“Here.” He hands me a manila folder containing several official-looking documents.
My smile fades as I scan them. Transfer papers—somehow bearing authentic signatures from Vatican officials. The documents grant Father Angelo, monks Daniel, Elias, Paul, Matthew, and Sister Catalina—that would be me, I suppose—credibility to enter and stay at the abbey for their ‘spiritual rotation’.
“Wow, where did you get these?” I ask, genuinely impressed by the forgery quality.
“Roan is nothing if not thorough,” he answers as Vance starts the engine, and we pull out of the store parking lot, heading towards Long Island.
After a long, tense hour of driving, we finally turn onto the empty stretch of road leading to the abbey. I straighten instinctively, my hands becoming embarrassingly sweaty inside the sleeves of my habit, the veil’s edge scraping against my cheek.
I move my hand to the waistband, letting my fingers graze the reassuring solid weight of my gun. The weapon calms my racing nerves, reminding me we’re in control here. It’s just anabbey full of religious people—what can a priest possibly do? Exorcise us? Holy water us to death?
And if Fabian does have his men stationed here, they can’t be more than one or two. We’ve got this.
Our cars roll to a stop in front of the abbey just as a bell in the tower rings out, and I crane my neck to take in the imposing façade—narrow windows set into weathered stone walls, the whole structure radiating age and isolation. The place is supposed to be quiet, holy ground dedicated to contemplation and prayer. But I know better. These people fraternize with the evil that's Fabian Besharun; how holy can they possibly be? And somewhere behind those heavy wooden doors, they're holding my sister hostage for him.
Dhimitër gets out first, his priest’s cassock settling neatly around him as he surveys the grounds, calm and unreadable as ever. I follow a beat later, the crisp air catching my habit and moving it around my legs. The atmosphere here is so fresh, the surrounding trees swaying gently in the breeze.
My heart thuds in my ears as I study the abbey’s entrance. One building. One way in. One way out. I keep my right hand low, close to where my gun is hidden beneath the fabric.
The other men with us exit their car as well and take up positions behind us. None of them speaks, and the beautiful part is that they don’t need to. Their silence is part of the disguise. They are monks who have taken the vow of silence.
The abbey doors swing open before we even approach to knock, and a lean priest steps into view. He stands beneath the stone archway with his hands clasped serenely in front of him, a small welcoming smile on his face. Behind him, I can make out two nuns and an older woman who must be the abbess—yes, I did extensive research last night specifically so I could blend in convincingly here.
“Good evening, Father,” Dhimitër greets, taking the transferpapers from me and extending them to the priest with appropriate deference.
He accepts them and scans the documents quickly, eyes skimming until they land on the Vatican seal at the bottom. “Ah yes, the spiritual rotation,” he murmurs, handing them back. “Welcome. Come in, come in. You’ll find our abbey a place of peace and quiet contemplation.”
My lips thin, but I keep my expression neutral and receptive. I don’t trust any of these people, but they don’t need to know that.
I offer a faint, measured smile as Dhimitër dips his head solemnly. “God bless you for your hospitality.”
God bless you?My face stays blank because I’m a professional, but internally I’m fighting back inappropriate laughter. Dhimitër playing priest is almost too much.
The priest and his companions lead us through dim stone corridors where candlelight flickers dramatically against the ancient walls, casting dancing shadows. Seriously, don’t they have electricity in this place? What century are we in?
Nuns glide silently past us, eyes lowered respectfully, and I scrutinize every face, desperately searching for Kayla. Would she be allowed to roam freely among them, or is she locked away somewhere?
My head is bowed in false humility, but my eyes move constantly as I follow the group into an interior courtyard. Every muscle in my body is coiled tight with readiness. We have no way of knowing who inside these walls is loyal to Fabian, who reports to him, and who might be watching us right now.
The priest speaks softly as he conducts a brief tour of the abbey grounds, and I’m grateful for Dhimitër who handles all the responses. I’m absolutely not in the right headspace for religious small talk right now.
After the tour and an excessive amount of murmured blessings,we’re separated by gender—me directed to join the nuns, while the men are led towards the monks’ quarters. I remain quiet and compliant as I walk with the small group of nuns, keeping alert for any opportunity to break away undetected.
As soon as I spot my chance, I take it.
I move quickly but not suspiciously, staying close to the wall, nodding politely at anyone who glances my way but not stopping for introductions or conversations. I have only one goal—find Kayla. If she’s not in the common areas, that means she’s being held hostage in a basement or something.
I slip into the cathedral, pausing as my eyes adjust to the dim light. The only illumination comes from the few lit candles with wax pooling at the base of their candelabras. Again with the medieval atmosphere. Would it kill them to flip a light switch?
The space is nearly empty, just a few scattered figures murmuring prayers or moving quietly between the pews. I sweep the room once, already bracing myself for disappointment—then I see her.
A small shape near the front pew, hands clasped loosely in her lap, eyes fixed ahead like she isn’t really seeing anything. She looks… resigned, weighted down.
My heart stutters as I take in her face. After all these years, there’s no mistaking her.
She's smaller than I thought she’d be, a little pale under the heavy fabric of the habit, her blonde hair mostly hidden, her features drawn and unnaturally quiet for someone so young. But that face—God. It's my mother’s face. Mine too. The resemblance lands like a blow, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
My stomach clenches violently as I just stare at her, rooted in place. I’ve played this moment out a thousand times, rehearsed every word, every reaction. But now that I’m actuallyhere and she’s right in front of me, all of it vanishes. She looks so calm. So distant, even though she’s never been closer.
