I stare at it in my palm, breathing hard as the crypt tilts at the edges. This small, unassuming piece of metal carries more power than half the men in this city. It opens doors that should never have existed. Vaults that were never meant to be touched.
Emiliano’s voice drifts through memory—mocking, too calm:
Some sins, padre, you don’t lock away unless you’re afraid of what happens when they get loose.
Someone put it here.
Someone walked into this crypt,stood in front of Giovanni’s tomb,and left the one thing Romeo believed was gone.
They wanted me to find it.
The realization hits hard—hot and vicious.
This isn’t an accident.Not something dropped.Not something forgotten.
This is a message.A move.A fucking invitation.
I straighten slowly, still kneeling, the key clenched in my fist. My gaze lifts to Giovanni’s name carved deep into the stone. The marble doesn’t move. Doesn’t bleed. Doesn’t crack.
But everything inside me does.
“You son of a bitch,” I whisper. “What did you leave us with?”
My thoughts snap to Pia.To the fear in her eyes.In the way Rocco said Boss has been looking for you.To the shadow that slipped through my church like it knew every inch.
If the key was never truly gone — if it’s been inside these walls the whole time — then someone else has had access.
Someone who knows the vaults.Someone who knows us.
A chill snakes down my spine as I look toward the staircase — the same one Pia disappeared up, her footsteps still echoing in my memory.
Romeo believed the key had been stolen.
Which means someone lied to him too.
My fist tightens around the metal, edges biting into my palm. The sting grounds me.
One key sits in my hand.
But Giovanni… he never trusted one lock. One safeguard. One piece on the board.
If this key wasn’t stolen — if it’s been here waiting — then the question that freezes my blood is simple and deadly:
If the key wasn’t stolen…who has the second one?
8
Pia
Under The Alter
Idon't budge until Santino's footsteps fade, vanishing into the shadows he pulled me from. The rectory door hangs half-open, just enough to see the empty corridor stretching ahead, but I stay tucked behind it like a coward.
My hands won’t stop shaking.Not from Rocco.Not from the gun.Not from the blood on the ground.
No.
I’m shaking because of him.
