Bishop (Shattered Pieces #3)

Chapter 1

Santino

The Storm, the Silence, the Heir Who Chose God

The storm hits the church like it wants inside.

Wind slams against the stained-glass windows hard enough that the saints look like they’re trembling. Thunder cracks above the roof beams, rattling the old wooden rafters. Each boom vibrates through the pews, through the confession booth… through me.

A night like this drags buried things to the surface.

I sit alone in the booth, collar tight against my throat, fingers pressed together in a prayer I don’t believe anymore. The air is chilly—it's always cold here. Cold enough to remind me where I am, who I’m supposed to be, who I swore to become.

He wasn't Giovanni’s heir.

It's not the son who is the killer.

He didn't raise the monster he is.

A man of God.

A man of restraint.

A man who walked away.

But this church still has his fingerprints everywhere.

Under the altar stone.

In the crooked confessional door.

Inside the walls, he hid secrets instead of sins.

I exhale, letting the memory strike—the last time he sat in this booth, breathing hard, clutching the wood like it could save him.

“Someone’s coming for me, Santino… keep them safe. Keep her safe. Even if she’s the one trying to kill me.”

Fucking hell.

I scrub my palms over my face. Even dead, Giovanni owns every shadow in this place.

The storm shudders again.

And then—

a sound.

The side door creaks open.

My head snaps up. No one comes to confession at midnight. No one walks into a church in weather like this unless they’re desperate…

or dangerous.

Footsteps.

Soft.

Measured.

Female.

Every muscle in my shoulders locks. My breath catches—not from fear, but something worse. Something I don’t name. Something I’ve spent four years beating into silence.

Restraint, Santino.

Control.

You chose this life.

You fucking chose it.

The footsteps draw closer, echoing off stone and silence until the curtain on the other side of the booth shifts.

I straighten, jaw tight, pulse doing things I hate.

Whoever she is, she moves like she doesn’t give a damn about being here. Without hesitation. No trembling. Not seeking salvation.

The booth settles with her weight.

I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t react. I shouldn’t feel… anything.

But I do.

God help me—I feel everything.

A breath, soft and steady, drifts through the wooden screen separating us. The storm quiets just enough for her presence to swallow the space between us.

Who the hell walks into my confessional at this hour?

Another breath.

A shift of fabric.

A hint of scent—rain, smoke… something floral I can’t place.

My chest tightens.

Unwanted.

Uncontrolled.

Un-fucking-acceptable.

I adjust my collar, trying to ground myself, but the air feels different now. Charged. Alive!

Like the moment before a blade hits flesh.

I lean forward, voice low and controlled, the way a priest’s should be.

“Speak,” I say.

What I don’t say—what pounds inside my ribs anyway—is this:

Whoever you are?

You shouldn’t be here.

And neither should I.

The First Sound of Her Voice

The cushion on the other side of the screen dips as she settles in.

It’s such a slight movement, such an ordinary sound—but it hits me like a live wire. I sit a little straighter. My fingers uncurl from the useless half-prayer I’d been holding.

For a second, she doesn’t speak.

I hear the slow drag of fabric, the faint rustle as she adjusts her posture. Then her breath—measured, unhurried. Not a lost soul stumbling in from a storm, but someone who walked in here with intention.

Then her scent reaches me.

Rain.

Smoke.

Something floral underneath—soft and stubborn, like a flower that clawed its way through concrete instead of soil.

It doesn’t belong here.

None of it does.

My throat tightens.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Her voice slips through the lattice.

Low.

Soft.

Controlled as fuck.

But not humble. Not apologetic. Not even close.

Penitents crack on the first sentence—their words stumble under shame or desperation. They breathe too fast, or they can’t even look toward the screen, despite not being able to see me. They come here bleeding.

She sounds like she’s testing the line. Rolling it around on her tongue. Watching to see what it does to me.

Something ugly and electric slides down my spine.

This isn’t a plea.

It’s a probe.

My fingers curl around the wooden edge of the divider until the grain bites into my palm.

“How long has it been since your last confession?” I ask, slipping into the script like armor.

A pause.

“Does it matter?” she answers.

The way she says it—quiet, almost polite, but with that flick of amusement—makes the heat coil low in my chest.

Fuck.

Confession is for the penitent. For the lost, the ashamed, the desperate.

This woman does not sound penitent.

She sounds entertained.

“It matters,” I say, sharper than I intend. “That’s how this works.”

“Oh,” she murmurs, “I thought this worked however God wanted. Not you.”

It hits like a slap—but she doesn’t know me. She can’t. That’s the point of this box. Of anonymity. Of the distance.

So why does it feel like she just slid a knife between two ribs I hadn’t seen were exposed?

Something shifts under my skin.

Desire.

Curiosity.

A warning.

My body moves without my mind's consent. I feel my heart race. It feels like my jaw is locking. I’m hyper-aware of every inch of space between us, of how thin the wood is, of how easy it would be to open this door and see her.

I crushed that thought.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

Another pause. I can almost hear her smile.

“I don’t think I want to tell you,” she says.

“That’s not how this works,” I repeat, the edge returning to my voice.

“Isn’t it?”

A beat of silence. Then—

She laughs.

Not loud. Not unhinged.

A small, intimate sound, like we’re sharing a secret no one else gets.

It’s wrong.

So fucking wrong in this place, in this booth, with the storm raging outside and Giovanni’s ghost pressing against the walls.

But the sound curls through the screen and into me anyway—thin, sinuous, invasive as smoke.

And I hate the way a part of me wants more.

Santino’s Instinct: Obsession, Not Curiosity

Her laugh still hangs in the air when silence slips back in—soft, humming, charged like the moment before lightning hits.

I close my eyes, jaw clenched so hard it pulses. I’m furious at myself—for the way my pulse reacts to her, for how one quiet, absolutely inappropriate sound still feels like it’s lingering on my tongue.

I shouldn’t feel anything.

Not here.

Not with the red vigil candle flickering behind me, throwing fractured light across the nativity scene set up near the altar—Mary and Joseph watching from a distance like judgment made of plaster and chipped paint.

This booth is supposed to empty me out, not pull me under.

“Let’s begin,” I say, forcing my voice steady.

But she doesn’t speak.

She waits.

Not nervously. Not searching for courage.

She waits as if she’s studying me.

Her breath stays slow and even. Controlled. Measured. She pauses before each response, as if listening to the space between us for something.

My breathing?

My restraint cracking?

The exact second she gets under my skin?

I try to shove the power back where it belongs.

“What sin brought you here tonight?” I ask.

“Temptation,” she says.

The word lands between us like a drop of warm oil in cold water—spreading, seeping, wrong.

Before I can redirect her, she adds—

“And touch.”

My grip on the wooden divider tightens until my knuckles bleach white.

Jesus Christ.

She’s doing this on purpose.

Choosing words she knows will hit.

Watching them sink in.

This isn’t a confession.

It’s a fucking game.

“This booth is not for theatrics,” I say through my teeth. “If you need guidance, speak plainly.”

Another pause.

Her breathing deepens—just slightly, but I hear it anyway, like she’s leaning closer to the screen… or leaning into the sin she wants me to feel.

“I can’t speak plainly,” she whispers. “Not yet.”

Something sharp and dangerous slices through my chest—an instinct trained from growing up under Giovanni’s shadow.

Who the hell is she?

What the hell does she want?

I force myself to stay in the role, even as something coils low in my spine.

“What did you come here for?” I ask.

She doesn’t hesitate.

“To take something back.”

The sentence cuts through the booth like a blade.

My heart kicks—not from fear but from recognition.

Take something back.

Not to confess.

Not seek solace.

Not ask forgiveness.

Take.

My pulse spikes, hot and unwelcome, and my mind runs through possibilities I swore I’d buried with Giovanni.

Has his old enemies sent her?

One family he crossed?

Someone who heard the whispers—that Giovanni hid things under this church that had nothing to do with God?

Or worse…

Does she already know what lies beneath these stones?

“I think you should leave,” I tell her, because suddenly the booth feels too small, too exposed, too fucking dangerous.

She ignores me.

“You heard me,” she says softly. “I came to take something back.”

My breath knots in my throat.

My fingers rise to my collar—an involuntary gesture I hate myself for. The little strip of white feels like it’s choking me.

This is wrong.

She is wrong.

And yet—

I can’t pull away.

Even through the thin wooden lattice, her attention feels like a hand closing around my throat.

She does not know who she’s playing with.

And God help me—

I’m not sure I know who I’m becoming anymore.

The False Penitent Reveals a Truth She Shouldn’t Know

The silence stretches again—longer this time. Not evaluative. Not hesitant.

It feels like an approach.

She inhales slowly—one, two—then exhales softer, warmer, like she’s drifting closer even though there’s a wall of carved wood between us. I swear the booth shifts with her, the air tightening, thickening.

Then—her voice, quiet but precision-cut.

“Do you believe in sin, Father?”