Each inhale louder than the one before, like something inside me is finally too big to be contained.
No one is watching.
No priest.
No brothers.
No God.
Only the ghosts.
And they can choke on what I’m about to become.
I drop my gaze to the empty street.
Not heaven.
Not hell.
Her.
“Pia.”
The word comes out rough. Possessive. Prayer and promise in one.
“I’m coming.”
Not hope.
Fact.
Not a wish.
A vow written in blood.
The man who knelt here is finished.
The boy Giovanni broke is finished.
The priest who begged God to fix what men destroyed is finished.
I turn away from the church and don’t look back.
Every step from that door — every breath of this unblessed air — carries me farther from salvationand closer to something that will tear this city open to get her back.
Whatever I was—
It’s gone.
What matters is what’s walking into hell now.
And hell?
Hell is not ready.
Walking Into Hell Alone
The street feels wrong without the collar.Colder.Louder.Honest in a way I’ve never learned how to survive.
