Page 25 of Sinner
“He saw Father Moretti leaving your apartment at ten o’clock this evening.” My father’s eyes never leave my face. “He believes you’re having an affair with the priest.”
The accusation hangs in the air like smoke. Marco curses under his breath; Matteo shifts uncomfortably.
“That’s absurd,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady despite the thundering of my heart. “Father Nico is my spiritual advisor. He’s been helping me through a difficult time.”
“At ten at night? Alone in your apartment?” Marco’s voice is sharp with disbelief.
“I had a panic attack,” I say, the lie flowing easily from my lips. “About the wedding. I called Father Moretty because I needed spiritual guidance. He came to pray with me, to calm me down.”
My mother’s face softens slightly, but my father remains unmoved.
“Anthony doesn’t believe you,” he says.
Heat rises to my face, not entirely feigned. “And you believe Anthony over me? Your own daughter?” My voice rises. “Youdrag me out of bed in the middle of the night to accuse me of... of what? Having an affair with a priest? With Father Nico, of all people?”
I turn to face each of them, letting tears well in my eyes. “Do you have any idea what you’re suggesting? About me? About a man who has dedicated his life to God? Who has been there for this family, for this community, through everything?”
My mother reaches for me, but I step back.
“I can’t believe you would think this of me.” A tear slides down my cheek. “That you would dishonor Father Moretti this way. He came to pray with me because I was scared. Because I needed guidance. And this is how you repay his kindness? With disgusting accusations?”
I’m crying freely now, the tears are real even if their cause is not. “You should all be ashamed. You’ll burn in hell for this, for bearing false witness against a man of God.”
The silence that follows is deafening. My father looks away first, setting his glass down with a heavy hand. My mother crosses herself reflexively, murmuring a prayer under her breath.
“Caterina,” my father finally says, his voice softer now. “We had to be sure.”
“And are you?” I demand, wiping tears from my cheeks. “Are you sure now that you’ve humiliated me? That you’ve dragged me here in the middle of the night like a criminal?”
“I’ll speak to Anthony,” my father says, which is as close to an apology as I’ll ever get. “He was... concerned.”
“He was jealous,” I correct him, my voice bitter. “And you all jumped to believe the worst.”
Marco approaches me, his expression contrite. “We were worried about you, Cat. That’s all.”
I step away from his outstretched hand. “I want to go home now.”
“Stay the night,” my mother pleads. “It’s late, and?—”
“I want to go home,” I repeat, more firmly this time. “Unless you plan to keep me prisoner here?”
My father sighs, rubbing his temples. “Salvatore will drive you back.”
As I turn to leave, I catch Matteo watching me with an unreadable expression. Of all my family, he’s always been the most perceptive, the most dangerous. I meet his gaze steadily, refusing to look away first.
“Goodnight,” I say to the room at large, my voice cold.
In the car, I lean my head against the cool window and close my eyes, exhaustion washing over me. I’ve convinced them—for now. But as Salvatore drives me back through the silent streets, I can’t shake the feeling that this is just the beginning of a storm.
Salvatore pulls up to my apartment building, tires hissing against the wet pavement. “Would you like me to walk you up, Miss Benetti?”
“No,” I say, my hand already on the door handle. “I think I’ve had enough of my family’s protection for one night.”
I don’t wait for a response, stepping out into the cool night air. The doorman nods as I enter the lobby, his eyes carefully averted. I wonder if he saw Father Nico leave earlier—if he was the one to report back to Anthony. In my world, loyalty is purchased, and the highest bidder wins.
The elevator ride to my floor feels endless. I lean against the mirrored wall, studying my reflection. My cheeks are still flushed, eyes bright with lingering tears. I look exactly like what I am—a woman caught between lies.
Inside my apartment, I double-lock the door, then stand in the darkness of my living room. The space still holds traces of Nico—the faint scent of his cologne, the indentation on the couch where we sat, knees touching as we spoke in hushedvoices. I move to the cushion, running my fingers over the fabric where his body was just hours ago.
