The Rivas family is still standing — but now it’s balanced on a new lie.
A lie I chose.A lie I’ll bleed for.
And as I walk back toward the life, I’m tying to Pia with another secret, with my brother’s sins hooked through it like barbed wire, one thought claws its way up from the darkest part of me and refuses to let go:
When this breaks—and it will break — they won’t just judge Romeo.
They’ll judge me.
And I don’t know if there’ll be enough of the priest left to survive it.
24
Pia
Sanctuary in the Pines: A New Beginning
The new sanctuary doesn’t look like a church.That’s the first mercy.
From the edge of the gravel drive, it looks like something whispered into existence and held together with stubborn hope—white stone walls, a dark roof, tall pines standing guard instead of marble saints. No stained glass. No bell tower. No crucifix looming over the door like a verdict.
Just a porch.A railing.A front door painted the soft gray of storm clouds.
I stand barefoot on the porch boards, cold biting up through the wood into my bones. Morning sits heavy in the air—wet andsharp, pine and dirt and the metallic tang of dew. The world is quiet.
Not holy.Not haunted.
Just… quiet.
My ribs still ache when I breathe too deeply.
My palms still twitch if I’m not careful, fingers curling like they’re bracing for the next hit.
My throat still burns when I swallow—phantom pressure from hands that aren’t here anymore but refuse to let go.
But Santino is inside.
And somehow, that makes this place feel sacred.
I curl my fingers around the railing, pressing into the smooth wood until my knuckles go pale. He sanded this himself. I watched him once, shirt off, sawdust clinging to his skin, arms moving in slow, steady strokes like he could grind the sins out of the boards before we ever stepped on them.
He chose this land like a man chooses a confession—carefully, quietly. Far from the city and all its eyes. Far from the Rivas mansion and Giovanni’s shadow. Far from the church that blessed him and broke him in the same breath. He bought it with his own money. Rebuilt it with his own hands.
Clean rooms.Wooden beams.No crosses unless we decide we want them.
A thin ribbon of gravel glittered with dew in the early light. No tire tracks from blacked-out SUVs. No blood hiding beneath the stones. Just birdsong, the hush of wind through pines, the distant rush of the creek he showed me yesterday like it was a secret.
Safe.
The word sits in my chest. It feels like a foreign object. My body hasn't decided if it belongs there.
I’ve never been good at “safe.”
I’ve been good at surviving. At reading people. At wearing pretty, like armor so men underestimate me. At lying through my teeth in confession to a priest who saw straight through me and refused to let go.
I have never felt worthy of safety.
No one has loved me without paying a price.
