1
Santino
The Storm, the Silence, the Heir Who Chose God
The storm hits the church like it wants inside.
Wind slams against the stained-glass windows hard enough that the saints look like they’re trembling. Thunder cracks above the roof beams, rattling the old wooden rafters. Each boom vibrates through the pews, through the confession booth… through me.
A night like this drags buried things to the surface.
I sit alone in the booth, collar tight against my throat, fingers pressed together in a prayer I don’t believe anymore. The air ischilly—it's always cold here. Cold enough to remind me where I am, who I’m supposed to be, who I swore to become.
He wasn't Giovanni’s heir.
It's not the son who is the killer.
He didn't raise the monster he is.
A man of God.
A man of restraint.
A man who walked away.
But this church still has his fingerprints everywhere.
Under the altar stone.
In the crooked confessional door.
Inside the walls, he hid secrets instead of sins.
I exhale, letting the memory strike—the last time he sat in this booth, breathing hard, clutching the wood like it could save him.
“Someone’s coming for me, Santino… keep them safe. Keep her safe. Even if she’s the one trying to kill me.”
Fucking hell.
I scrub my palms over my face. Even dead, Giovanni owns every shadow in this place.
The storm shudders again.
And then—
a sound.
The side door creaks open.
My head snaps up. No one comes to confession at midnight. No one walks into a church in weather like this unless they’re desperate…
or dangerous.
Footsteps.
Soft.
Measured.
