He Was Called The Red Priest Novels & Stories

"Vieni qui adesso." He sat in the chair grinning down at Dale. He then took his chaplet and began chanting in a scared position. Once again he had assumed the role of the holy Reverend father, attacked by a naked thief who defended himself with the dagger and was now feeling blood-sick. "il sacerdote si apre tradotto." The native cry of the men he had called for filled the entrance accompanied with heavy pounding. The crowd of men had gathered holding weapons of war. "Good bye." He said as he stood form his position and opened the door and immediately turned back into a frightened priest.

"Lanci. Her fiancé." "You guys are friends?" "No... business associates," he said, his eyes turning cold. "My father requested my presence to oversee that everything goes right... and not left." As far as I can remember, priests were men of peace and sanctuary. "You’re not a priest anymore?" "Sadly, no.” I wanted to ask him why. I wanted to know what kind of sin could pull a man from an altar back into the blood-soaked world of the mafia, but I knew it was outside my bounds to ask.

I came to and found myself cradled in the arms of the priest who was shaking like a bloody leaf, eyes snapped wide as he watched the whole place being flipped upside down by men whose souls were so far gone there was no saving them. I recalled Lorenzo’s call from earlier, how he barked to whoever was on the other side of the receiver and telling them to get the priest to the chapel; even if they had to drag him out of bed. Looking at him, the poor guy looked like he’d seen the devil’s eyes. A moan slipped from me, everything in front of my eyes dancing. He screamed something in Italian before clutching me tighter. I realized we were stuffed behind the stone pulpit while war raged on the outs

My fingers twitched with the sudden, violent urge to reach out and see if his skin was as cold as his gaze. "You’re late," I whispered as he stepped onto the dais beside me. "I had to wash the smell of your basement off me," Julian replied, his voice a razor-thin blade. "Though I doubt this house will ever be truly clean." The priest, a man who had been on the Moretti payroll for twenty years, didn't bother with the traditional homily about love. He knew the stakes. He hurried through the Latin, his voice trembling as he reached the final vows.

The priest carried the weight of this responsibility, knowing that the fate of the realm rested in his hands. Meanwhile, Mason's relentless pursuit continued unabated. The priest knew that time was of the essence and that every moment that Mason remained unchecked, the realm faced greater danger. Mason's soldiers terrorized the innocent, leaving destruction in their wake. The priest, driven by a deep sense of duty and the urgency of the situation, worked tirelessly to prevent further loss of life.

The Seoul skyline glowed like a mirage as the black car slid into the city limits, windows tinted so dark not even the moonlight dared peek inside. Inside, a man sat motionless. He wore all red. Red leather gloves. Red coat. Red scarf tucked around his throat. A silver ring with a blood-red jewel glinted on his finger. They called him the Red King. No one knew his real name. Only that he never missed. Only that his last contract left an entire cartel branch in ashes.

“Are you still pretending?” “I'm not pretending, Ezreal. I am a priest,” I whispered, though the words felt thin, unconvincing. He laughed softly. “A priest who moans when I touch him. A priest who begged with his body at night, even as his lips prayed for deliverance.” He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Do you think God didn’t notice?” Heat crawled up my neck. I forced my gaze to the crucifix above, clinging to it like a drowning man. “You will not shake me. I was deceived. I didn't want it.”