Chapter 142 Wedding Bells

• Dante
• I stretch my sore knuckles on the little stage that holds the altar at St. Michael’s, a church I haven’t set foot inside since Mom died. As Dad used to say, church is for people who confess their sins, and Saints aren’t that goddamn stupid.
• But it seems like I am. Father Stefan’s gaze follows the movement of my hands and snags on my split, bruised knuckles. He frowns. I thank God they built this church with the organ so close to the front that he couldn’t nag me about them if he wanted to. He’d probably start with how many masses I’ve missed anyway.