His expression didn’t change. “I’ll be right behind you. Keep going. If you see a car pulled over and waiting on the shoulder, keep going. You won't see me once you're at the church, but I'll be around.”
These things would never occur to her. Sofia nodded. She pulled onto the road, and in the mirror, his SUV slid into place behind
her, maintaining a constant, reassuring distance.
The church came into view,its weathered stone facade standing tall in the morning light. Sofia eased the car to a stop, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. Nothing. Tonio was a ghost, exactly as he’d promised.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled of incense and old wood. A few parishioners dotted the pews, their whispers swallowed by the vast silence. Her eyes found him immediately—a man in a black cassock, his back to her as he adjusted a vase of lilies near the altar. Father Gabriele.
She moved down the aisle, her footsteps echoing in the hollow space. He turned, and his body went still. There was no surprise in his eyes, only a weary recognition. “Persistent,” he said, his voice low. It wasn’t a greeting. It was a resigned observation.
Sofia didn’t smile. “You’re a hard man to get a minute with, Father. I was starting to think ‘indisposed’ was your new title.”
His gaze darted toward the shadowed corners of the empty church. “Some conversations are a danger to have. For both parties. You should have taken the hint.”
“I don’t take hints. We're both afraid, Father. The difference is, I'm not hiding from it anymore. Your fear won't protect you if I'm dead. It’ll just make you next.”
He studied her face for a long moment, a silent war playing out behind his eyes. Finally, he relented. He gestured with a slight tilt of his head toward a side door. “My office.”
The office was small, dominated by a heavy oak desk and walls of theological books. The door clicked shut, a sound of finality. He didn’t sit, nor did he offer her a chair. He stood behind the desk as if it were a shield.
“I have nothing for you,” he said, the words flat.
“The lies are over.” Sofia placed her hands on the desk, leaning into his space. “My mother’s name was Katya. She was at the St. Agnes orphanage. Sister Helen said you were the parish priest. That you were at the orphanage all the time. That you might have helped her escape?”
Father Gabriele’s eyes closed for a moment, as if struck by the name. “It was my duty to provide spiritual care to the children… and to the sisters who served them.”
He opened his eyes, and they were full of an old, familiar shame. “I did nothelpher. That storm… it was a vile night. I left the orphanage’s back door unlocked. A deliberate negligence. Itold no one. I made no plan. I… left a door ajar for any soul desperate enough to brave the flood.”
“For her,” Sofia pressed, her voice low and intent.
His gaze met hers. “For whoever had the courage to run. She was the only one who took it.”
Father Gabriele’s jaw tightened. He looked at her not with pity, but with a profound, chilling fear. “You are digging in a grave, child. What you find will not bring you peace. It will get you killed.”
“That’s my risk to take. Your sin is silence.” She held his gaze, unblinking. “Who was he?”
He closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping in defeat. When he spoke, his voice was a dry rustle. “He was not just a man. He was an enterprise. A system of power, protected by men with guns and men in robes.” He opened a drawer, his movements slow, deliberate. He placed a single, yellowed photograph on the desk. It showed a young, smiling couple at a political rally—his campaign pin still gleaming: ‘YOUNG FOR AMERICA.’
Sofia’s breath hitched. “No.”
“Your mother was a transaction.” Father Gabriele’s finger tapped the face of the smiling man. “Randal Young. Your father. And if he ever learns you know his name, his people won’t just stop you, Miss Ivanova.” His eyes met hers, filled with a terrifying certainty. “They will erase you.”
The air vanished from the room. The name landed not as a word but as a key, turning in the lock of her entire life.Randal Young.The senator’s face was on airport TVs, his voice on the radio, his “Family First” platform a national slogan. Her mother’s frantic moves between apartments, the constant fear, the isolation—it had all been a desperate flight from a man beloved by millions. Her mother hadn’t just been running from a bad person; she had been fleeing an institution with a face.
A sound, half-gasp, half-sob, caught in her throat. She turned away from him, gripping the back of a leather chair as the room tilted. She saw the flat tire, the surgical gash in the rubber. A senator’s work. This was a power she could not imagine fighting against. The bile rose so fast she had to swallow it back down.
Father Gabriele took a hesitant step forward. “Child—”
“Don’t.” The word was a shard of glass, cutting him off. She would not be his child. She would not be a victim. She would not break in this room. She forced a full breath into her lungs, then another, pushing the tremor from her hands. When she turned back to face him, the world had snapped into a new, lethal focus. She didn’t thank him. She turned and walked out, the truth a blade in her fist.
The church door thudded shut behind her. Outside, the sunlight was too bright, the air too sharp. Sofia made it three steps before her knees gave out. She caught herself on them, shaking, a silent sob tearing loose.
Randal Young.
The name was enough to hollow her out.
She forced herself into the car and drove. She didn’t remember the roads. Didn’t remember stopping at the lights. She only noticed the black SUV in her rearview mirror when she pulled into the motel lot. He’d followed the whole way.
