Page 26 of Sinner
“Stupid,” I whisper to myself. “So stupid. I almost ruined everything. I won’t let that happen again.”
Chapter 14
Nico
The morning airsits heavy in the confessional, stagnant and waiting. I shift on the hard wooden seat, my collar suddenly too tight against my throat as I hear the outer door open. Morning confessions are typically quiet affairs—elderly parishioners with venial sins, mothers seeking solace after dropping children at school. But this—this is different.
The door to the penitent's side slides shut with a deliberate click that sends a chill across my skin. No "Bless me, Father." No rustle of movement. Just silence pressing against the screen between us, thick with intent.
"Funny thing about priests, Father..." The voice slithers through the lattice. "Some of them forget what they swore to God."
My blood runs cold. Anthony Romano. I recognize his voice immediately—the Staten Island drawl, the undercurrent of menace. My fingers find my rosary beads, thumb pressing against the smooth wood until pain blooms.
He leans closer to the screen; I can smell expensive cologne and cigarettes, the faint metallic tang of something I don't want to identify.
"You know why I'm here," he continues, voice dropping to barely a whisper. "You think I don't see how you look at Cat? And how she looks at you?"
I remain silent, my jaw clenched so tight I fear my teeth might crack. The sacred space of the confessional has become a trap, air growing thinner with each passing second.
"Caterina is mine. Always has been." The possessive snarl in his voice makes my stomach turn. "And if I smell you anywhere near her again..." He lets the threat hang between us, unfinished but unmistakable.
The beads dig deeper into my palm. I want to roar back at him, to tell him she isn't property, that the bruise I glimpsed on her wrist last Sunday tells me everything I need to know about his "love." The rage builds in my chest, hot and righteous.
Yet beneath it lies the sickening knowledge that he's right. I have crossed a line. The way my heart races when she enters the church. The lingering touch when I place the host on her tongue. The private counseling sessions that stretch far beyond spiritual guidance.
"Nothing to say, Father?" Anthony's voice drips with mock disappointment. "That's fine. Men of God should listen more than they speak, isn't that right?"
I force myself to breathe, to remember where I am. "Mr. Romano, this is a place of?—"
"Don't." The word cuts like a blade. "Don't hide behind your collar. We both know what this is."
My free hand presses against the wooden partition, as if I could push him away, push away the truth of my feelings.
"The Benettis and Romanos have an understanding," he continues. "Generations of it. You think you can just walk in and upset that balance because you've got some schoolboy crush? You have no idea what world you're stepping into."
I should say something pious. I should remind Anthony of the sanctity of this space. I should ask him to confess his sins or leave.
Instead, I think of Caterina's eyes when she speaks of her engagement to him—how they dim, how they look anywhere but at me. I think of her trembling hands, her whispered fears.
"She deserves better," I say, the words escaping before I can stop them.
The laugh that comes through the screen is soft and terrible. "Better? Like you? A man who can't even keep his vows to God? What could you possibly offer her?"
Freedom. Safety. Love without possession.
"This isn't a warning, Father." Anthony's voice has gone eerily calm. "This is a promise. Stay away from what's mine, or I'll make sure your congregation finds a new shepherd. One way or another."
He stands, the booth creaking with his movement. "Enjoy your prayers, Father Moretti. You're going to need them."
The door opens and closes. Anthony's gone, but the threat remains, hanging in the air like incense.
I uncurl my fingers, seeing the imprint of the rosary beads on my palm, tiny crosses embedded in my flesh. My vows to God feel like chains now, binding me to inaction while Caterina remains trapped.
The sound of Anthony's footsteps fades, but something else clicks into place—not the door, but a decision within me, final and irrevocable. I close my eyes, and last night floods back with sensory clarity so intense it steals my breath.
Caterina's skin glowed like amber in the lamplight of my small bedroom. The scent of her jasmine perfume mingling with the clean cotton of sheets I've only ever slept in alone. Her dark hair spilling across my pillow like ink, her whispering against my neck as we moved together in the darkness.
"I've never felt so safe," she murmured, her body curled against mine like a question finally answered. "Like I'm finally home."
