Page 27 of Sinner
I had never known such happiness could exist—had never imagined that breaking my vows would feel not like falling, but like flying. Like ascending toward something truer than what I'd pledged my life to.
Now, in the suffocating confessional, I press my palms against my eyes until stars burst behind my lids. The choice ahead is clear and terrible. To love Caterina is to invite violence into both our lives. The Romanos, the Benettis—these are not families that forgive betrayal. These are men who speak in blood and broken bones, who bury their secrets in shallow graves.
My hands begin to shake. What right do I have to pull Cat deeper into danger? Anthony's threat still hangs in the air—"I'll make sure your congregation finds a new shepherd. One way or another." I know enough about his world to understand what those words promise.
Yet the alternative is unthinkable. I refuse to send the woman I love back to him, to his possessive cruelty, his casual violence. To deny what has grown between us, something so rare and precious it feels blasphemous to reject it.
Perhaps this is God's true test. Not celibacy, not obedience, but courage. The courage to recognize divine love when it appears in unexpected forms. To protect it, whatever the cost.
I rise from the confessional, legs unsteady beneath me. The empty church stretches before me, morning light streaming through stained glass, painting the pews in fragments of color. Saints gaze down from their niches, their serene faces offering no judgment, no absolution.
My phone vibrates in my pocket—a text from Caterina: "He knows. I'm scared. What do we do?"
My fingers hover over the screen. What can I offer her? A life of looking over our shoulders? Running from city to city, state to state? Or worse—staying and facing whatever retribution the Romano and Benetti families might deliver?
I type my response slowly, each word a commitment, a vow more binding than any I've taken before: "Pack only what you need. I'll come for you tonight. We'll find a way."
I send the message, then kneel before the altar. Not to pray for forgiveness—that time has passed—but for strength. For wisdom. For whatever grace might guide us through what's coming.
The church is silent around me, but in that silence, I hear my mother's voice from childhood: "God never gives us more than we can handle, Nico." I never understood until now that sometimes what God gives isn't a burden, but a gift wrapped in thorns.
Caterina is that gift. And if loving her means my life is forfeit, then so be it. I will not be the man who rejects divine providence when it appears before him, warm and breathing and in need of protection.
I rise, cross myself one final time, and begin to plan our escape. The collar at my throat feels like a stranger's now. By nightfall, I will remove it. By morning, we will be gone.
Whatever violence follows, whatever price we pay—it will be worth it. For her. For us. For this chance at something holy and human and real.
Chapter 15
Nico
My hands shakeas I dial her number, sweat beading at my temples despite the cool autumn air seeping through the rectory windows. Three rings, then her voice—soft, breathless—answers.
“Nico?”
“Come to me,” I whisper, the words more prayer than request. “Now. The rectory. My room.”
The silence stretches between us, laden with everything unsaid, everything forbidden.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” she finally says, and I hear the tremor in her voice—fear or anticipation, perhaps both.
I pace the worn floorboards of my modest quarters, straightening items that need no straightening. The silver crucifix on the wall catches afternoon light, casting accusatory shadows. I’ve prayed beneath it countless times, seeking guidance, forgiveness. Today, I don’t look up.
When the soft knock comes, my heart hammers against my ribs like a prisoner demanding release. I open the door to find Caterina standing there, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, hazel eyes wide with questions she doesn’t voice.
“Are you sure?” she asks, stepping inside.
I close the door behind her, turning the lock with a decisive click that seems to echo through the still air.
“I’ve never been more certain of anything,” I tell her, cupping her face in my hands. Her skin is warm, alive beneath my fingertips. “You’re the only certainty I have left.”
The rectory grows quiet around us, as if the very walls are holding their breath. Outside, church bells toll the hour, reminding me of vows made and about to be broken. I lead her to my small office, where I’ve lit candles, their flickering light turning the austere space into something sacred and profane all at once.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the first button of her blouse. “You are holy to me,” I whisper, reverence in every touch as I slowly undress her. “More real than any doctrine, more true than any scripture. You’re the only thing I’ve ever truly believed in.”
She shivers under my touch, not from cold but from the weight of my words. Each layer I remove reveals more of her—not just skin, but trust, vulnerability, courage.
When she stands before me, bathed in candlelight, I feel my collar tighten around my throat. The symbol of my vocation, my prison. She reaches forward, unbuttoning my shirt, pushing it from my shoulders while leaving the clerical collar intact—understanding without words what I need.
