Soft.Measured.Not ours.
Someone else is here.
A Confession Neither Was Ready For
Pia exhales.
It’s a small sound, barely more than a breath—but it hits like a confession. Shaky, uneven, dragged from some place she’s been barricading since the moment she stepped into my church. For one fleeting second, I watch it all break open inside her. Not the mask. Not the performance. The raw shit underneath. Truth. Fear. Guilt.
“I’m not here for God,” she whispers.
The words fall soft, but they land heavy—like a stone dropped into holy water, rippling outward, tainting everything it touches. My stomach tightens at the admission. Of course she’s not. I’ve known it since her very first lie in the confessional. She walked these halls as if she was mapping exits and weaknesses. From the moment Giovanni's ghost seemed to stand up in the shadows and stare intently at her arrival.
But hearing her say it?Hearing her own it?
That’s different.
Her gaze lifts, flicks to mine in the half-dark. Those eyes burn—too bright, too honest, too full of something that looks likesurrender and defiance twisted together, like she’s daring me to flinch.
“And I’m definitely not here for you.”
The words slice straight through me.
They shouldn't.I shouldn't care.I should be relieved—she’s not here to tempt me, corrupt me, drag me back to the life I abandoned.
But something in my chest pulls tight—ugly and hot—like someone reached in and twisted the knife I've been pretending isn't there.
“Good,” I say, even though it comes out rough as hell. “You shouldn’t be.”
The lie tastes metallic.
She is here for me.Not for blessings.Not for absolution.Not for salvation.
She’s here to break something open inside me.And God help me—she’s halfway there.
She drops her eyes, lashes brushing her cheeks as she gathers herself. When she looks back up, the fire in her eyes has sharpened—no longer just fear or frustration, but something edged and desperate.
“You said someone was watching me,” she murmurs.
I nod once, steady. Controlled.
“Fine,” she says, voice low. “Then watch me instead.”
The challenge hangs between us like smoke from a blown-out candle.
She turns before I can answer, pivoting on her heel and walking deeper into the hall. The overhead lights barely touch her, outlining only the line of her throat, the flicker of her pulse racing just beneath her skin. The storm outside rumbles faintly, its reflection stuttering through stained glass as she moves.
I stand there for a heartbeat, motionless.
She didn’t just step away from me.She invited the monster in me to follow.
The heir.The enforcer.The man I buried under robes and vows.The version of myself I thought I strangled to death.
And I’m already moving.
My feet follow before my brain does, steps soundless on the old stone. The distance stretches and narrows at once—three meters, then two, then one—close enough to reach, far enough to pretend I’m still choosing not to.
She doesn’t look back.
