He’s fifteen going on thirty, shaped by grief he never understood. Giovanni is dead. Romeo is unraveling. Santino is drowning in a priesthood he can’t survive. And Guido—
My pulse stutters.
The family fractured in every direction.And I’m standing in the deepest crack.
Dante pushes off the column—not approaching, just straightening. His posture sharpens, weight shifting onto his heels like he’s bracing for a threat.
Me.
I draw a slow breath and lift my chin, refusing to look away. A challenge—silent, razor-thin.
A dare.A warning.
His lips twitch—just barely. Not a smile. More like a knife of amusement slicing into the corner of his mouth.
He knows I’m not who I pretend to be.He knows I’m here for something dangerous.He knows I’m lying.
And worse—
He isn’t afraid of me.
The silence between us tightens, coils, brightens like it’s one spark away from igniting.
I break the stare first—not in submission, but strategy. Let him think he won. Let him think he’s reading me better than I’m reading him. I'll let him underestimate me for a moment.
Because I’m not the only predator hiding inside a holy place.
I stroll past him—controlled, unhurried, every inch the sweet parish volunteer I pretend to be. But as I pass, I turn my head just enough so he sees my eyes.
Cold.Sharp.Unflinching.
I see you, too.
I’m three steps past when I feel it—the faint tug of his attention tracking me, prickling between my shoulder blades.
He doesn’t follow.
He doesn’t need to.
He already carved his warning deeply.
You’re not the only one lying, Pia.You’re not the only one hunting.
And for the first time since stepping into this church…I’m not sure I’m the most dangerous person in this hallway.
The Phone Call She Wasn’t Supposed to Hear
The church feels different once the volunteers clear out.Quieter.Hollower.Every sound slices through the empty corridors sharper than it should.
By late afternoon, the halls settle into a soft hush broken only by the occasional creak of aging wood or distant murmurs from parish staff. It’s the perfect window to move unseen, to listen without being noticed.So I linger near the stairwell, pretending to study the laminated cleaning instructions on my clipboard. I even furrow my brow and tap the page, as though I am genuinely debating whether to scrub holy-water fonts clockwise or counterclockwise.
But I’m not reading a damn thing.
I’m listening.
And the moment a voice drifts up from the stone alcove beneath the stairs, my spine goes rigid.
Romeo.
