Page 10 of Sinner
Tomorrow is Sunday. I’ll go to confession. And for the sake of my sanity, I’ll tell Father Nico Moretti the absolute truth.
Chapter 6
Caterina
The rain soaksthrough my coat as I stand in front of St. Francis's, my reflection wavering in puddles at my feet. The church looms dark and silent, the evening mass long over. I'd sat through the morning service, watching Father Nico's face as he delivered his homily, searching for some sign—a softened gaze, a moment of connection—but his eyes had swept over me like I was just another face in the congregation. No tenderness, no recognition of what had passed between us.
Now I'm back, drawn by a desperation I can't name.
My heels click against the marble floor as I enter, the sound echoing in the empty nave. Candles flicker at the altar, casting long shadows that dance across the stations of the cross. The church smells of incense and rain, of ancient wood and whispered prayers.
I spot him near the vestry, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the stained glass. He turns at the sound of my approach, surprise registering on his face before he masks it with priestly concern.
"Caterina," he says, my name careful on his lips. "You're soaked through."
"I need confession," I say, water dripping from my hair onto the floor. "Please."
His hesitation is brief but unmistakable. "Of course."
He leads me to the confessional, his steps measured and deliberate, as if walking into something he knows he shouldn't. I slide into the penitent's side, the wooden bench cool beneath my wet dress. The carved lattice between us transforms his face into fragments of shadow and light.
I hear him settle on the other side, the rustle of his clothing, the soft exhale of his breath. The silence stretches between us, heavy with all I've come to say.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," I finally whisper, the familiar words tasting foreign on my tongue. "It's been one week since my last confession."
"What troubles you, my child?" His voice is different now—formal, distant, the voice of Father Moretti, not Nico.
I close my eyes, rainwater trickling down my neck like teardrops. "My life is being decided for me," I say. "Last night, I learned I'm to be married. In six weeks."
"Marriage is a blessed sacrament," he replies, though something in his tone wavers.
"Not this one." My fingers trace the wooden lattice separating us. "My father arranged it with the Romano family. I'm to marry Anthony."
His sharp intake of breath tells me he knows the name, knows what it means in our world. The Romanos' reputation extends beyond the closed doors of confession.
"I see," he says carefully. "And this troubles you because..."
"Because I'll never love him." My voice breaks. "I can't love him when I've already met the man who owns my heart."
The confessional suddenly feels airless, too small to contain the weight of my admission. Through the lattice, I see FatherNico lean forward, his face closer now, his eyes searching mine in the dimness.
"Caterina," he says, my name a warning, a plea. "You must trust in God's plan for you. These feelings... they may pass. Prayer and reflection will guide you to acceptance."
But there's something else in his voice—a tremor, a hesitation that betrays his words. His fingers grip the edge of the partition, knuckles white with tension.
"Will they pass for you, too?" I ask, bolder now that I have nothing left to lose. "These feelings?"
"This isn't about me," he insists, but his gaze drops to where my hand rests against the lattice, mere inches from his own. "I can't hear this. Not as your confessor, not as?—"
"I just need to say it once," I interrupt, leaning closer until my forehead nearly touches the wooden screen between us. "Just once, and then I'll leave you alone. I'll marry Anthony and disappear from your life if that's what you want."
His breathing quickens, visible in the rise and fall of his chest. "Caterina, please..."
"I love you." The words hang in the air between us, irrevocable. "I pray every night that God will guide you to me. That He'll show us both a way."
Our fingers touch through the lattice, the barest contact, electric and forbidden. His hand trembles against mine.
"You can't say these things," he whispers, but he doesn't pull away. "I'm a priest. I've taken vows."
