Tonight, Santino revealed something terrifying, more so than any scout or soldier.
He killed for me.He bled for me.He shielded my body with his like I was something he’d die protecting.
Like I belonged to him.
A broken breath catches in my throat. I press my palms to the cool wooden door, grounding myself in the sting of splinters digging into my skin—anything to distract from the heat crawling under my ribs.
I shouldn’t care.I shouldn’t feel this… this molten pull in my stomach when I think about the way he shoved me behind him. The way he snarled my name like a threat and a prayer. The way his hands were still trembling with adrenaline when he touched me.
But I do.
I shut my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. I can still feel him—his chest pressed to mine, his breath ghosting my lips, the grip of his fingers on my hips. It lingers as if it’s branded into my bones.
I’m not here for him.I have a mission.A purpose.A clock ticking down faster every day.
I remind myself of that—again and again—until the pounding in my chest finally dulls. There’s no room for softness in my world. No room for saints or saviors or men with haunted eyes who look at me like I’m the only thing tethering them to the earth.
I push open the door and take one long, steady breath.
Focus.
I hold the folded parchment I copied earlier in my hand — the crude, hand-sketched layout of the church Giovanni once used like a fortress. A map no one here knows I stole.
I pull it out, smoothing the creases with my thumb. My father taught me the shape of these tunnels when I was ten—told me every king built a place to hide the sins he couldn’t kill. Told me Giovanni’s were buried deep.
“My girl,” he whispered once, “if the day comes when you need the truth… start beneath the altar.”
And Giovanni had him executed less than a year later.
Tonight, I came so fucking close to losing myself—to forgetting who I am and why I’m here. The memory of Santino’s mouth on mine tries to slither back in.
I crush it. Hard.
I can’t afford distractions.Not now.Not when I’m close enough to Giovanni’s secrets to touch them.
The air inside the rectory is cold enough to raise goosebumps along my arms, but it’s nothing compared to the chill that hits when I realize something:
If Santino had gone back into the alley even thirty seconds later…
I wouldn’t have survived.
Rocco wouldn’t have hesitated.And neither would the man who sent him.
The man hunting me.I can’t afford to want Santino.I can’t afford to feel anything at all.
Because wanting him will get me killed.And worse — it’ll get him killed too.
I push away from the door, my heartbeat finally settling into something sharp enough to use.
Tonight, I start the real reason I came here.
I adjust the strap of my bag and slip silently through the dim hall. The rectory is quiet—too quiet—like the building itself is holding its breath. The storm outside rattles the stained-glass windows, thunder rolling through the walls like distant gunfire.
I pause at the threshold of the sanctuary, fingers gripping the doorframe.
One last deep breath.
Then I whisper to myself—hating the tremor in my voice:
