It was while Father Brady ate his lunch on the Spanish Steps that he met the woman.

On the other side of the steps from Father Brady were two young ladies taking the afternoon sun and finishing slices of pizza. The priest kept sneaking glances their way between bites of his salad. Once he brought his plastic fork to his mouth only to find there was nothing on it. He watched both ladies put their hands to their mouths to hide giggles when the priest poked his lip with the fork’s empty tines. This was somewhat new, this checking women out, and something the priest noticed he had been doing more and more of late. He kept sneaking peeks nonetheless.

The women looked somewhat alike. They both wore strappy black dresses, black sandals, and sunglasses. One wore her hair down, one wore hers up. The one with her hair up had thinnish lips, the other’s lips were fuller. The one with the full lips got up, came down a step, crossed over, and sat beside the priest.

“You’re a hottie,” she said in Italian. Her voice was raspy. A smoker, most likely.

“So I’ve been told,” Father Brady replied in Italian.

“I shouldn’t wonder. I think you’re the best-looking priest I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you live in Rome?”

“No. I just go to school here.”

“At the Vatican?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm,” said the woman.

Neither one said anything for several moments.

“What is your name, Father?”

“Brady. Daniel Patrick Brady. My friends call me DP.”

“May I take you to dinner tonight, Father Brady?” she asked, her raspy voice adding to her sex appeal. “I have never taken a priest to dinner in my entire life.”

Father Brady didn’t know what to say. He tried to think of an appropriate answer from what he learned in his moral theology class, but his mind was fogged by the smells and beauty of the woman sitting beside him. “Aiuto!” said the priest. Help!

“Fermate!” Stop! said the woman, holding up her hand like someone directing traffic. She took a ballpoint pen from her handbag and an old, crumpled piece of paper. She wrote an address on the piece of paper and gave it to Father Brady. “This is a good restaurant. Simple. Not fancy. The clergy is poor. I will pay. Also, if you come, that is good. If you don’t, it is not so good for me, but at least I will enjoy a good meal and a good book, which I will bring to the restaurant as a safeguard in case we do not see each other again. Ciao, padre.”

Her name was Rosa Gambino. She was thirty-six years old and a high-priced call girl. So was her girlfriend, Maria Rigarda. When Rosa Gambino spotted Father Daniel Patrick Brady sneaking peeks at her, she bet Maria Rigarda one thousand lire she could sleep with the priest. “I’ve always wanted to sleep with a priest,” she said that sunny afternoon as they walked down the Spanish Steps.