Page 11 of Sinner
"And I'm about to take vows to a man who terrifies me," I say, the truth of it burning in my throat. "A man whose business is violence and whose touch makes my skin crawl. Is that God's plan for me?"
Father Nico's eyes close, pain etched across his features. When they open again, something has shifted in their blue depths—resolve crumbling at the edges.
"No absolution can come from this confession," he says, his voice rough. "What you're asking... what you're feeling..."
"I'm not asking for anything," I say, though we both know it's a lie. "I just needed you to know before I walk down that aisle. Before you're the one blessing a union that will destroy me."
His fingers curl around mine through the lattice, a gesture so intimate it steals my breath. For one suspended moment, we remain like this—connected yet divided, desire and duty at war in the sacred space between us.
Then he withdraws his hand as if burned, rising abruptly. The sudden movement makes the confessional creak.
"Go home, Caterina," he says, his voice strained. "Pray for clarity. For strength."
"And what will you pray for, Father?" I ask.
He doesn't answer, but the look in his eyes before he turns away tells me everything I need to know. This isn't over. Whatever exists between us—this impossible, forbidden thing—has roots too deep to simply walk away from.
I step out of the confessional into the empty church, my wet clothes clinging to my skin, but I feel different now—lighter, as if speaking the truth has lifted some invisible burden. Outside, the rain has stopped, leaving the world washed clean and glistening under streetlights.
Six weeks until I become Mrs. Anthony Romano. Six weeks to find a way out of an impossible situation.
As I look back at the church, I see Father Nico standing on the steps, watching me. Even from this distance, I can feel the conflict radiating from him—the priest and the man at war within the same soul.
I lift my hand in a small wave before turning away. Tonight, I've planted a seed of truth between us. Now we'll see what grows from it—salvation or sin, I no longer know the difference.
Chapter 7
Nico
I watch her walk away,the puddles reflecting her silhouette as she disappears into the night. My collar feels too tight, choking me with the weight of my vows. I stand frozen on the church steps long after Caterina has vanished from sight, the cool night air doing nothing to extinguish the fire burning inside me.
That was two weeks ago. Now, I walk the streets of Brooklyn with a hollowness in my chest that prayer cannot fill.
I spot her across the street today, her dark hair catching the afternoon sunlight. My heart leaps before I can remind it of its duty. I raise my hand, a tentative gesture of greeting, but Caterina’s eyes widen in recognition before she abruptly turns into a boutique, disappearing behind displays of expensive dresses. Dresses she might be considering for a wedding I cannot bear to imagine.
The rejection stings more than it should. More than it has any right to.
Sunday Mass becomes an exercise in restraint. I search for her face among the congregation, finding her seated beside her mother in the third row. When our eyes meet during the homily, she looks away, her expression carefully blank. Later, whenMaria Benetti approaches with Caterina in tow, I extend my hand in greeting.
“Father Moretti,” Maria says warmly, “your sermon on fidelity was just what my daughter needed to hear before her wedding.”
Caterina stands beside her mother, eyes downcast. “Yes. Very insightful, Father.”
Her voice is clipped, formal. Gone is the passionate woman who sat across from me in the confessional, replaced by this distant stranger who can barely look at me.
“Caterina,” I say, unable to help myself, my voice catching on the syllables of her name.” Will you be helping with the food drive this weekend? Sister Agnes mentioned she hasn’t seen you in weeks.”
“I’ve removed my name from the roster,” she replies, still not meeting my eyes, her slender fingers twisting the gold crucifix at her neck until the chain leaves a thin red mark. “My... wedding preparations are taking up much of my time now.”
Her mother beams, oblivious to the current of tension between us, her lacquered nails resting possessively on Caterina’s shoulder. “The Romano family expects everything to be perfect. You understand, Father.”
I nod, though understanding is the furthest thing from what I feel. My collar seems to tighten, the white strip pressing against my throat like a bloodless wound. “Of course. May God bless your preparations.”
The words taste like ash in my mouth.
Days pass. I check the volunteer roster obsessively, hoping to see her name reappear. I notice she now attends only the masses celebrated by Father Donnelly, the elderly priest who handles the early morning services. She’s systematically removing herself from my life, one deliberate absence at a time.
And the more she withdraws, the more I crave her presence.
