The man who walked into these tunnels is gone.The priest.The dutiful son.The fool who believed he could serve God while denying the violence in his blood.
What’s left is something raw, something dangerous, something she just dragged to the surface with a touch and two quiet words.
And God help me—
I don’t want her to stop.
10
Pia
The Walk Back in Silence
Santino doesn’t say a single word when he pulls me out of the tunnels.
His hand stays wrapped around mine—not gentle, not rough, just tight in a way that feels deliberate. Like he’s anchoring me to the world. If he lets go, the floor might crack open and drag us both back into the dark.
The air shifts the moment we leave the underground. Stone gives way to wood. Cold to stale warmth. The sanctuary opens around us, lit only by a few half-melted candles trembling in their holders.
But he doesn’t stop walking.
His stride is sharp, decisive. I can see his muscles twitching because he has locked his jaw so tight. Blood—Rocco’s, his, the truth of tonight—dries in dark patches on his collar. His knuckles scraped raw.
His rosary swings with every step.
Like a warning.
Like a confession he hasn’t spoken yet.
I should be afraid of him. I should be fucking terrified.He killed a man inches from me. With his bare hands. With a certainty that should’ve shattered every instinct I have left.
But all I feel is a twisted, wrong warmth under my ribs—relief laced with guilt and something darker I refuse to name.
We climb the narrow stairs behind the altar—his grip never loosening, his breath uneven enough that I can hear it catch every few steps. I don’t think he realizes how hard he’s holding me.
Or maybe he does.
Maybe this is him trying not to fall apart.
We reach the corridor leading to my small apartment above the south wing. Every shadow feels heavier. Every floorboard creak echoes like something followed us up from the tunnels.
He stops in my doorway.
Like crossing the threshold would break a rule he hasn’t written yet.
His hand slips from mine slowly—so slow it almost hurts. Losing his touch feels like a sudden drop in temperature.
“You’re safe now,” he murmurs.
His voice is rough… shredded… nothing like the controlled priest he pretends to be.
I swallow hard. “Am I?”
It comes out small—smaller than I meant it to—like a secret leaking through the cracks in my ribs.
He doesn’t answer right away.
He just looks at me. Really looks. His eyes drag over my face with an intensity that could bruise. His pupils widened. He looks like a man dragged out of a fire only to realize the flames followed him.
