Thou shalt not steal
You know those people who write down all their passwords in a notebook? Bishop Loverde was that guy.
And Roman had the vault code!
1303!
Seriously, it was almost way too easy.
"All right, 1303." Big Lou jotted down.
"The real question is how are we going to rob the safe while Thomas and Loverde are inside the church?" Roman blurted out as soon as the thought crossed his mind.
"I have an idea how to get rid of Thomas and Loverde."
"How?"
"So just a few hours before Mass we're gonna jam the elevator, then you'll lead Thomas and Loverde in there and get stuck together with them." Big Lou explained. "Let one of them call the emergency services department and..."
What Big Lou was saying was they make a bear trap.
"You'll have your solid alibi and I get enough time to load up the car and getaway before anyone notices."
In Roman's mind this plan could either go two ways:
a) Either Loverde or Thomas could refuse to take the elevator.
b) The elevator could be unjammed before Big Lou got the chance to leave the building putting both of them at risk.
Roman scoffed. "Have you been watching too many Road Runner cartoons lately?"
"Do you have a better plan?"
"This can't be our plan A."
"Well, give me something better to work with, genius, because we don't exactly have time here."
Reluctantly, Roman muttered, "Fine. I'll do my part. Just don't screw up yours."
"I won't."
Explained like that, everything about the heist seemed like a plot to a B-side movie.
Except it all worked out.
Seeing all those zeros reflecting in his offshore account he'd opened a few months ago, Roman quickly realized he was now a character in the A-side of the movie. He was freaking rich.
And what did rich people do? They made daring decisions to get even more richer!
When you're rich, you don't sit on the sidelines at a casino party.
Millionaires get in the game.
Of course that's the first thing Roman was going to do with his newly acquired wealth. Gambling. And for the past hour it hasn't been going too well.
"Roll the dice."
God just this once give me something.
"Seven out."
"No!" Roman cried out.
Oh, God.
Oh, no.
Roman couldn't believe he'd blown all of his money playing craps.
The minute he started losing, he should've switched to blackjack. Everyone knows blackjack offers the best odds.
Now he was down to his last two thousand bucks.
25 million euros.
Gone.
Just like that.
And the most embarrassing part, it wasn't even Vegas.
If he was going to ditch his priest gig, Roman needed some cash. And fast.
So far his alibi was rock solid. How could he possibly have grabbed fifty million euros when he was stuck in an elevator for more than 45 minutes together with the bishop and Father Thomas? There was no need to cut and run, at least for now. Not that he had too many options to begin with.
He could ask Big Lou to loan him a few million dollars with a sweet promise of blackmail if the guy refused to help him out but he couldn't. Once the heist was over they'd broken all possible ties and he didn't even know the man's real name.
Oh god what have I done?
***
One hour before Mass.
From the grand salon at Sandfort Estate, Saint had a broad view of every single one of his men rounding up the premises for their hourly security checks. He wasn't happy—jaw all tense, fists clenched so hard that his nails cut into his skin. Saint's sharp eyes wandered, overlooking the golf course as his mind raced with thoughts of the recent betrayal rocking his organization.
It was already bad enough his men had walked into an FBI ambush on his watch.
But fifty million euros stolen from right under his nose? That was just pushing it.
Shit like this never happened during Ciro's time.
The audacity of it all infuriated him.
He had to hand it to his father—the man was a force to be reckoned with. He had so much influence throughout the country. The law enforcement always managed to look the other way whenever it came to their family business thanks to all those government officials eating out of the palm of Ciro's hand.
Saint however, had a totally different tactic for conducting business. Murder was the only way everyone stayed in line. It was an ultimate weapon. Nobody was immune. You get out of line you get whacked. Simple.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shirtless Nico stepping into the salon and coming his way.
Thank Christ the guy had gotten rid of his shirt from hell and judging by that poor excuse of a bandage wrapped around his chest, he might as well have stitched himself upstairs with twine.
Crazy bastard.
Hot on Nico's tail was Ricky, the butler.
"Sir, bishop Loverde is here as per your request." Ricky announced in that professional voice of his.
Saint didn't waste any time, he nodded once, signaling the bishop to be let inside. Once the bishop was escorted into the salon, Saint walked toward the center of the lengthy room to meet up with him.
"Don Bertinelli, I am honored and grateful that you have invited me to your home."
Saint scowled at the bishop. "You and I have a problem?"
There were no pleasantries. No tip-toeing. He just dove straight into it.
The bishop was wise enough to stop at a safe distance in fear of losing a body part. He glanced at the ring clad on Saint's pinky—it was Ciro's—then he took a chance and looked back to the man standing right in front of him.
"Don Bertinelli?" His voice trembled as Saint moved dangerously closer. He was an animal stalking his prey. "Why would you say that?"
"Are the donations my family's constantly making to the church not enough?"
"I. . .I don't understand."
"No? It's a simple question. Yes or no?"
"No—I mean yes, the donations are more than enough, Don Bertinelli, and the church really appreciates your generosity."
Saint lifted a brow. "So why am I being told by my men we had a blank safe during collection early this morning?"
"Th-that's impossible."
"My alarm notifications say someone opened the vault at 5:14 this morning," Saint spat out. "So are you calling me a liar in my own home bishop Loverde?"
The older man was quick to shake his head. Shocking he didn't give himself a whiplash from how fast he did it.
"You must understand how surprised I am because I'm the only one with a code at the church so I would've known about it but..." the bishop was visibly sweating now.
Good job implicating yourself.
"You're the only one with the code to a vault that was stolen 50 million euros from." Saint looked incredulous. "Surely you can see how this looks like from where I'm standing, don't you?"
It wasn't until the bishop's eyes caught the unmistakable wink of a pocket stiletto fished out of Saint's tailored pants that the true fear of God struck him.
Santino Bertinelli was actually going to hurt him wasn't he?
Now or never.
"We welcomed a new priest from the seminary just a few weeks ago and recently he's been asking a lot of questions concerning the vault." Bishop Loverde managed to let out a small breath. "I'm not saying—"
"Well, now that's interesting information." Saint continued, undeterred. "Tell me more about this new priest, starting with a name."
The bishop's eyes flew back to Saint, who was now toying with the stiletto in his hand. Jesus, did it have to have all those jagged teeth?
"Actually, now that I'm thinking about it, I don't think he could've gotten the chance to take anything from the vault considering how we were all stuck in an elevator around five o'clock this morning."
"That's not what I asked!"
If anxiety was a person, the bishop would've been an accurate description.
"His name is Roman," the bishop muttered. "Father Roman O'Connor."
Saint finally pocketed his stiletto and turned to Nico, who was watching the whole scenario with the bishop play out and said, "I'll be personally paying this new priest a visit, coming?"
Saint saw a muscle in Nico's jaw twitch and noticed how tightly wound every part of his body was. Today was a lot for both of them but there was an inkling of something else going on there. Saint didn't want to get into it right now so he quietly let it go.
"I should start working on the funeral arrangements." Nico simply said. "You won't really need me there."
For a long moment Saint held Nico's gaze before he said, "Right. You do that, we'll have a meeting with everyone else when I get back."
The bishop whirled to Saint. "You can't hurt him, please."
"Can't?" Nico's lips tugged to one side, a mirror image of Saint's smirk. "What makes you think there's nothing we can't or won't do to those who think it's a good idea to fuck with us?"
"Unlike my brother, I like to believe I'm a very reasonable man," Saint then flashed a full smile at the bishop, offering a false sense of safety. "If your so called priest is innocent, then he's got absolutely nothing to worry about."
Saint was walking out then paused at a single stair close to the exit.
"You can go, I believe you don't want to miss Mass."
The way the older man was staring at him with a mixture of shock and gratitude was almost comical.
Without turning around, Saint added, "I wouldn't skip town if I were you, bishop Loverde. You don't want me coming to search for you because I will find you."
Thirty minutes later Saint somehow managed to drive through Chicago traffic and reached St. Francis Xavier Cathedral just in time for communion. He immediately joined the long queue even though it's been years since he'd received the Eucharist.
"The body of Christ." Priest McThief was saying.
His fingers looked absurdly huge holding a tiny consecrated host dipped in a chalice full of wine. Then those fingers brushed on to Saint's lips making him flinch preemptively.
"Chill," the priest uttered quietly as if Saint was reacting wildly. "Now, open up."
Despite Saint's pathological hatred of being told what to do, he found himself opening his mouth to receive the host.
For a moment, Saint was stumped. They stared each other down for a long while in a twisted battle of mind games.
The priest, he was way different than what Saint had pictured. His features were hard. Between the two of them, the priest was actually the one who screamed mobster in block-d letters. Nose slightly crooked, definitely broken a few times before and those mismatched eyes were oddly distracting.
One was the bluest Saint had ever seen on a human eye and the other one dark brown, almost like wet mud.
Saint couldn't stop staring until he felt a small nudge from behind.
Keep it moving jackass.
"Amen." Saint's voice was a bare whisper.
Generally, Santino Bertinelli was impervious to people. In fact, that was one of his greatest strengths apart from his wicked knife throwing skills. That's why he was surprised by the intensity of his dislike for this man. Aside the obvious fact that he'd possibly dared to stick his hands where they didn't belong.
One look into his eyes was enough to rouse serious negative feelings in him.
Something about this new priest didn't sit quite well with him.
He was effortlessly grating on his nerves and it had absolutely nothing to do with his probable thieving tendencies or that ridiculous man bun.
Since when do priests have man buns anyway?
If he was going to put a bullet in the priest's skull he needed to be one hundred percent sure. Which is why the mobster boss turned to Alessandro De Agostini, the family hitman with a strong knack for finding anything or anyone on a computer. The man was like a bloodhound smelling a drop of blood at a kilometer radius when it came to hunting down information. Efficient too.
So after the procession, Saint quickly shot Alessandro a text while he waited for the priest to show up in the confessional.
[Santino, 9:46AM] I need information on Roman O'Connor. Make it quick.
[Sandro, 9:47AM] I'm on it Boss.
A few minutes later Alessandro called with feedback. He sounded excited. "Looks like your guy has an active bounty on his head, some Russians he pissed off in New York are willing to pay anything for his balls. Gambles for a living and at 7 o'clock this morning he blew up around 27 million dollars at Rivers Casino? He's the definition of a dead man walking if I'm being honest."
"Any information on him being a priest?"
"Definitely not," Alessandro chuckled. "He was gonna tie the knot with some guy called Maxwell Fischer three months ago and there are no records of him serving in any seminary except some poorly doctored records planted on the web."
"Right," Saint's jaw ticked. "Good job Sandro."
"Anytime boss."
Turns out the priest had such impeccable timing because just as Saint was hanging up his call. Guess who showed?
"Would you like to make your confession?"
***
Everything can go to hell in seconds. Roman was learning this small fact the hard way.
One minute he was on top of the world—almost invincible but now, the world was crumbling around him. How did he get here?
"Did you help yourself to my 50 mil I was keeping in the church vault?" His voice so smooth like aged whiskey.
What an absolute doozy.
It was going to be so much easier only if Roman still had the money. All he had to do was return it and they'd just move on and forget about everything.
In that moment Roman quickly realized luck was not on his side. What he thought was the end of it all three months ago, was the very beginning. This time he was going to die for real. It's not like he was a coyote always carrying an extra life.
The way this man's words were heavily accentuated with Italian drawl, it only meant one thing. This was the mafia on 20/20.
And Roman had messed up big time.
"I know you took the money, Roman O'Connor."
His name had no right sounding so good wrapped around that terrible accent.
This was a disaster. A terrible tragedy and a fitting ending to a B-side movie which is exactly where he belonged.
"What? No, I didn't." Roman said, slowly backing away.
"If you move another inch, I will put a bullet through your skull." Saint had a glock 9 aimed directly at the priest's head. "And trust me, I'd love to pull the trigger."
Roman blew out a shaky breath but didn't move an inch. "Thou shalt not kill." He was desperate at this point.
Saint's lips curled to one side. "Thou shalt not steal asshole, but here we are." He was obviously enjoying this. "Now you're going to come with me nice and real quiet."