Papal Justice Read Free

city in Mexico. Not only had tourism disappeared, but the per capita murder rate had skyrocketed. There was talk of a renewed push by the Mexican government and several rich benefactors to kick out the narco-traffickers, but so far the lost city was still firmly in the hands of Mexico’s ruthless drug lords.
    The bar owner glanced at his watch, then back at the priest.
    “I do have some paperwork to do before tomorrow. Twenty minutes?”
    “Thank you, Ignacio.”
     
    Father Pietro sat at the sticky bar and stared at the bottle of vodka sitting next to his half-full glass. He’d heard the sirens in the distance, but resisted turning on the television. He didn’t want to disturb the owner, who sat at the end of the bar, no doubt keeping tabs on how much his late night patron was drinking.
    The sullen priest’s mind wandered back to Italy, to his days on the soccer fields around Naples, along the Amalfi Coast and then finally in Rome. He’d been a gifted athlete. His parents hoped and prayed he would become a professional footballer, maybe even playing for their native Società Sportiva Calcio Napoli. Back then he’d been Gabriel Fusconi, the treasured oldest son. But the Fusconi dreams of soccer stardom came to an end when sixteen year old Gabriel came out of a routine knee operation with unexpected complications. Apparently the surgeon, Gabriel would later find out, had obtained his so-called license through the help of a certain powerful Mafiosi. Such practice was common in Italy. Why work hard in school when you can do a few favors and get a law or medical degree in the process just for having the right connections?
    Recuperation from the complications took over two years, and by that time Gabriel’s window to play his favorite sport had passed. Those were dark days for the entire Fusconi clan. His parents didn’t have much, but they worked long hours to see their beloved son through painful physical therapy, all in the hope that he might strap on his cleats again and take his rightful place on the field.
    That never happened. The teams that had once been so anxious to sign him now saw him as a liability. Soon phone calls were not returned, and Gabriel was struggling to complete his final year of school. It was on one of those dark days that he happened to pass by a local coffee shop. There were a handful of Carabinieri cruisers and a military troop transport outside, along with a growing crowd of onlookers.
    It didn’t take long until two men, obviously Mafiosi, were escorted out not by the police, but by six grim faced soldiers in all black military gear. Gabriel couldn’t take his eyes off of the scene as the two men were placed into the back of the troop transport by five of the soldiers.
    The final soldier, who Gabriel now saw was an officer (although he didn’t understand the rank), went back to talk to the head Carabinieri. Something inside Gabriel stirred. Thoughts of the crooked doctor, images of his mother going to mass every night to pray for his healing, the sound of his father beating his hand on the kitchen table as he tried to figure out how they’d pay all their monthly bills… Gabriel pushed his way through the crowd, somehow slipping through the rest of the gawkers. He waited for the burly soldier to finish, and then cut him off before he reached the gray transport.
    “Excuse me, sir. How can I do what you do?”
    The soldier stopped and looked at Gabriel.
    “What makes you think you could do what I do?”
    Gabriel didn’t back down. He was almost as tall as the man, just over six feet according to his last doctor’s visit.
    “I used to play soccer. I’m a good athlete. I work hard.”
    The soldier’s eyes narrowed. “It takes more than hard work to do what I do. Go home and play soccer, boy.” The soldier continued on his way.
    Gabriel felt his world slipping away again.
    “I can’t play anymore, sir! A Mafiosi doctor messed up my knee in surgery. But I’m better now.