Page 31 of Sinner
“They’re saying you died trying to protect me,” she whispers, her voice catching. “That we were both caught in the crossfire when rival families clashed.”
I look down at her, this woman who has upended everything I thought I knew about myself, about my calling. Her dark hair tumbles over her shoulders, still damp from the shower we shared an hour ago. The memory of her skin against mine sends a rush of heat through my body, followed immediately by a familiar pang of guilt that grows fainter with each passing day.
The silver cross still hangs around my neck, cool against my skin. I haven’t taken it off. Perhaps I never will. It’s the one piece of my former life I couldn’t leave behind.
On the screen, the camera pans across a sea of candles, then cuts to Anthony Romano making a statement, his face a perfect mask of grief and outrage. “Father Moretti was a good man,” he says, his eyes never quite matching the sorrow in his voice. “My fiancée adored him. To lose them both in this senseless violence...” He trails off, allowing a tear to fall precisely on cue.
Caterina makes a sound—half laugh, half sob—and presses closer to me. “He’s already using our ‘deaths’ to build sympathy for the Romano family. Typical.”
The broadcast shifts to my bishop, speaking solemnly about my service to the church, about my dedication to the community. They show a photo of me from last Easter, smiling as I blessed the children. I'll never be that man again.
“A funeral mass will be held on Sunday,” the anchor concludes, “though authorities continue to search for remains.”
I press the power button, and the screen goes dark, leaving us in the soft glow of the single lamp. Outside, rain patters against the windows, creating a cocoon of sound around us. Caterina shifts to look up at me, her eyes searching my face.
“Do you regret it?” she asks, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. “Giving up everything?”
I lean down and press my lips to her hair, breathing in the scent of her—something floral and warm that has become my new definition of home.
“Let them bury him,” I murmur against her temple, feeling her shiver at my words. “Father Moretti served his purpose. He lived a good life.”
Her hands slide beneath my shirt, fingers tracing the contours of my chest, coming to rest where my heart hammers against my ribs. The guilt that should consume me has transformed into something else entirely—a fierce, protective love that burns away doubt.
“And who are you now?” she whispers, her breath warm against my neck.
“I’m ready to be your husband,” I answer, pulling her closer until there is no space between us. “If you’ll have me.”
She brings her lips to mine and sighs, “I thought you’d never ask.”
The rain intensifies outside, drumming against the roof as I lower her back onto the couch. Her legs wrap around my waist, and I lose myself in her—in the soft sighs that escape her lips, in the way her body arches toward mine. The cross dangles between us as I hover above her, catching the lamplight and casting tiny reflections across her skin.
Hours later, we lie tangled in the sheets of the bed we’ve shared since arriving. Caterina sleeps with her head on mychest, her breathing deep and even. I trace patterns on her bare shoulder, watching shadows play across the ceiling as the storm continues its percussion outside.
In the darkness, I find myself whispering prayers—not of penance, but of gratitude. For her. For this new life emerging from the ashes of the old. For the strength to walk away from everything I once believed defined me.
The cross rests against my skin, no longer a symbol of the vows I’ve broken, but a reminder of what remains true: faith, hope, and love. And the greatest of these—I look down at the woman in my arms—the greatest of these is love.
Tomorrow, Luca will arrive with new identities and new papers. We’ll leave this temporary haven for somewhere permanent, somewhere we can build a life together. I don’t know what that life will look like yet, but for the first time in years, the uncertainty doesn’t frighten me.
Let them bury Father Moretti. Let them mourn him and forget him.
I am alive in ways I never was before.
Epilogue: Three Months Later
Nico
The Adriatic lightturns her skin to gold, and I wonder if this is what salvation truly looks like.
Morning pours through the open windows of our villa, the gauzy white curtains dancing on the salt breeze. I've been awake for an hour, just watching her sleep. Cat's dark hair spills across the white pillowcase, her breathing deep and even. Three months in this coastal hideaway, and still I wake each day half-expecting to find myself back in Brooklyn, collar tight around my throat, guilt heavier than any crucifix.
But this is real. We are real.
I trace my finger along the curve of her shoulder, following the path of a sunbeam. She stirs, those hazel eyes fluttering open, finding mine with a slow smile that still makes my heart stumble.
"Buongiorno," she whispers, stretching like a cat beneath the thin sheet. "How long have you been watching me?"
"Not long enough," I say, leaning down to press my lips to her collarbone. "Never long enough."
