Nine years ago, Sion Academy was headed into bankruptcy. The primary reason was its failure to keep St. John’s male students out of the girls’ dorms. Teenage pregnancy and poor management had led to a detrimental decline in student enrollment.
When I bought the boarding school, I invested a substantial amount of my wealth into turning the place around. I added the security walls, replaced most of the faculty, created a highly competitive curriculum, quadrupled the tuition, and marketed the school to high-profile families.
Within two years, Sion had a waiting list a mile long.
The school’s core values remained the same, focusing on the development of intellect, personhood, and spirituality. But I ran the enterprise like a cutthroat business, and in business, money talked.
So when Caroline Constantine offered a seven-digit endowment, she bypassed that waiting list.
I arrived at the gate—the only way in and out—and entered my code in the keypad. The lock buzzed, and I exited the campus.
With the nearest town miles away, most of the staff lived on the property in separate housing. A single paved road ran through the village with Sion Academy on one end and St. John de Brebeuf on the other.
A three-minute stroll along the quiet street brought me to my private rectory. Most of the other priests shared a house, but I required my own space.
The door creaked as I entered the one-story residence. A kitchenette and sitting area made up the front room. A short hallway led to a bedroom and bathroom. A crucifix hung on the otherwise bare walls. Dark drapes on the windows. A threadbare couch. Wood-burning fireplace. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Modest.
Humble.
Some might say it was an inglorious step down from my penthouse in the Upper East Side. But that penthouse didn’t define my worth. My actions did.
My life had been in deficit for years.
I emptied my pockets at the table and stared down at Tinsley’s locked phone. I didn’t need to access it. The report from my investigator had provided everything I needed to know about her.
The Constantines were the jewels of Bishop’s Landing, the royalty of high society. But like most powerful families, they were involved in shady affairs, including a long-standing feud with the Morellis—another affluent family with an even dirtier underbelly.
When Tinsley’s father died six years ago, it was rumored that the Morelli patriarch had ordered a hit on him. But that was never proved, and the death was ruled an accident.
There were no surprising revelations about Tinsley herself. She was the princess of the family—innocent, sweet, and primed for a marital union of Caroline’s choosing. No doubt Caroline had been working that angle for years, positioning her daughter to marry into a family that strengthened her empire.
The thought made me sick. No one should be used that way, but it happened. Hell, it had been happening for centuries.
I stepped to the cupboard and removed a glass and a bottle of whiskey. As I started to pour, a knock sounded on the door.
“It’s open.” I grabbed a second glass.
“Thought you might want some company.” Crisanto’s lightly accented voice carried through the room.
“Bullshit. You’re here to get juicy details on the Constantines.”
“Indeed. Tell me everything.”
I turned to pass him his drink, and as always, it was his smile that greeted me first. He had a great smile. Warm and genuine, it lit up his whole face.
He wore casual clothes tonight, trading his priest collar for a T-shirt and jeans. The white of his shirt accentuated his dark skin and black hair.
When he was ten, he moved to New York from the Philippines with his mother. I remembered the day he showed up at my Catholic grade school. Couldn’t speak a lick of English. But he learned quickly, laughed easily, and shared my love for skateboarding.
We’d been best friends ever since. Inseparable until we graduated high school. Then he went to seminary to become a priest, and I took a very different path.
I carried my whiskey glass to the couch and drank deeply, savoring the smoky burn. “The meeting went as expected. Caroline threatened me. I threatened her, and now my hopes for an easy year are shattered.”
“The last time you had an easy year, you were unbearable.” Crisanto settled in beside me. “You were bored out of your mind. Grouchy. Whiny. Picking fights with the groundskeeper—”
“I don’t whine.”
“You don’t like anything to be easy, Magnus. That’s never been your style.”
I reclined back, drinking, my mind swirling with everything I needed to do tomorrow.
“Is she as beautiful as the photos on the internet?” he asked.
“Caroline?”
“No, idiot.” He rolled his eyes. “The daughter.”
If another teacher asked me that, I wouldn’t trust his intentions. But Crisanto was a priest first and cherished his living relationship with Jesus Christ above all else. Unlike me, he’d been called for a higher purpose, and he served with his whole heart. I’d never known a human being more honest and incorruptible than this guy.