She’s wearing a simple yellow dress.
The fabric shifts as she reaches for a stem, revealing the swell of her breasts, and I force my attention back to the liturgy before my body can respond too obviously.
Focus.I grip my rosary beads, using the familiar weight to ground myself. But my mind won’t stop cataloging threats we’ve overcome.
The Bishop’s investigation that could have destroyed us. Isabella’s photographs that she chose to tear apart instead of weaponize.
Diane’s blackmail attempts that crumbled when we refused to be victims.
Victory Life’s systematic sabotage that backfired spectacularly.
The confessional recordings that Ray deleted before anyone could review them.
Tommy’s attempts to bring me back to the ring.
We survived. Against every odd, we survived.
The email arrives after Mass, my phone buzzing in my pocket as I’m removing my vestments in the sacristy.
Tommy’s name makes my stomach clench, but when I open it, there’s no message. Just the video file.
The one showing me twenty years younger, shirtless and savage, destroying opponents with brutal precision.
I watch it once in the privacy of my office, my jaw clenching as I see the violence I used to embrace.
The way my younger self grinned after each punch landed. The blood on my knuckles. The wild look in my eyes that I’ve spent two decades trying to bury.
Then I delete it. Permanently. Completely.
The past doesn’t own me anymore.
That evening, I gather them in my quarters. Charlie sits on the edge of my bed, her hazel eyes watching me with concern as I pace. Marcus leans against the desk, and Elijah perches in the corner chair.
“Tommy sent the video,” I say without preamble. “The one from my boxing days.”
Charlie’s breath catches. Marcus’s jaw clenches. Elijah’s fingers still their nervous drumming.
“I watched it. Then I deleted it.” I stop pacing, forcing myself to meet their eyes. “But you deserve to know who I was. What I was capable of.”
I tell them everything, delving into details I’d never shared before.
The underground fights.
The money.
The sick thrill of violence.
The man I nearly killed in a bar fight, how they pulled me off before I could finish what I’d started.
How I fled to the priesthood not out of calling but out of fear of what I’d become.
The confession should feel shameful. Instead, it’s freeing. Like finally setting down a weight I’ve been carrying for twenty years.
Charlie stands, crossing to me with that unconscious grace that makes my chest tight. Her hands find mine, small and warm, and she looks up at me with eyes that hold no judgment.
“We’ve survived everything else,” she says quietly. “We’ll survive this, too.”
Marcus moves closer, his hand finding my shoulder. “You’re not that man anymore, Adrian. You haven’t been for a long time.”
