3
Santino
The Sacristy as a Confessional of Shame
Islam the sacristy door behind me and grip the marble basin so hard my knuckles ache.Holy water shivers under the impact.
My lungs burn.My pulse is still fucked from the hallway.And her scent—Jesus Christ—it’s still on me. Warm skin. Rain. Something wild and dangerous I should’ve walked away from the second she said my name.
I bend forward and splash holy water across my face. Cold. Sharp. Punishing.Not enough.Not even close.
I do it again.
It still doesn’t drown out the memory of her back hitting the stone wall under my hands… or the sound she made whenI touched her… or the way I almost kissed her like I’d been starving for a lifetime and she was the first taste of relief.
“Fuck,” I rasp, bracing both palms on the stone counter, head hanging. “What the hell is wrong with me?”
I told myself I chose God.Told myself I buried the heir, the enforcer, the Rivas blood that ruined everything it touched.
But what happened out there… that wasn’t holy.That was instinct.Blood.Violence.Giovanni.
My father’s shadow choked me from the inside out.
I squeeze my eyes shut hard enough to see sparks. For a moment, all I could hear was her breath. All I can feel is the warmth of her body against mine. All I can think about is how fucking good it felt to stop pretending.
I shove that thought down. Bury it. Beat it to death if I have to.
Because I’m not that man anymore.I left that world.
I left the violence.
I left Giovanni too.
Except blood doesn’t leave.It stains.It lingers.It fucking owns you.
I straighten slowly, gripping the basin again. My reflection in the silvered glass looks like shit—eyes too dark, jaw locked, water dripping down my collar like I’m drowning in my skin.
“Forgive me, Lord,” I whisper.
The words feel cracked. Hollow.
Because I can’t say the rest.Not when the truth is still pounding through my veins.
I wanted her.Not temptation.Not a weakness.Want.Raw. Visceral. Undeniable.
I wanted to touch her.Taste her.Rip that good-girl mask off and see the fire underneath.
My stomach twists hard. My hands curl around the counter again, fighting the urge to put my fist through the wall.
I’m losing control.I can feel it.A slow, ugly unraveling beneath the collar I swore would make me clean.
Her voice echoes through my head.
Is it a sin to tempt a man of God, Father?
Fuck her for saying it.Fuck me for reacting.Fuck the part of me that didn’t want to stop.
I drag my hands down my face like I should scrub her out of my blood, out of my thoughts—but she’s everywhere. A ghost under my skin. A bruise I can’t see but feel down to the bone.
