For half a heartbeat, something unwelcome flickers through me—a thin, treacherous thread of guilt. A memory of his eyes last night when I said Giovanni’s sins aloud. The way his voice broke when he asked, Who told you that?
I crush the guilt instantly.
Guilt cannot bring back the dead.Guilt doesn’t put a bullet in the right skull.Guilt doesn’t survive in a world built by men like Giovanni Rivas.
Survival needs something else.Sharper. Colder.
I smooth my blouse, adjust my expression back to sweet concern, and angle my body just enough to ensure I feel the moment his gaze inevitably drifts back to me.
Unravel, Father.I need every thread.
Mapping the Church, Mapping Santino
The tour starts like every parish tour in every under-funded church in America—forced smiles, stiff nods, and a coordinator who talks like she’s reading off a script no one else has seen. But I’m not here for any of it. I don’t hear a damn thing about community outreach, choir rehearsals, or the “blessed purpose of volunteer integration.”
My world has narrowed into sharp, intentional details.
Exits.Angles.Corridors.Blind spots.And the man who keeps pretending he isn’t watching me.
I drift to the outer edge of the group, steps light, expression docile—chin tucked, lips soft, posture meek. A good girl. A quiet volunteer. A harmless nobody.
Inside, my pulse is steady and cold with purpose.
I start with the security cameras. Two in the parish hall. One aimed at the sacristy door. Another high in the corner coveringthe main corridor. I track their range, their blind spots, the flick of the red light showing they’re active.
Next, I study the doors.
Most are unlocked—offices, storage, a kitchen with an ancient coffee pot and the stale stink of burnt grounds. Boring.
But three require keys.
And one—the beige-painted door blending into the wall, almost camouflaged—is reinforced with a lock I recognize immediately.
A mafia-grade lock in a church.
Giovanni’s fingerprints everywhere.
When the group veers left, I retreat one step, then slip rightward—into a narrow passage. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms no eyes on me. My hand moves fast.
I test the reinforced door.
Cold. Heavy. Absolutely locked.
Three seconds.That’s all I give myself.
Three seconds to feel the rough scrape of the lock under my fingertips.Three seconds to recognize the model, the weight, the intent behind it.Three seconds to imagine what Giovanni would have buried behind a door like this.
Then I step back into line with the others—smooth, seamless, unchanged.
The coordinator doesn’t notice.
But someone does.
A prickle crawls up my spine—sharp, targeted, unmistakable. Like the brush of a laser sight.
I lift my chin casually.
Santino is standing on the upper balcony, overlooking the hall. Arms folded. Shoulders carved from stone. Eyes locked on me with a stare that feels like pressure on my skin.
