Chapter 2
Pia
The Mask of Innocence
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like dying insects, washing everyone in the parish hall in that soft, dim glow that makes people look harmless. Perfect. People trust them to be harmless.
I smooth my blouse—buttoned to the throat, a neckline I haven’t worn since I was fourteen—and adjust the plain silver cross I bought last night at a gas station. Cheap metal. It digs into my skin. But it completes the costume.
The good girl.The quiet helper.The woman no one notices unless she’s offering cookies or a folded bulletin.
The church coordinator hands out volunteer packets, smiling so wide her cheeks tremble. I mirror it—gentle, hesitant, deferential. The smile old women adore. The smile that earns instant trust.
One of them pats my arm now. Her hand trembles with age. Her perfume is powdery and innocent, like something from a childhood memory that never belonged to me.
I pretend it doesn’t make my stomach turn.
Inside, I’m counting exits. Cameras. Blind spots. Outside, I am softness incarnate.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear—carefully arranged into a schoolgirl knot—and murmur,“Thank you. I’m just happy to help.”
Lie.
I’m here because I need access. I'm here because my father died for the truth, and it's buried somewhere beneath this church. And I’m here because the quickest way into any fortress is through the servant’s entrance.
A volunteer is invisible.A good girl is forgettable.A believer gains trust.
I don’t believe in anything.
The coordinator launches into a long lecture about cleaning rotations and donation drives. The room bows their heads when she begins a prayer.
I bow mine, too. But my eyes stay open.
Because across the hall—leaning against the far doors, arms crossed, posture pulled tight enough to snap—stands Santino Rivas.
Fuck.
The collar doesn’t soften him. Nothing could. He looks carved from stone and barely restrained violence, like the sky pissed him off this morning and he’s still deciding whether to kill it.
His gaze sweeps the room once, twice, absorbing every face.
Then he sees me.
His stare hits like a chokehold—tight, immediate, merciless.
Not because he recognizes me.But because last night’s storm is still between us, humming in the air.
His jaw flexes. His hand drifts toward his collar—that unconscious, irritated gesture he makes when he feels too much. When control slips through his fingers.
I adjust my posture just slightly—more demure, more harmless, more “good girl.”
Let him underestimate me.
Pretending I don’t feel that stare burning across my skin.Pretending he isn’t already unraveling.Pretending I didn’t crawl into his head last night and strike a match.
He watches me like he wants answers.Or maybe he wants to drag me out of this hall and demand them.
Either way, he’s watching.
And that means the mask is working.
When the prayer ends and the room murmurs amen, I allow myself the smallest smile.
Innocent. Sweet. Forgettable.
Except to him.Especially to him.
His stare burns hotter.
Good.
Let him choke on the lie. Let him think I’m harmless.
Because in this room full of believers, I’m the only one who sees clearly.
And I didn’t come here to be saved.I came here to steal.
Studying the Heir in the Collar
The coordinator’s voice fades into the background noise almost immediately.She’s rambling about community outreach, cleaning schedules, and which color-coded clipboard means what. Half the room nods along like any of this shit matters. The rest are too old or too timid to question it.
I pretend to care.
I angle my body so it looks like I’m focused on the whiteboard, pen in hand, packet open to the page she’s pointing at.
But I’m not looking at the board. I’m looking at him.
Santino stands near the back of the hall, just right of the double doors, guarding the exit like this is a war zone instead of a volunteer orientation. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t lean. Doesn’t blend. He holds himself like a man on duty—because he is. Whether he admits it.
He doesn’t smile.Not at the coordinator’s awkward jokes.Not at the nervous new volunteers.Not even at the soft-eyed grandmothers who look at him like he’s a holy son.
He watches.
It isn’t compassion.It’s a calculation.
He studies the room the way men in my world study a negotiation—tracking hand movements, posture, restless energy. I’ve seen underbosses do it. I’ve seen killers do it.
Santino does it better.
His gaze is slow, and intentional. Cataloguing. Assessing. Cataloguing again.
He doesn’t trust anyone here.
Good. I don’t either.
As the coordinator launches into a monologue about community service hours, his hand rises to his collar. It’s quick—barely a second—but I catch the gesture. He adjusts the band of white like it’s choking him.
Oh, Father.Does the costume itch?
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping in his cheek. His mouth flattens into a hard line. He looks like he wants to rip the collar off and throw it against the nearest wall.
A hot spark of satisfaction flickers through me.
He’s unraveling.And I did that.
Last night is still in the air between us—my voice in the dark, his grip on my wrist, the moment his control snapped thin enough to see through. And now he’s stuck in a fluorescent-lit hall, performing sainthood while I stand here dressed like a saint.
What a fucking joke.
The coordinator calls for a blessing, and everyone bows their heads. I lower mine, eyes on the scuffed tile. When I glance up through my lashes, his gaze is already on me.
Impact.Sudden.Hard.Undeniable.
Our eyes lock.
For a moment, he doesn’t look away.
There’s no priest in his expression. No gentle guidance. No forgiveness.
Just a man holding himself together with white knuckles and prayer beads.
His jaw ticks once. His throat moves with the effort of swallowing something he refuses to name. Then—too fast—he looks away, focusing on the coordinator as if she suddenly matters.
He broke eye contact first.
Heat curls low in my belly.Danger. Control. Leverage. Attraction.I don’t get to choose just one.
While a clipboard circulates around the room, I flip through the welcome packet like a dutiful volunteer. A tiny map sits in the top corner—parish hall, offices, chapel, bathrooms.
Useless.
No tunnels. No vaults. No shadows where Giovanni’s rot could grow.
My fingers tighten around the paper.
I think of my father. Cuffed hands. Bruised face. Still trying to tell me to run. Still trying to shield me from the same men who buried him.
Giovanni’s name whispered in precinct corridors that night. Rivas. Untouchable.
Until someone touched him back.
If the truth I need exists anywhere in this city, it’s beneath this church—hidden by the man who destroyed my life, protected by the son who chose God over blood.
I glance toward Santino.
He’s not looking at me now, but his body is coiled tight, shoulders locked, eyes never resting. He hears everything, even when he pretends not to.
He’s dangerous. I need him anyway.
I need him restless.I need him off-balance.I need that collar to feel like a noose.
Because a controlled man guards secrets. But an unraveling man?
An unraveling man opens doors.
For half a heartbeat, something unwelcome flickers through me—a thin, treacherous thread of guilt. A memory of his eyes last night when I said Giovanni’s sins aloud. The way his voice broke when he asked, Who told you that?
I crush the guilt instantly.
Guilt cannot bring back the dead.Guilt doesn’t put a bullet in the right skull.Guilt doesn’t survive in a world built by men like Giovanni Rivas.
Survival needs something else.Sharper. Colder.
I smooth my blouse, adjust my expression back to sweet concern, and angle my body just enough to ensure I feel the moment his gaze inevitably drifts back to me.
Unravel, Father.I need every thread.
Mapping the Church, Mapping Santino
The tour starts like every parish tour in every under-funded church in America—forced smiles, stiff nods, and a coordinator who talks like she’s reading off a script no one else has seen.
But I’m not here for any of it. I don’t hear a damn thing about community outreach, choir rehearsals, or the “blessed purpose of volunteer integration.”
My world has narrowed into sharp, intentional details.
Exits.Angles.Corridors.Blind spots.And the man who keeps pretending he isn’t watching me.
I drift to the outer edge of the group, steps light, expression docile—chin tucked, lips soft, posture meek. A good girl. A quiet volunteer. A harmless nobody.
Inside, my pulse is steady and cold with purpose.
I start with the security cameras. Two in the parish hall. One aimed at the sacristy door. Another high in the corner covering the main corridor. I track their range, their blind spots, the flick of the red light showing they’re active.
Next, I study the doors.
Most are unlocked—offices, storage, a kitchen with an ancient coffee pot and the stale stink of burnt grounds. Boring.
But three require keys.
And one—the beige-painted door blending into the wall, almost camouflaged—is reinforced with a lock I recognize immediately.
A mafia-grade lock in a church.
Giovanni’s fingerprints everywhere.
When the group veers left, I retreat one step, then slip rightward—into a narrow passage. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms no eyes on me. My hand moves fast.
I test the reinforced door.
Cold. Heavy. Absolutely locked.
Three seconds.That’s all I give myself.
Three seconds to feel the rough scrape of the lock under my fingertips.Three seconds to recognize the model, the weight, the intent behind it.Three seconds to imagine what Giovanni would have buried behind a door like this.
Then I step back into line with the others—smooth, seamless, unchanged.
The coordinator doesn’t notice.
But someone does.
A prickle crawls up my spine—sharp, targeted, unmistakable. Like the brush of a laser sight.
I lift my chin casually.