But Guido steps back anyway, shoulders tightening like he’s bracing for something he’s learned to fear.
It isn’t logical.It isn’t a misunderstanding.It’s instinct.
An instinct he’s had for a while.
I study the boy—his flinch; the tension held in too-small shoulders; the silence that isn’t shy but protective. Defensive.
He’s not afraid of the priest.He’s afraid of the man underneath.
And the truth hits me hard:
Guido sees the monster Santino is terrified he might become.
A monster Giovanni built with his own hands.
My stomach knots.I saw it too.Last night—when Santino pressed me against the wall, breath shaking, desire and fear warring in his eyes.
But I chose that danger.
Guido never had a choice.
A wave of something sharp and unwelcome cuts through me. Sympathy? Guilt? It doesn’t fit with my reason for being here. I didn’t come to pity the Rivas sons. I didn’t come to protect their broken pieces.
Yet watching this child recoil from his own brother—
I feel it.
Santino stands slowly, dusting off his hands, jaw clenched just slightly too tight. He looks at Guido, then away, as if he doesn’t know how to reach him… or is afraid trying will make things worse.
Guido doesn’t move.He doesn’t speak.He just watches Santino like he’s waiting to see which version of his brother shows up next.
The priest.Or the shadow.
A cold realization spreads through me:
If Giovanni’s secrets are what I think they are — if what lies under this church is as dangerous as the markings suggest — then this family isn’t just grieving their king.
They’re breaking apart.
And whatever brought me here…whatever truth my father died protecting……it’s going to crack them wide open long before I ever get the chance.
Mapping the Church, Mapping Her Escape
The courtyard disappears behind me as I slip back into the stone veins of the church. The air inside is cooler, denser—like the walls are breathing in the secrets I drag with me and exhaling warnings I refuse to listen to.
Good.Let them watch.Let them whisper.Let them try to keep me out.
I move with purpose but dress it in softness: light steps, careful glances, the quiet patience of someone trying to find her place in a building that overwhelms her. A tourist dressed as a volunteer. A lamb in wolf’s clothing.
Except I’m not the lamb.
My fingers trail along the ancient stone as I walk, each brush of skin a silent measurement. Texture. Temperature. Reverb. My father taught me to read walls the way other kids learn to read storybooks—one hidden space at a time.
And this church hums like a fucking crypt.
I stop at the first door, resting my hand lightly on the knob. Open it just enough to slip my head inside.
An empty classroom.Desks stacked.Hymnals piled against the window.Sunlight catching chalk dust like suspended snowfall.
