Page 1 of Sinner
Chapter 1
Nico
The rain whispersagainst the stained glass like a confession I’m not meant to hear. I breathe in the familiar scent of beeswax candles and aged wood as I organize the storage room, finding peace in the ritual of it. Until the heavy church door creaks open.
Caterina Benetti steps inside, raindrops clinging to her dark hair like tiny crystals catching the candlelight. My throat tightens. She wears simple black leggings and an oversized sweater, both darkened with rain in patches that make the fabric cling to her slender frame. I notice the outline of her?—
I look away immediately, focusing on the box of canned goods before me.
“Good evening, Father.” Her voice is soft in the cavernous silence of the church.
“Caterina.” I nod, grateful for the shadows that hide whatever expression might betray me. “I didn’t expect anyone tonight.”
“I promised to help sort donations.” She removes her damp jacket, hanging it carefully on the coat rack. “Unless you’d prefer to be alone?”
“No, not at all. The company is welcome.” The words come out too quickly.
She moves into the storage room, the small space suddenly feeling infinitely smaller. The single bulb casts a warm glow over her features, softening the sharp angles of her cheekbones. We work in silence for several minutes, the rustle of paper bags and clink of canned goods the only sounds between us.
I reach for a box at the exact moment she does. Our fingers brush, and I feel the contact like an electric current. I pull back too abruptly, knocking over a stack of soup cans.
“Sorry,” we both say at once.
She laughs softly, and I allow myself to smile. The tension eases, if only slightly.
“Your organization system is... interesting,” I say, watching as she creates seemingly random piles of items.
She arches an eyebrow. “Is that your polite way of saying it’s a mess, Father?”
“I wouldn’t call it a mess. More like... creatively chaotic.”
“At least it’s creative.” Her eyes flash with amusement. “Unlike your method of identical rows. Very... priestly.”
“Predictable, you mean?”
“I didn’t say that.” The corner of her mouth quirks upward. “But if the collar fits...”
I find myself chuckling, surprised by her boldness. “Touché, Ms. Benetti.”
We fall into a rhythm, moving around each other in the narrow space. Each time Caterina passes, I catch the scent of her perfume—something subtle and floral that mingles with the church incense in a way that feels almost sacrilegious. Our shoulders brush as we navigate the cramped quarters, and each accidental touch sends a jolt through me that I try desperately to ignore.
“Could you put these on the top shelf?” I hand her a box of children’s books, careful to avoid another touch.
She nods, dragging the small stepladder from the corner. As she climbs, her sweater rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin at her lower back. My gaze lingers there—on the gentle curve of her spine, the delicate indent above her hip.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned...
I close my eyes, silently reciting prayers I’ve known since childhood. When I open them again, she’s looking over her shoulder at me, caught in the act of descent. Our eyes meet, and I know she saw me watching her. I should look away. I should apologize. I should do anything but stand here, frozen in this moment of unspoken recognition.
But she doesn’t appear offended. Instead, the corner of her mouth lifts ever so slightly, a ghost of a smile that makes my heart pound against my ribs like a prisoner seeking escape.
She says nothing as she returns to sorting, but something has shifted in the air between us, as palpable as the dust motes dancing in the light. The silence now feels charged with possibility—dangerous, intoxicating possibility.
I return to my task, but I feel her presence like a physical touch. Every movement, every breath, every subtle shift of her body registers in my awareness as if my senses have been heightened beyond human capacity.
God help me, I’ve never been more conscious of another soul in my entire life.
“I think that’s the last of them,” I say, sliding the final box onto the shelf.
