Page 38 of Broken Honor

His shoulders tense. “I can’t—”

“You will.”

“I made a promise.”

“You made a deal with my father once,” I say quietly. “You know what happens when those promises are broken.”

The priest’s breath catches. His lips begin moving again, faster now. “Blessed Mother, forgive me. Blessed Saint Anthony, hide my weakness, protect me…” He clutches the crucifix on his chest, then straightens—jaw clenched, eyes clouded with dread. “Follow me.”

He turns and opens the side door of his office, gesturing stiffly for us to follow.

Bugatti meets my eyes briefly, then falls in behind him.

I follow last, pulling the door shut behind me.

The hallway beyond is narrow and dim—faded plaster walls, worn flooring beneath our steps. The air feels heavier here. Like something old has been waiting.

We exit through a private entrance at the rear of the church.

A small silver Fiat is parked in the lot. Romani moves toward the driver’s side, fishing for keys in the folds of his cassock.

Bugatti opens the backseat door without pause.

“I’ll drive,” he says flatly.

The priest hesitates, eyes darting toward him.

I step forward. “You’ll ride with me in the back, Father.”

Romani freezes for a second, then silently hands Bugatti the keys.

We climb in—Bugatti behind the wheel, me in the backseat beside the priest. As the engine shifts into gear, the priest clutches his rosary and begins muttering under his breath.

“Padre misericordioso… deliver us from temptation… Dio mio, don’t let me be swallowed by darkness…”

His voice trembles, switching back and forth between English and Italian, like he’s not sure which language Heaven will hear first.

“Santa Maria, proteggi questo cuore…Holy Mother, shield this heart…”

Bugatti glances once in the rearview mirror, but says nothing.

Romani gives directions in hushed tones, guiding us through twisting side streets and quiet intersections—each turn more obscure than the last.

I don’t ask where we’re going. I watch him instead. His knuckles have gone white around the rosary. His prayers never stop.

“Abbi pietà di me, Signore… Have mercy on me, Lord…”

Eventually, the buildings grow smaller, the roads narrower. We turn into a modest street lined with flowering hedges and weathered shops.

Romani raises a hand. “Here.”

Bugatti slows the car and pulls up in front of a little café tucked between a laundromat and a smaller shop. A faded wooden sign above the door reads: Fiore del Mattino – Morning Flower.

We step out.

A small bell jingles above the door as we enter.

The smell of warm pastries and roasted espresso drifts around us.

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