6
Pia
The Pull Into the Night
Santino doesn’t give me time to breathe.
One second I’m standing in the hallway, pulse ricocheting from the shadow we both saw, and the next—his hand clamps around my arm. Firm. Unhesitating. The grip that says move with no need of the word. He drags me out the rectory’s side door, the old wood slamming behind us hard enough to rattle the frame.
Cold night air slaps my face.
I stumble, catching myself on uneven stone as the courtyard yawns open before us—wide, empty, silent in a way that doesn’t feel natural.
Too silent.
Even the wind feels like it’s holding its breath.
Santino releases my arm only long enough to scan the shadows, his shoulders squared, stance wide, body angled between me and every threat. He moves like he’s done this a hundred times—like violence is muscle memory, like danger is a language he speaks fluently.
“Stay close,” he snaps over his shoulder.
It’s not a suggestion.
I fall into step behind him, fighting the instinct to tell him to stop fucking ordering me around. The words rise in my throat—sharp, defensive, the reflex of someone hunted too long to trust anyone’s lead.
But I swallow them.
Because for the first time since entering this church, I’m scared.
And not of Santino.
Of the shadow that moved like a ghost behind me.
That shape vanished into shadow, as though it knew its destination.
Of the fact that Santino—a man built from stone and sin—looked like he didn’t fucking like what he saw.
My heartbeat thrums in my ears, too loud, too fast.
I try to breathe. It comes out shaky.
Santino keeps walking—fast, controlled—every line of his body vibrating with tension, with that dangerous quiet fury he wears like a second skin. The collar at his throat means nothing right now. Priest, my ass.
This is the heir of Giovanni Rivas.
This is the man the mafia world whispers about — the one who walked away from the crownbut kept all the teeth.
And the darkness looks good on him.
Too good.
He stops near the fountain in the center of the courtyard. His head tilts, listening—really listening. His fingers flex once at his side, itching for a weapon he isn’t carrying.
Or maybe he is. Santino doesn’t exactly scream unarmed.
I take a slow step toward him. “Santino…”
He lifts a hand—not to touch me, but to silence me. That alone sends a shiver down my spine. Not fear. Something else.
