My vision pulses black.
A pressure detonates behind my ribs — a warning, a threat, something ancient and vicious rising inside me like it’s been waiting.
Waiting for this.
The priest fractures.The son of Giovanni claws to the surface.The killer he raised steps into my bones like a shadow slipping into its rightful place.
I don’t feel fear.I feel nothing but a clear, deadly purpose.
No more running.No more restraint.No more fucking mercy.
My heartbeat stops being a rhythm.It becomes a countdown.
One.Two.Three.
Something snaps inside me so hard it might as well be bone.
And I move.
Silent as a ghost.Fast as a bullet.Deadly as every sin buried within these walls.
The Killing Blow of a Fallen Priest
I don’t announce myself.I don’t warn him.I don’t shout his name.I don’t give him a chance to turn.
I move.
Two strides—nothing more—and my hand closes around Rocco’s wrist just as the blade dips toward Pia’s ribs. The metal flashes once, catching the weak chapel glow before I rip it out of his grip and send it skittering across stone.
Rocco jerks, eyes wide, and snarls like a cornered dog. His free hand snaps up fast, knuckles cracking across my jaw with enough force to spark white behind my eyes.
I still don’t stop.
Pain snaps my focus sharper. Cleaner. More real.
I grab the front of his jacket and slam him backward. His spine smacks the floor with a sickening thud that echoes through the chamber, shaking dust from the carved ceiling overhead.
Behind me, Pia gasps—sharp, breathless, terrified.
It pours down my spine like gasoline on an open flame.
Rocco lunges for the fallen blade. His fingers brush the hilt—
Not fucking happening.
I kick it away. The knife vanishes into shadow.
He tries to tackle me next. Idiot.
I meet him halfway.
My fist cracks against his jaw, knuckles splitting on impact. His head whips sideways, spit and blood spraying. Before he can recover, I hit him again. And again. Each blow lands with the cold precision Giovanni carved into me long before I ever picked up a Bible.
“Should’ve stayed dead,” I growl.
Rocco laughs—broken, bloody, wild.
He spits a red glob onto the stone. “Look at you, Padre. Just like your old man.”
