I don’t move.I don’t breathe.
The entire church seems pressed against my ribs like it’s trying to crawl inside me.
“He didn’t confess,” Miguel says.“He inventoried.”
“Like property,” I murmur.
Miguel nods once.
“Like inheritance.”
My throat burns.
I see Romeo’s handwriting in the margins.
Dates.Figures.Initialed names like mass graves disguised as math.
Giovanni didn’t build a church.
He built a laundering system and wrapped it in stained glass.
“And you believed him?” I ask.
Miguel’s eyes darken.
“I knew Giovanni never spoke without intention,” he says. “Every word he said that night outlived him.”
Fuck.
That’s what this is.
Not repentance—
Preparation.
“And then?” I press.
Miguel sags a fraction.
Just enough to show how old he truly is.
“He was not looking for absolution,” he says again. “He wasn’t sorry.”
“Then why go at all?” I snap.
Miguel lifts his eyes.
And for the first time tonight—
He looks afraid.
“Because he was terrified.”
I am still completely.
My father.
Terrified.
