Page 7 of Sinner
I slip out of the confessional, the heavy wooden door creaking slightly as I step into the cool, tranquil air of the church. My legs move almost of their own accord, carrying me to an empty pew where I kneel, the polished wood smooth beneath my fingertips. My lips quietly form the familiar words of the Hail Mary, yet my mind remains tethered to him. To us. To the aching impossibility of it all.
When I finally rise to leave, I sense his gaze before I see him. Standing in the grand doorway of the church, half shrouded in shadow, Father Nico watches me descend the worn stone steps. Our eyes meet for just a fleeting moment—long enough for us both to silently acknowledge what transpired in that dim, confining booth. What was confessed without the need for words.
I turn away first, stepping into the golden embrace of the late afternoon sun. Yet I feel his eyes lingering on me, following my every step down the cobblestone street. It’s a tangible weight between my shoulder blades—heavier than the burden of guilt, but sweeter than the promise of absolution.
Chapter 4
Nico
The shadowsin the church deepen as night falls, and I find myself alone in the sacred quiet. While stacking hymnals, I hear the heavy oak door groan—a sound I've come to anticipate with shameful eagerness.
Caterina slips in like a vision, her silhouette carved against the dying amber light. The box in her arms presses against her chest, forcing a slight arch in her back as she balances its weight. My pulse thrums beneath my collar, heat rising up my neck.
"Father Moretti," she says, her voice a whisper that somehow fills the vaulted space, curling around the pillars and finding me. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"Not at all," I reply, my feet already carrying me toward her, drawn by some invisible current. "Let me help you with that."
She's dressed simply tonight—dark jeans that hug the curve of her hips and a cream cashmere sweater that catches the golden glow of the candlelight, its soft fabric clinging to her silhouette. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders in mahogany waves that I imagine would feel like silk between my fingers. I force myself to look away, but not before catching the scent of her perfume—something with jasmine and vanilla that seems to linger in the sacred air between us.
"Just a few more things from my mother's closet," she explains, placing the box on a pew. Her delicate fingers brush against the polished wood. "She's been on a minimalist kick lately."
I nod, knowing full well that Maria Benetti's "minimalist kick" likely involves replacing last season's designer clothes with this season's. The Benettis don't do anything by half measures—especially when it comes to beauty.
"Your contributions are always appreciated," I say, maintaining what should be a professional distance. However, my body betrays me as I find myself close enough to feel the warmth radiating from Caterina's skin.
Caterina moves toward the votive candles, her hips swaying beneath dark denim with each deliberate step. She retrieves a crisp twenty from her pocket, fingers lingering on the worn leather as if touching a memory. "I'd like to light one for my grandmother," she says, her voice honeyed with grief. "It's been three years today."
I watch as she kneels, the fabric of her jeans pulling taut across her thighs. Her spine curves in supplication, a perfect arc of devotion that makes my collar feel suddenly tight. The donation box receives her offering with a metallic sigh. When she takes the thin taper between her fingers, I find myself transfixed by the delicate bones of her hand, the way her pulse visibly flutters at her wrist. The flame transfers from one candle to another—an intimate kiss of fire that illuminates the hollows of her cheekbones, casting her in gold and shadow.
What happens next unfolds in slow motion. As Caterina rises, her cashmere sleeve—soft as sin—brushes against one of the tall pillar candles. It wobbles, then tips with terrible grace. Hot wax, translucent and glistening like sweat, cascades down in rivulets that splash dangerously close to the embroidered altar cloth—threads that have survived centuries, carried from Italy.
"No!" Caterina gasps, lunging forward with bare hands, fingers splayed like a supplicant's.
I rush to her, catching her wrists before she can burn herself. The heat radiates between us as my fingers encircle her slender bones. "Don't touch it," I warn, my voice husky with concern, steadying her trembling hands in mine.
Her pulse races beneath my fingertips, a frantic hummingbird trapped beneath silk-thin skin. I should let go now, but I don't. My grip softens but remains, thumb unconsciously brushing over the blue-veined hollow of her wrist where her heartbeat hammers against my touch.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers, looking up at me with those hazel eyes that seem to hold every shade of autumn—amber rings dissolving into moss-green depths. Her lashes cast feathered shadows across flushed cheeks. "I almost ruined it."
"It's fine," I assure her, suddenly aware of how close we are, the heat of her body seeping through my cassock like a fever. "No harm done."
Her breath is warm against my face, smelling faintly of cinnamon and something darker, like wine-soaked cherries. In the flickering light, her lips part slightly—pink and full and glistening—and I find myself leaning forward, drawn by some force I've spent years learning to resist, my body betraying my vows with every thundering heartbeat.
Just inches separate us, close enough to taste the air she exhales, when the rectory bell tolls the hour, its deep resonance shattering the moment like stained glass. I jerk back, reality crashing down around me with each reverberating peal echoing through my bones.
I drop her hands as if they've scorched me, my fingertips still burning with the memory of her pulse. What am I doing?
"Go home, Caterina," I say, more sharply than I intend, stepping back until the cold marble altar rail presses against my spine, a barrier of sanctity between us.
Hurt flashes across her face—a crimson flush climbing her throat, her pupils dilating black against autumn hazel—before she composes herself, drawing her lower lip between her teeth. She nods once, slender fingers trembling as they gather her butter-soft leather purse. I watch as she walks down the aisle, the rhythmic tap of her heeled boots against ancient stone echoing like a metronome counting sins. Each step takes her farther from me, yet the invisible thread between us only pulls tighter.
At the heavy oak door, she pauses, glancing back over one cream-cashmered shoulder, her hair falling in a dark cascade that catches the dying candlelight.
Our eyes meet across the expanse of the church—sixty feet of sacred space charged with profane electricity—and I know she sees exactly what I'm trying to hide beneath my collar: that I can't look away, that my gaze follows her like a man starving in a desert follows a mirage. I remain frozen, a statue among the marble saints whose blind eyes judge me from their niches, as she slips out into the Brooklyn night.
The door closes with a hollow thud that reverberates through the empty nave, the sound of temptation knocking against the chambers of my heart.
I remain there for long minutes, gripping the altar rail until my knuckles turn white against the marble. The silence presses against my eardrums like water, broken only by the soft hiss of melting wax and my own ragged breathing. I close my eyes and try to summon a prayer, but all I can conjure is the phantom sensation of Caterina's pulse beneath my thumb, the way her breath had warmed my face.
