, but if it’s under El Jefe’s jurisdiction then it could be safe.
A sense of peace settles over me in this place and it makes me wonder if people can speak to their Maker more easily here with fewer distractions. I walk down the aisle next to Beni, and even his usual boisterous energy has lessened. But Tristano? He doesn’t appear to be affected by the serenity and sanctity of this place.
Is it because he actually carries the blood of angels in his veins?
I’ve never believed the illogical speculations and I still don’t, but in a bit of fancy I pretend he’s unperturbed because he is a nephilim and accustomed to the presence of a deity.
Tristano is definitely going to hell for the filthy things he said to me earlier.
And so am I because I liked it. A lot.
I shove that train of thought aside and fix my gaze on the priest as he approaches our group. He walks with a slow gait, as if “haste truly makes waste,” and then stops in front of Octavia.
“Good afternoon, Father Diego,” Octavia says in English. She completes the greeting by kissing his cheeks. “I’ve brought the visitor you’ve been expecting. This is Señor Silvestri.”
“Welcome, my son.” The priest gestures to the front pews and says, “Please sit. We have much to discuss.”
Beni ushers me to sit three rows behind the priest and Tristano, to give them privacy. But not too much. Beni’s gaze darts back and forth and his hand rests close to his body, lessening the time it’d take to withdraw his firearm.
Danger is not a foregone conclusion.
Octavia takes a seat in the row directly behind the two men and I find myself leaning forward slightly, eager to hear their discussion. Is it a sin to be nosy? I guess my Maker can add it to my list, along with the desire I have for Tristano.
“I want to know who ordered that text message to be sent to me,” Tristano says. He stares at the priest and his gray eyes are sharp like the blade of a knife, piercing and deadly.
Father Diego nods slowly and maintains his calm demeanor, despite Tristano’s abrupt manner. Not that I blame him. If I left my house in the middle of the night and traveled to a foreign country based on a simple text, I’d want answers immediately too.
“Let me ask you a question instead.” Father Diego laces his fingers together and tilts his head. “If the message came from a person in your past, could you find it in your heart to forgive them?”
Tristano’s lips thin and his mouth pinches at the corners. He remains quiet and I’m curious as to what his response will be, based on the anger seeping through his expression. “It depends,” he finally says. “God may forgive all transgressions, but I am neither a divine being nor a perfect man, and that’s beyond my realm of capability.”
The priest nods again and the judgement I expected to find on his countenance isn’t there. “Forgiveness, like doing the right thing, is difficult. Let me give you some context and see if that helps you understand. Many years ago a person came to me, battered and broken, both physically and emotionally. They needed sanctuary and I gave it to them, encouraging and praying for them while they slowly healed. Later on, this individual ended up becoming involved with one of the most known drug lords we have in Guatemala, and in doing so, they hoped to earn enough money to assist them in getting revenge, but they never left.”
Tristano’s chest rises and falls with breaths that cannot be full of anything other than impatience. He doesn’t give voice to his ire, but it’s written all over his face. In my time spent with him I’ve learned he chooses his words carefully and refrains from saying too much because everything is a tactic, a strategic move on the chessboard of life.
Father Diego is a bishop who’s going to be taken out of the game if he doesn’t give the king what he wants. I look to Beni, who represents a rook, more than ready to slide across the room and remove anything blocking his king. Octavia is a queen, powerful and able to conquer anything. And I’m a pawn.
We all have our roles.
“Is this person from your story the same as the one who knew something private concerning me?” Tristano asks. “Because if not, then spare me the rest. I am not here to give sympathy or offer forgiveness. What I want is an answer.”
“Yes,” the priest says. “This person is one and the same.”
Tristano swallows deep and his skin pales right before my eyes. Octavia notices as well because she frowns at Father Diego’s back. My heart squeezes painfully in my chest at the stricken look on Tristano’s face. He comforted me when I was upset after the policemen tried to assault us, and I would love nothing more than to go to him and offer my support. I have no idea if he’d accept something like that from me, but the urge to give him solace is there nonetheless.
“Is this person still alive?” Tristano’s voice is thin, far from the confident tone I’m used to hearing.
Father Diego shrugs. “What does it matter if you don’t want to make amends?”
Tristano shoots to his feet and towers over the priest with his hands fisted at his sides. His gaze is narrowed to little more than slits and he works his jaw side to side as though ready to call the priest everything but a child of God.
“Ah, fuck,” Beni mutters right before rising. “Killing in a church, of all places. Can’t say I’m surprised.”
I make the sign of the cross, just in case.
“I didn’t come all this way to be fucked with,” Tristano grits out between clenched teeth, glaring down at the priest.
Father Diego, on the other hand, doesn’t do more than hold Tristano’s gaze. It’s admirable because Tristano is very intimidating. “Your anger is understandable and justified, my son. I cannot tell you anything more until you give me your word that you won’t shed blood in the house of God.”
Tristano narrows his gaze further and Beni exhales. “Yup, I’m going to hell,” he says quietly. “Murdering a priest has to put you on the fast track to purgatory.”
I make the sign of the cross. Again.
“I’m not here for revenge.” Tristano’s voice is less abrasive, however, his body is still taut and his features are pulled tight with anger. “I want answers, and not just for myself but for my brothers who have a right to the information you’re withholding. If you’re not going to give it to me then I’m leaving. It’s that fucking simple.”
The priest doesn’t wince at Tristano’s profanity, but I do. It’s ironic that such a serious meeting, made up of mostly criminals, would take place in a church. It’s supposed to be holy ground, not a burial ground. Or maybe that’s why sometimes people are buried just outside churches?
I shiver at the morbid thought and hug my middle.
“You okay there, Violet?”
I swing my gaze to Beni and nod once. He returns the gesture and then goes back to watching his boss. The priest simply sits with his rosary now in hand and then speaks.
“I think it’s time.”
Tristano’s brows snap together. “Time for wh—”
The door of the confessional just in front of the pews opens and a woman steps from it. Everyone’s attention is focused on her. Except mine. Once again I’m looking at Tristano.
“Time for you to know the truth,” the newcomer says.
Tristano’s jaw slackens, making his lips part on a silent inhale. “Madre…”
“Madre?” Octavia parrots.
The strange woman’s gaze flickers to Octavia and then she nods. That simple action blankets the entire space in a heavy silence. It’s almost like steam, billowing and filling the atmosphere, and making it hard to breathe. I don’t think I’ve seen Tristano inhale yet.
However, his eyes showcase his emotions. The gray is cloudy at first, indicative of his confusion, but then the hue brightens into silver and flashes with an arctic gleam.
“Well, well, well…,” he says in a sardonic tone. “It’s a lovely day for a family reunion.”
Tristano’s mother.
Octavia’s head swivels back and forth between Tristano and his mother. “What are you saying?” she asks, her voice rising in pitch.
“Yes, Aida,” Tristano’s upper lip curls as says the name and his mother flinches, “what are you saying exactly?”
She looks to Octavia and then points at Tristano. “He is your half-brother.”
I stare at her, then Octavia, and then Tristano. I repeat this cycle over and over, and every pass I spot more resemblances between the three of them. Octavia is almost a replica of her mother in the face, but the hair is a slightly different shade and her eyes are gray. Tristano favors her somewhat, and I guess he takes after his father more, but there’s no denying he’s her son. They share the same gray eyes and they’re both illuminated with intense emotion.
Tristano and his sister look at one another and Octavia’s composure crumbles. “What?!”
He cocks his head, a sardonic tilt on his lips. “Not only that, but you have two other half-brothers, besides myself.”
Octavia jumps to her feet and plants her hands on her hips, staring at Aida. “You had a family before us and you never mentioned them until now? Why?”
“Yes, why indeed?” Tristano folds his arms and I release a tiny sigh of relief. If he was planning on shooting anyone, he wouldn’t restrict his hands by putting them in that position. “You are certainly a master of secrets,” he says, “but your time for keeping them has ended.”
Aida exhales and brushes back her hair, and I understand why Tristano looked stunned when he first saw Octavia. A quick glance could have someone thinking they were the same person.
“It’s a long story,” she says, “and that’ll only be accessible to you in exchange for something.” She meets Tristano’s gaze with a hardened look and I flinch at the coldness swirling in her gray eyes, similar to shards of ice. “I’ll give you time to think about how much the information is worth to you and when you’ve come to your decision let me know. But don’t take too long because this offer is time-sensitive and I’ll only propose it once.”
Tristano is going to kill her.
With his body shaking from pure, unadulterated fury, and his face contorting with hatred, I’m utterly and totally convinced she’s a dead woman. Although I don’t know the whole story, it’s not hard to understand why he’s enraged.
He shocks me by giving her a curt nod and then spinning on his heel to forcefully stride down the center aisle and out the door. It’s strange that Beni doesn’t immediately chase after him, instead choosing to sit down again. I almost forget myself and ask him why, but clamp my lips at the last second. He knows better than me what Tristano’s preferences are.
However, it doesn’t stop me from wanting to go after Tristano, because seeing him like this bothers me more than I care to admit. However, I remain seated. He looked as though he might explode and I’m not ready to take on the damage he’d inflict just for being an innocent bystander, no matter how much I want to comfort him.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Octavia’s voice snags my attention. As does the fact she’s speaking in Spanish. “Didn’t you think we had a right to know?”
Aida, her gaze still focused on the door where Tristano just left, sighs. It’s a weary sound and if someone can age in minutes, she has. Her shoulders sag and the gray of her eyes has dulled to a gunmetal gray instead of quicksilver. As if she has no strength left in her body, she slowly sinks into the first pew.
This version of her is a stark contrast to the woman who had the guts to coerce Tristano.
“I didn’t want the danger from my past to find me, and you by association,” she says.
Octavia doesn’t quite look convinced, if her pursed lips are anything to go by. “Everything you tried to prevent has happened regardless and our only chance at saving El Jefe just walked out the door. I don’t care what you have to say to get Silvestri to help us, but you better fucking do it.”
Aida’s gaze zips to her daughter and narrows to little more than slits. “Don’t forget who you’re speaking to.” Her voice has all the heat of a fire and an edge to it that warns of potential danger. “I may have made a good many mistakes in my life, but I’ll be damned before I let you talk to me like that.” She gets to her feet and meets Octavia’s gaze head-on. “I will tell Tristano the truth and nothing else, and if he decides to help then that’s his choice.”
“Then El Jefe’s death will be your fault,” Octavia hisses.
She storms from the church, leaving a punctuated silence in her wake.
Aida exhales and drops her head, squeezing her eyes shut as if in pain. “At least he didn’t try to kill me,” she whispers in Spanish.
“Fret not.” The priest takes Aida’s hand in his. “Trust that God has brought you all together for such a time as this.”
To almost kill each other? I cross myself one more time for good measure.
Father Diego rises and offers Aida his hand. “Come along. You haven’t eaten today and dinner is being served already.” He assists Tristano’s mother to her feet and then glances in my direction. “You two are welcome to join us,” he says in English, “and so is Señor Silvestri when he returns.”
I look up at Beni, waiting for him to answer.
He brings his gaze to mine and then shrugs. “You hungry?”
I scrunch my face a little, indicating that I could eat, but I’m not exactly starving.
“Might as well get you something then,” he says.
We exit the pew and follow behind Father Diego and Aida. I watch her, still marveling that she’s alive and Tristano hasn’t seen her in such a long time. His thoughts must be a mixture of agony, confusion, and so much more. Once again the urge to go to his side and make sure he’s alright—all things considered—rises within me and I have to suppress it.
“Do you think they’ll have wine?” Beni asks me.
I shrug with my mouth tilted on one side. The idea has merit and I wouldn’t mind something to take the edge off my frazzled state.
He blows out a quick breath. “I'm just saying, communion involves wine and I’d like some. And by ‘some’ I mean an entire bottle. Or three.”
You and me both.