As the coordinator launches into a monologue about community service hours, his hand rises to his collar. It’s quick—barely a second—but I catch the gesture. He adjusts the band of white like it’s choking him.
Oh, Father.Does the costume itch?
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping in his cheek. His mouth flattens into a hard line. He looks like he wants to rip the collar off and throw it against the nearest wall.
A hot spark of satisfaction flickers through me.
He’s unraveling.And I did that.
Last night is still in the air between us—my voice in the dark, his grip on my wrist, the moment his control snapped thin enough to see through. And now he’s stuck in a fluorescent-lit hall, performing sainthood while I stand here dressed like a saint.
What a fucking joke.
The coordinator calls for a blessing, and everyone bows their heads. I lower mine, eyes on the scuffed tile. When I glance up through my lashes, his gaze is already on me.
Impact.Sudden.Hard.Undeniable.
Our eyes lock.
For a moment, he doesn’t look away.
There’s no priest in his expression. No gentle guidance. No forgiveness.
Just a man holding himself together with white knuckles and prayer beads.
His jaw ticks once. His throat moves with the effort of swallowing something he refuses to name. Then—too fast—he looks away, focusing on the coordinator as if she suddenly matters.
He broke eye contact first.
Heat curls low in my belly.Danger. Control. Leverage. Attraction.I don’t get to choose just one.
While a clipboard circulates around the room, I flip through the welcome packet like a dutiful volunteer. A tiny map sits in the top corner—parish hall, offices, chapel, bathrooms.
Useless.
No tunnels. No vaults. No shadows where Giovanni’s rot could grow.
My fingers tighten around the paper.
I think of my father. Cuffed hands. Bruised face. Still trying to tell me to run. Still trying to shield me from the same men who buried him.
Giovanni’s name whispered in precinct corridors that night. Rivas. Untouchable.
Until someone touched him back.
If the truth I need exists anywhere in this city, it’s beneath this church—hidden by the man who destroyed my life, protected by the son who chose God over blood.
I glance toward Santino.
He’s not looking at me now, but his body is coiled tight, shoulders locked, eyes never resting. He hears everything, even when he pretends not to.
He’s dangerous. I need him anyway.
I need him restless.I need him off-balance.I need that collar to feel like a noose.
Because a controlled man guards secrets. But an unraveling man?
An unraveling man opens doors.
