Chapter 2 #2
Santino is standing on the upper balcony, overlooking the hall. Arms folded. Shoulders carved from stone. Eyes locked on me with a stare that feels like pressure on my skin.
He’s not fooled. Not softened. Not looking away.
Tracking me like prey.
Good.
My stomach tightens—not from fear, but from something far more dangerous, far more inconvenient.
He’s watching me.I expected it. Counted on it.But I didn’t expect what his attention did to my body—the low, curling heat I can’t fully suppress.
Last night flashes through my mind:the confessional,his voice cracking,his hand closing around my wrist with something that felt too much like want.
I inhale slowly.Not useful.Not safe.But undeniable.
The group moves deeper into the church. I keep my steps small and unassuming, but inside I’m cataloguing every inch of stone.
All the smears on the floor. Doors with chipped paint exist everywhere.
Every corridor that smells like mildew. Every forgotten corner where Giovanni could have hidden secrets—or corpses.
Giovanni utilized labyrinths much like others used briefcases, this church being one.
As we pass beneath the balcony, I look up again.
Santino hasn’t moved.
He’s leaning forward now, knuckles pressed to the railing, jaw tight.
Watching me with the same lethal focus he used on Giovanni’s enemies.
The same quiet fury he once aimed across the breakfast table at Zina.
The same barely contained violence he carried every time he swallowed down the monster Giovanni raised.
He’s unraveling.
I caused that.And I need him to unravel more.
But when I imagine him actually grabbing me—right now — in one of these forbidden halls,shoving me back against the cold stone the way he almost did last night…
Heat crackles through me, sharp and reckless.
Fuck.
Not part of the mission.Not part of the plan.But they're all the same.
The coordinator calls everyone back to the double doors. I turn obediently, the good-girl mask slipping into place like a second skin.
But my focus drifts upward.
The balcony is empty.
A spike of adrenaline pulses through me.
Men like him don’t just walk away.
They are in motion.They stalk.With each step, they descend into the darkness.
And if Santino Rivas is no longer above me—
Then he’s somewhere behind me.
Tracking me in the shadows.
Exactly the way I need him to.
Even if some reckless, hungry part of me needs it for reasons that have nothing to do with Giovanni’s sins.
The First Warning Strike
The volunteers disperse in soft waves of chatter—the scrape of folding chairs, the rustle of jackets and paper schedules. I linger at the table, head bent, posture small, fingertips lightly tracing the edge of my welcome packet like I can’t decide which task to sign up for.
A good girl pretending to be overwhelmed. A wolf wearing lambskin and a borrowed smile.
The coordinator gives me an encouraging pat on the shoulder before stepping away to handle two elderly parishioners arguing over the altar-decorating sign-up sheet.
I wait exactly three seconds.
One… Two… Thr—
The air shifts behind me.
The hairs on my neck rise before my brain grasps the silent advance.
Fuck.
I turn.
And there he is.
Santino.
No footsteps. No warning. None of the gentle softness priests are supposed to project.
He’s just there, like my thoughts pulled him out of the shadowed edges of the hall.
I feel his presence with a physical impact. He stands close—too close—filling the narrow space between tables with the full force of his height and that sharp, coiled tension he wears like a second skin.
Rain-rough hair.Collar straightened one too many times.Eyes dark enough to swallow light.
And beneath the usual incense and old-stone scent of the church, something else clings to him—
Anger. Conflict. Desire.
My pulse stutters once.
Just once.
I recover before he can see it.
“What were you doing in the east corridor?” he asks, his voice low enough to vibrate through me.
Not a gentle priestly inquiry. Not a reprimand.
A demand.
My heartbeat jumps—not from fear, but from the savage, pulsing thrill I refuse to acknowledge.
Caught.
God, I like being caught.
I turn slowly, widen my eyes just a fraction, let innocence bloom across my features like a trembling, fragile flower.
“The east corridor?” I echo, breathy confusion layered into every syllable. “I got turned around. This place is… big.”
A lie wrapped in lace.
He knows it.
I know he knows it.
Santino doesn’t blink.
And—fuck—he steps closer.
Not appropriate for a priest. Not appropriate for any man with a pulse.
Close enough that I feel the heat of his chest through my thin blouse. Close enough to smell the incense trapped in his shirt, the storm still clinging to his skin. Close enough that my breath falters, betraying me for a split second.
“You need to stay where you belong,” he says.
The words should be a warning.
They sound like something else.
Something darker. Hotter. Hungrier.
Like he’s not telling me to stay safe—
He’s telling me to stay his.
I lower my gaze, lashes sweeping my cheeks, then lift them again with calculated softness. My fingers drift along the wooden tabletop in a slow, feather-light stroke.
Not touching him.
Just close enough that he’ll imagine it.
“I’m trying,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens.
I lean the slightest bit closer—just enough for my shadow to brush his.
“But I just…” My voice dips, breathy and fragile. “Keep getting lost.”
His breath catches.
A tiny, fractured sound—barely there.
But I hear it.
I feel it.
I fucking own it.
His reaction—sharp, involuntary, ripped straight through his restraint—rolls through me like heat licking the edge of danger.
Good.
Let him break. Let him slip. Let him fracture on my name.
I tilt my head innocently, biting gently on my bottom lip, pretending I don’t notice the way it ruins him.
His hand flexes at his side—once, violent.
Like he’s fighting the urge to grab me. To anchor me. To drag me somewhere without witnesses.
He inhales slowly through his nose, trying to cage something feral.
“Pia.”
My name isn’t a name in his mouth.
It’s a warning.A plea.A confession he didn’t mean to make.
I shouldn’t like that.
But I do.
More than I should. More than is safe. More than is smart.
Heat coils low, wicked and traitorous.
He steps closer.
I don’t retreat.
“The coordinator told me your name - Pia.”
“It means devout. Someone dedicated to religion and virtue”
“Is that what you stand for………Pia?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Stay where you belong,” he repeats, lower now, almost rasped.
“And where’s that?” I ask softly.
His eyes lock onto mine.
I am not a priest.Not a son.Not an heir.
Predator.
His chest rises once, sharply. When he speaks again, his voice is strained—like he already knows he’s losing this battle.
“Not in that corridor.”
I smile.
Soft. Innocent. Deadly.
“I’ll try harder,” I murmur.
My fingertips brush the table again—barely touching the wood, but close enough that his breath stutters a second time.
He closes his eyes for the briefest second.
A flicker of defeat.A flicker of hunger.A flicker of the exact weakness I came here to exploit.
I gather the papers in my hands, give him one last gentle smile, and step away—
Slow. Sweet. Obedient.
But every step feels like I’m pulling a thread inside him.
A thread ready to snap.
The Moment I Turn the Key Inside Him
I wait until Santino’s pulse practically vibrates in the air between us before I move. I turn as if to leave—slow, unhurried, soft-footed—the picture of innocence finally returning to where I belong.
But the moment I shift my weight—
He intercepts me.
Too fast.Far too instinctive.Too revealing.
His body cuts into my path like a shadow with intent. The collision is subtle, a brush of movement, but my shoulder grazes the firm line of his chest. Heat bursts through the thin fabric of my blouse, ricocheting straight down my spine.
Then—
My hair slips forward, brushing against his jaw.
That’s what breaks him.
I feel the snap in his body—not a flinch, not a flicker.
A full lockup.Rigid.Electric.
He inhales sharply, a fractured, strangled breath like the scent of me—rain, warm skin, the faint whisper of deception—hits him harder than a punch he didn’t see coming.
His throat works around a tight swallow.
Perfect.Devastating.Dangerous.
I keep my gaze lowered, lashes soft and angled down, feigning ignorance of the chaos detonating inside him. But my voice cuts clean through the charged silence, soft and wicked, crafted to hit his weakest point:
“Is it a sin to tempt a man of God, Father?”
His reaction is immediate and violent.
A hand flies up—
Harsh. Unrestrained. Not like a priest.
His fingers wrap around my wrist, hard enough that a small, startled gasp escapes my lips.
The world seems to stop.
His grip is rough, unrestrained.
His body is rigid with something he can’t swallow.
His breath breaks in the space between us like a barely contained snarl.
And beneath all that strength—
I feel it.
A tremor.
He’s strong, but shaking.Angry, but terrified.Desire and self-loathing locked together in his palm.
The moment holds, suspended like a fuse burning down.
Then his eyes widen.
Horror slashes across his face—quick, sharp, blinding. He drops my wrist instantly, as if he touched fire instead of flesh.
His hand falls back to his side.
His jaw clamps tight.
His whole posture splinters around the edges.
“I said stay out of the restricted areas,” he growls.
But the sound betrays him.
It’s not authority.It’s not anger.It’s fear.
Fear of himself.Fear of me.Fear of what’s happening between us.
He’s not warning me about the corridors.
He’s warning me about him.
I know it.He knows it.Anyone standing near us would know it—
if anyone else were stupid enough to be in this hallway.