Page 45 of Broken Honor

“Lune—” Bea’s voice reaches me, but I’m already running.

I push open my door, and stumble inside. I drop to the floor—my knees hit hard, but I don’t care. I curl into myself, burying my face in my lap, arms wrapped around my legs, and the sobs come fast.

The door creaks open behind me.

Bea’s footsteps are quiet as she walks in. She doesn’t say anything at first. She just lowers herself to the floor beside me and sits close, her arm touching mine.

I can’t lift my head. I feel like it’s all sinking deeper—like I’m being pulled underwater.

Bea places her hand gently on my back, rubbing slowly.

“Maybe this is all for the best,” she says quietly. “Maybe you’ll stop seeing that man you’ve been seeing.”

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter.

The second time I saw him, Nonna took me to the hospital again—said it was just to check, just to make sure. But the doctor gave me more of those calming drops and told me to keep drinking the herbal tea and doing my breathing exercises.

But none of it worked. The fear stayed. I never saw the man again but I wasn’t sure how long he would stay away.

I sniff and lift my head slightly. “Do you think Nonna… hates me?”

Bea’s brows draw together, her hand still resting gently on my arm.

“Who could hate you?” she says softly.

Her voice is so kind it makes my heart ache even more.

I turn and throw my arms around her. She hugs me back tightly, her chin resting on my shoulder.

“This is a nightmare, isn’t it?” I whisper. “It has to be.”

Bea pulls back just enough to look at me.

“How could I live without you?” I ask, tears slipping down my cheeks again.

She doesn’t have an answer. She just pulls me close again and holds me tighter.

Why is this happening?

Chapter Eight – Father Romani

It’s close to midnight when I step outside my quarters. The air bites at my skin, sharp with damp. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones and lingers there. I wrap my coat tighter, draw the scarf higher around my neck, and light a cigarette with shaking fingers.

I shouldn’t smoke—not in these robes, not at this hour. But old habits find their way back when sleep won’t come.

I stand beneath the old olive tree beside the chapel, watching the moon slide through a gauze of clouds. The parish is silent now.

It’s just me and the sting still left in my cheek.

I press my fingers there absently, feeling the residual burn of her slap. It still hums beneath my skin.

I don’t blame her. She was always fire beneath stillness.

I see the shape before I hear her footsteps. A cloaked figure moving through the gravel, her hood pulled low. Her presence has always struck me like this, quiet and consuming.

She stops just a few paces from me. And slowly, she pushes the hood back.

Carmela.

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