Page 12 of Sinner
Nights begin to torment me. I lie awake in my austere bedroom at the rectory, the shadows stretching across the walls, illuminated by the dim glow of the moon. My gaze is fixed on the crucifix hanging solemnly above, as shame and desire wage an unending battle within me. The vows I once embraced as a source of solace now feel like heavy chains, binding me to a path I question. The memory of Caterina’s confession lingers like a ghost—her voice so vulnerable, a tremor that trembled through my very soul, and the fleeting touch of her fingers through the confessional lattice, which sent a shiver down my spine.
“Forgive me,” I murmur into the darkness, my voice barely a breath as my hand ventures beneath the sheets, fingers curling around my growing need. I close my eyes, allowing Caterina’s image to bloom behind my eyelids—her rain-soaked hair cascading around her delicate face, framing those captivating hazel eyes that gazed up at me with an intensity of longing that pierced through my defenses. My grip tightens, stroking with a rhythm that mirrors the pounding of my heart, each motion drawing me closer to the edge. My body reacts with a need so primal, so raw, that it frightens me to the core, the sensation building until it demands release in a pulse of overwhelming pleasure.
In these moments, I imagine the electric sensation of her skin under my fingertips, supple and inviting. I envision the thrilling weight of her body pressed against mine, and the taste of her lips as they meld with mine. My fantasies, untouched by true intimacy, are a potent blend of innocence and raw desire—crafted from fragments of longing and a heavy cloak of guilt. Afterward, the shame is overwhelming. I collapse beside my bed, forehead resting on clasped hands, consumed by the fervor of my own creation.
“Show me the way,” I plead to God. “If this is a test, give me the strength to pass it. If it is something else... give me a sign.”
The next morning, I open my breviary to find the page marked with a famous quote by St. Catherine of Siena: The human heart is drawn by love. My fingers tremble as I trace the name so similar to hers. Coincidence, I tell myself.
But then I see her everywhere—in the hazel leaves that drift past the church steps, in the Italian poetry book someone has left in the parish library, in the delicate scent of jasmine that wafts through the confessional where she once sat.
Are these my signs? Or the desperate imagination of a man losing his grip on his vocation?
Father Michael, an older priest recently assigned to the parish, notices my distraction during morning prayers. “Something troubling you, Father Nico?”
“Just... reflecting on the nature of our calling,” I answer carefully. “The sacrifices we make.”
He nods sagely. “The priesthood isn’t for everyone. God calls us to different paths, sometimes when we least expect it.”
His words follow me throughout the day. Different paths. Is that what this feeling is—a divine redirection? Or the oldest temptation in the book, dressed in the innocent face of a woman who deserves better than either life being offered to her?
There are less than two weeks until her wedding. Each day without her conversation, her gentle presence in the church, her volunteer work—each absence carves a deeper hollow in my chest. I find myself walking past her apartment building on my evening runs, slowing my pace as I pass, hoping for a glimpse of her through the windows. The depth of my longing terrifies me.
Tonight, I dream of her in white—not a wedding gown, but a simple linen dress that clings to her curves before billowing around her ankles. Salt-laden breeze lifts tendrils of her dark hair as she stands barefoot on a sun-warmed hillside overlooking the Mediterranean. The scent of wild thyme and her skin mingle in the air between us. In the dream, my neck is bare,my shoulders unburdened. I am simply a man embracing the woman he loves. My fingers graze the small of her back as I pull her against me, her pulse fluttering beneath my lips as I trace the column of her throat.
I wake with tears on my face, sheets damp with sweat, and her name—Caterina—a whispered prayer on my tongue.
This cannot continue. For both our sakes, I must find the strength to either honor my vows completely or...
The alternative remains unthinkable, a door I dare not approach, though my hand trembles against the handle. And yet, as I rise to face another day without her, the scent of her perfume haunting my senses, I wonder if God’s true test isn’t my ability to resist the softness of her skin, but my courage to recognize love when He places it, warm and breathing, before me.
Chapter 8
Caterina
I stareat my reflection in the boutique’s three-way mirror, barely recognizing the woman draped in ivory silk and Alençon lace. The dress costs more than most people’s cars—a gift from Anthony’s mother, who insisted on Vera Wang. The bodice cinches my waist painfully, the sweetheart neckline exposing more skin than I’m comfortable with. But Carmen Romano had nodded approvingly, her crimson lips curving into a smile that never reached her eyes.
“Perfect,” she’d declared. “Anthony will be pleased.”
I press my fingertips against the cold glass now, alone in my bedroom after the final fitting. One week. Seven days until I become Mrs. Anthony Romano. The thought sends bile rising in my throat.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand—Anthony again. Third time tonight. I let it ring.
The rain patters against my window, a gentle counterpoint to the storm raging inside me. I pull my knees to my chest, hugging myself tightly as if I might physically hold together what’s breaking apart inside.
Yesterday, Anthony had shown up unannounced, catching me as I returned from a run. He’d backed me against the hallway wall, his cologne suffocating as he pressed his mouth to my neck.
“Soon,” he’d murmured, his fingers digging into my hip, “you’ll be mine completely.”
I’d stood frozen, my skin crawling as his hand slid lower. When he finally left, I scrubbed my skin raw in the shower, but couldn’t wash away the feeling of being marked, claimed.
Now, I glance at the clock—11:38 PM. Without thinking, I grab my keys and a light jacket. I slip out of the apartment building, grateful Anthony is still away on business in Los Angeles and won’t be hovering nearby. The streets glisten with rain, the air thick with the scent of wet asphalt and distant garbage. I walk quickly, purposefully, barely feeling the raindrops soaking through my thin jacket.
The church looms before me, its stained glass windows dark except for the soft amber glow from the sanctuary. I know he’ll be there. Father Nico—my Nico—always spends his Friday evenings in prayer before preparing Saturday’s homily.
The heavy wooden door creaks as I push it open. The familiar scent of beeswax candles and incense envelops me, but offers no comfort tonight. I move silently down the center aisle, water dripping from my hair onto the worn carpet runner.
I find him in the vestry, arranging vestments for tomorrow’s Mass. His broad back is to me, shoulders tense beneath his black shirt. The white collar gleams in the candlelight.
