I scrub my hands down my face, dragging the priest off myself like flaking skin, trying to find the son underneath.
Because that’s the joke, isn’t it?
I’m standing where Giovanni stood.
Hands on the same altar. Wearing a collar he used for camouflage.
And it hits me—
He made me his penance and his inheritance.
And now, his sins are devouring us alive.
I step away and cross to the brass phone by the sacristy door. Heavy. Ancient. Wired straight into this building’s veins. Giovanni hated traceable calls. Preferred his ghosts to stay indoor-only.
My thumb pauses.
I know exactly who I’m calling.
Not Pia.Not Emiliano.Not Romeo.
A man who knew Giovanni before the devil crowned him.
I dial from memory.
The ring hums through the sanctuary like another heartbeat buried in marble.
When the line clicks and a tired voice answers with a soft, “Pronto?” I don’t pretend.
“Father Miguel,” I say. “I’m at the altar.”
A beat.
“I need you here. Now.”
I hang up before he can soften it with prayer.
If God refuses to answer inside this place, then the man who watched my father rot will.
I return to the altar and brace myself against it, standing in the dark with the future pressing down like a crown I never fucking asked for.
The Priest Who Knew Giovanni Before the Crown
The church door opens behind me.
Eased.
Like whoever just entered already knows, this place punishes noise.
Footsteps follow—measured, quiet on marble. No rush. No hesitation.
Of course he comes.
Father Miguel has always walked that way. Like a man who learned long ago that violence doesn’t care how brave you sound. It only cares how still you are when it arrives.
I don’t turn.
I keep my palms against the altar, stare at the crucifix above it—the ribs, the bowed head, the polite trickle of carved blood that pretends suffering can be made respectable.
