Vicious Promise by M. James
Sofia
Wednesday, two days before the rehearsal, is my meeting with Father Donahue. I dress as conservatively as possible, throwing a light spring-weight cardigan over my t-shirt, and touching the cross at my throat as I meet the driver at the elevator. I haven’t been to a church since my mother’s funeral, and I’m almost shaking with nerves. I can’t imagine what this priest will be like, a supposed man of God who still does the bidding of the mafia.
Once I’m in the cool darkness of the car, I lean my head back against the leather, trying to calm down. The last few days haven’t been the blur that I expected them to be, instead, they’ve dragged. I haven’t seen Luca, he seems to have made a point since that last morning that I saw him at breakfast to be gone when I wake up, and to not come home until I’m settled in my room for the night. As a result, I’ve been left to wander through the penthouse alone, trying to find anything I can to distract myself from my impending nuptials.
But it’s impossible to do. It’s not that there’s nothing to occupy me—the penthouse has a legitimate theater room, with a screen the size of an actual movie theater’s, soft reclining chairs, and a library of every movie or television show I could want to watch and every streaming service available. There’s a gym in the building, which I haven’t been able to access due to the code-locked elevator but probably could get someone to escort me to if I asked, and a rooftop pool, which I have been able to access.
I guess Luca trusts me not to jump off of the roof, or drown myself. Or maybe he’s just hoping I will before the wedding.
That’s where I spent the majority of the last two days, stretching and working out on one of the mats that I found stashed in the cubbies on one side of the roof—along with towels and sunscreen and anything else I could need. There’s even a self-serve wet bar up there, but I stuck to laying out on one of the lounge chairs in my new bikini and swimming in the pool sober. The last thing I needed was to get drunk and make a stupid decision, like trying to run away again.
I’ve determined that the best course of action is to play along. Of course, that’s been easy when I haven’t even seen Luca the last few days. Without him there to push my buttons or ignite the strange feelings that always seem to flood over me whenever he’s around, making me lose my temper or my better judgement, I’ve been able to actually think through my situation.
And I’ve also seen what my life will be like married to him, but without him anywhere around.
It’s not that bad. Sure, I don’t think he’s going to put me up in a penthouse of my very own, but I have no doubt that whatever apartment he gives me is going to be stupidly luxurious and expensive. It’s not the life I planned for myself, not even close, but it’s far from torture. It’s better than looking over my shoulder every time I walk down the street, wondering when one of Rossi’s goons is going to pull me into an alley and finish me off with a silencer to the back of the head. And I’d be stupid to say otherwise.
So my best bet is to grit my teeth, get on with it, and behave as if I’ve accepted all of this until the day comes that Luca is in charge. And then, with Rossi and his hard-on for my death gone, I can plot my escape.
And all the while,I think with the tiniest bit of satisfaction, I’ll know that Luca is probably furious as hell that I’m the one woman in Manhattan who won’t fall into his bed.
I’ve never been inside St. Patrick’s before. I cross myself habitually as I walk inside, the habit sticking despite years away from church, and walk into the nave. It arches high overhead, the architecture taking my breath away as I walk down the central aisle, and I think about what it will be like on Saturday to take this same walk in that dress, with Luca waiting at the end of it for me. I can’t help but wonder how he’ll look at me, if his expression will be cold and hard the way I’m already used to, or if he’ll pretend to be an overjoyed groom.
I’d rather he just be honest, but I’m sure he’ll play his role to perfection. And he’ll expect the same from me.
A tall, balding man in black clothing and a white collar who I can only assume is Father Donahue steps out as I make it to the front of the church, and smiles at me. His expression is welcoming, and I feel myself relax just a fraction as I step forward to shake his hand.
“Miss Ferretti.” He pauses. “Can I call you Sofia?”
I’m taken aback for a moment by his warm, friendly tone. I’d expected someone colder, harsher even, but he seems kind. Kinder than I would expect, for someone in Rossi’s pocket.
“Of course,” I manage.
“I’m sure you’ve guessed that I’m Father Donahue. I’m glad you’re here, Sofia.” His voice still has an Irish accent, not thick, but still rich around the edges.
“I thought the Italians hated the Irish,” I blurt out, and then immediately flush pink. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. It was rude.”
“No, it’s a fair question. Sit,” he instructs, gesturing towards the front pew. I quickly obey, with my face still burning.
“I was a young priest here when the Rossi family flushed the Irish out for good,” Father Donahue says calmly. “I have your father to thank for my place, in fact. He convinced Vittorio Rossi that I had nothing to do with either side, and that I should be left here for exactly that reason. ‘A good priest has no loyalty to sides or families, only God,’ I think were his exact words. “ He smiles at me, his eyes crinkling. “Does that sound like your father to you, Sofia?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I didn’t know anything about this side of him. The father that I knew—” I bite my lower lip hard, feeling my throat tighten with emotion. “He was kind. Fun. Funny. He picked me up every time he walked in the front door, brought me books, always listened to me. I can’t square that with—with the person that I’m being told he was. With someone who could hurt and kill people. With a member of the mafia.” To my horror, I feel tears starting to well up.
I won’t cry, I tell myself fiercely. Not in front of this man, this priest that I don’t even know. But I can feel the tears coming, and I don’t know how to stop them. I haven’t talked to anyone about my father in so long.
There’s sympathy in Father Donahue’s eyes when he looks at me. “Your father was a good man, Sofia,” he says quietly. “Sometimes good men do the wrong thing, but at their core, they’re still good.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Very well. He was conflicted, Sofia. He saw his place at Rossi’s side as a way to temper the violent urges of a power-hungry man, to keep Rossi in check. Rossi trusted your father a great deal—the only man he trusted more was Luca’s father, Marco. And your father and Marco were as close as brothers.”
“I remember Luca’s father, a little,” I say softly. “He came to our house at least once.”
“Your father tried to keep his two lives as separate as he could—his family and his job. But for a man at the Don’s left hand, it’s difficult. And he married a Russian woman. It made a great many people in Rossi’s circle question him. I’m not sure Rossi ever fully forgave him for putting him in the delicate situation of defending him and his marriage.”
“He loved my mother,” I say defensively, wrapping my arms around myself.
“Of course. I married them, I would know.” Father Donahue smiles. “But love is the downfall of a great many people, Sofia. After all, it was Marco’s love for your father and their friendship that led to his death. And your father’s love for you is why you’re sitting here, now, in front of me. Instead of continuing your studies like you should be.”
I shift uncomfortably. “How do you know so much about me?”
“Your father talked about you often, in the confessional. He told me about your love for reading, for the violin, how talented you were. The dreams he had for you. His greatest fear was that the life he’d chosen, long before you were even a thought, would somehow come back to harm you. He loved you and your mother more than anything in this world, Sofia. He would have done anything to keep you safe. And he did.”
“You know about the promise?”
“Of course.” Father Donahue looks at me, his face unreadable. “I was there when it was made. I witnessed it. Giovanni came to me in the middle of the night, bleeding and on the edge of death. He asked me to call Marco to the church.”
I stare at him. “What do you mean? He didn’t go to the hospital?”
“He knew he was going to die,” Father Donahue says gently. He reaches out then, touching my hand lightly. “This is hard to hear, Sofia. But you should know the truth about what happened. Maybe it will—make this easier, in some way.”
I doubt that. But still, I listen quietly, waiting to hear about the night my father died.
“He wouldn’t hear of me calling an ambulance. He said he knew the wound was going to kill him, and he only wanted to make a last confession, and receive last rites. But he wanted something more—he wanted a promise from his only true friend. And he wanted it made on sacred ground, with a priest there to witness it. He wanted it to be inviolable.”
“Providing for me and my mother,” I say softly. “And this marriage.”
“Yes.” Father Donahue pauses, and I can see him considering what to say next. “But there’s more to the promise of marriage than Luca might have led you to think, Sofia. I don’t know what his father told him about the vow, or his part in keeping it. But Giovanni was clear that it was meant to be a last resort, if there were no other means of keeping you safe. If it turned out to be marriage, or your death.”
“Luca says that’s the choice. That Rossi will kill me, tie up a ‘loose end’, if I don’t marry him.”
“I believe that’s true,” Father Donahue says carefully. “I know Don Rossi well, and he’s a cruel man, without much moral fabric. He prefers easy solutions to complex ones.”
“So why are you loyal to him?” I blurt out. “Why help them?”
“Because Rossi is one man out of hundreds,” Father Donahue replies, his voice calm and even. “Rossi is power-hungry. He demands absolute obedience and absolute loyalty. Everyone is afraid of him. If he replaced me with a priest of his choosing, there would be no moral compass in these walls any longer. But when his men come to me for confession, I don’t give them absolution without counsel. I don’t wipe away their sins in an instant in order to mollify Rossi’s whims. I tell his men to be careful. To consider the orders they follow. To think of their immortal souls before they torture and maim and kill, before they start a war over another man’s power and greed.” He shrugs. “I don’t want to fall prey to pride, but I’d like to think that I have made a difference, during my time here.”
“And what? You think I should try to make a difference too?” I narrow my eyes at him, feeling the urge to be angry and combative rising up. It’s easier than the grief I feel thinking about my father bleeding to death inches from where I’m sitting now, asking for his best friend, giving up any chance at surviving his wounds in order to extract a promise on holy ground. An unbreakable vow.
Like the one I’m meant to make on Saturday. A vow that is supposed to last a lifetime, to a man that I would do almost anything to escape.
“No,” Father Donahue says quietly. “I think you should do your best to survive, Sofia, as your father wanted you to. You should do what you must.”
“And what if I don’t want to?” I can feel the lump in my throat rising. “What if it’s unbearable?”
“Luca is not the man I hoped he would grow up to be,” Father Donahue admits. “He is a hard man, and prideful, and arrogant at times, and cold. But the world he is in shaped him to be that way, and I don’t think that he’s truly an evil man. I think there is some good in him—there’s just been no one to bring it out.”
“And I should be that person?” I demand, narrowing my eyes again. “I don’t want to be his therapy, Father. I don’t want to fix him. I hate him.” The last words come out childish and petulant, but I don’t care. “I’m not about to sacrifice my self-worth on the altar of fixing a man.”
Father Donahue’s eyes crinkle around the edges, and his mouth twitches in a real smile. “I see so much of Giovanni in you,” he says with a laugh. “You are your father’s daughter, through and through, and he would be proud of you. No, Sofia,” he continues. “You are not responsible for Luca’s behavior. You should never take that on yourself. I’m only saying that what seems like cruelty may be his defenses—defenses against the world around him, against what he perceives as weakness, against you. I don’t think he means to be cruel, if he is. And I have some small hope for him still.”
“So that’s it?” I look at him helplessly, and I realize in that moment that I was hoping for an out. Some way to escape my impending marriage. “I just marry Luca on Saturday—and give up everything I’ve ever wanted?”
“For now, yes.” Father Donahue hesitates, and then turns to face me fully, reaching for my hands. His are cool and dry, aged and weathered, but I can feel the strength in them. “I’ve agreed to this wedding because for now, it seems to be the best way to preserve the vow that your father asked Marco Romano to make. But—” he lifts a finger, his eyes narrowing. “Your father, above all, wished for you to be happy, Sofia. And he wished more than anything for you to escape this life, and everything in it. So if the day comes that your life is not in danger, and you are unhappy in your marriage and wish to leave it, I want you to come to me, Sofia.” His voice lowers as he speaks, until it’s barely a whisper.
“I loved your father dearly, and I owed him a great many things. I vowed, too, to look after you. And so I repeat that vow now, Sofia, in the presence of the Lord and the Holy Mother, in memory of your father, that I will do all I can to protect you, and keep you safe. If there comes a day when you wish to leave Luca, all you need to do is walk through those doors, and I will find a way.” He pauses, letting go of my hands. “But for now, this is the best path forward that I can see.”
For a moment I can’t breathe, hope springing up inside of me for the first time since I woke up in Luca’s room. The tiny loophole that I found seems bigger now, more possible, and the looming threat of Saturday wanes a little with this new information.
I just have to wait until Don Rossi dies. With the immediate threat to my life lifted, I can run to Father Donahue. He’ll help me escape. And I can put all of this behind me.
My marriage is no longer a life sentence. Only a temporary one.
Father Donahue smiles kindly at me, standing up slowly. “Come, Sofia,” he says, his voice deep and calming. “It’s not the ceremony we usually have, but it’s time for your confirmation. And then you can go.”
He doesn’t say “back home,” and I know why. Luca’s penthouse will never be my home, and neither will whatever apartment Luca chooses to give me.
I don’t know, in the end, where my home will be. But I feel hopeful that I’ll have one of my own, one day.
Standing up slowly, I follow Father Donahue to the altar, breathing in the scent of incense in the vast room.
In three days, I’ll take my marriage vows. I’ll do the unthinkable, and stand in front of Luca, in this church, and lie.
Because I have no intention of keeping them.
