“You called for me,” he says.
His voice hasn’t changed since I was a boy. Still warm at the edges, worn in the middle, frayed underneath. Age has dragged it deeper, but the damage was always there.
Maybe I just didn’t know how to hear it before.
I turn slowly.
Miguel stands halfway down the aisle, like the church itself decided that’s how close he’s allowed to come. Candlelight catches the silver in his hair, the grooves etched around his eyes. His cassock is neat. His spine is tired.
He looks like a man who’s been carrying the same corpse for decades and never found a place to bury it.
And he’s looking at me—
Standing on Giovanni’s altar,like a king who lost his inheritance and found a guillotine instead.
I don’t laugh.
There is nothing funny left in my body.
“You knew my father before all this,” I say.
My voice sounds scraped raw, like I dragged it through gravel to get it out.
Something tightens on Miguel’s face. Just a flicker. But I see it. I learned young how to read men built on secrets.
“I knew him,” he replies carefully, “when he still believed there was a line he wouldn’t cross.”
A laugh crawls out of my chest and dies halfway to my mouth.
“And where did it go?” I ask, “When did he decide it didn’t apply anymore?”
Miguel steps forward. Slowly.
The hem of his cassock whispers across the marble like a quiet accusation. Each footfall echoes through the nave like a ticking clock I don’t remember setting.
“I heard things,” he says. “I saw things.” His eyes lift to mine. “But I am a priest, Santino. Confessions—”
“Are sacred,” I snap. “Yeah. I know the fucking script.”
His mouth tightens.
“The seal of confession is not a rule,” he corrects quietly. “It’s a vow.”
I step down from the altar.
One stair.
Still above him—but not enough.
Half-heir.Half-collar.All rot.
“And I’m not asking you to break it,” I lied.
Miguel lifts one brow.
He’s known me too long to believe soft sins.
I drop my voice until it sinks into the bones of the church.
