Page 37 of Broken Honor

A few parishioners turn to look. One woman clutches her handbag tighter. A man pauses halfway through lighting a candle and simply watches us with narrowed eyes.

The boy stops outside a tall wooden door and knocks once. He opens it and enters, and there are whispers, then he comes out again and ushers us in.

Father Romani stands by his desk, rosary beads in hand, fingers slowly moving over each one. He has white-streaked hair, hollowed cheeks, sharp eyes behind thin-rimmed glasses. He doesn’t smile when we enter.

“I’m told you asked for me,” he says.

Bugatti steps forward. “We’re looking into an old matter from twenty years ago. Two people who were connected to this parish—Lena Vescari and Vasco Brunetti.”

Romani’s expression barely changes. “I don’t remember them. But then again, so many good people have passed through these walls.”

Bugatti nods. “They made generous donations to your adoption center years ago. We have reason to believe they left a child in your care.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” the priest replies.

Bugatti tries again. “You oversee the center. You sign off on transfers, adoptions, intakes. Are you saying you never saw a file under their names?”

“I oversee many things,” he says coolly. “But not every child is mine to account for.”

I’ve already begun pacing the room, scanning everything—the heavy wooden crucifix on the wall, the polished chalice on a shelf, a glass-encased relic near the window—a small sliver of bone labeled San Battista. A cracked leather Bible sits open on the desk beside an old silver incense holder and a carved figurine of Saint Michael trampling a demon underfoot.

Nothing here is out of place. That’s what makes it unsettling.

Bugatti is getting nowhere. Romani’s posture stays firm—shoulders square, hands clasped behind his back. But the way he doesn’t quite meet our eyes tells me more than anything he says.

I stop walking.

“I know you, Father.”

His gaze snaps to me.

“You knew my father. You remember what happened with the church accounts, don’t you?”

Something flickers in his face.

“You remember when six Vatican auditors came knocking on your door,” I continue. “When your books were bleeding, and the diocesan council nearly buried you.”

Father Romani’s hands tighten slightly around his rosary. “That matter was resolved.”

“Mm,” I murmur. “You were nearly excommunicated. Church funds used for laundering—six accounts traced back to this parish. You were one tribunal hearing away from disgrace. But the Tavano name cleared your ledger. You’re here because we let you be.” I step closer. “So don’t insult me with vague answers. You know exactly who Lena and Vasco were. They had millions pumped into this damn place. You know about the child.”

He is still now. The rosary in his hand slides through his fingers, bead by bead.

Then—he begins muttering prayers under his breath, soft.

“Lena… she begged us,” he says finally. “She and Vasco came together. Said if anyone from the old circle ever came asking, I was to say nothing. For twenty years, I have kept my word.”

“Why?” I ask.

“They feared what would follow. But they gave so much. They gave everything to the Lord.”

“Where is the child?”

“In safe hands.”

I don’t move.

“That wasn’t an answer.”

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