Chapter 5 Santino #3
Then I turn and walk away, leaving her there—dripping with my cum, her thighs trembling, her breath still unsteady.
Because we both know the truth.
This changes everything.
The air between us is still thick with the scent of sex, the musk of her arousal and the salt of my sweat clinging to my skin like a second layer.
I don’t look back. I don’t have to. I can feel her eyes on me, burning holes into my back as I adjust my cuffs, my cock still half-hard and aching from the way her cunt clenched around me.
The corridor stretches ahead, dimly lit by the dying light filtering through the stained glass.
My footsteps echo, sharp and deliberate, each one a reminder of the distance I’m putting between us.
It’s a lie, though. Because no matter how far I walk, I’ll still feel her.
Still taste her on my tongue. Still hear the way she moaned my name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
I round the corner, my hand brushing against the cold stone, and I pause. Just for a second. Just long enough to press my forehead against the wall, my breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.
Fuck.
I can still feel her—her nails digging into my skin, her thighs trembling around my waist, the way her cunt pulsed around my cock when she came. My fingers twitch at my sides, remembering the way her body arched into mine, the way she begged.
The moment hangs suspended—dangerous, breathless—until the church groans around me like an ancient warning, a reminder from the walls themselves:
Nothing good survives here.Especially not desire.
And just as I think I might truly lose myself—
—a shadow moves at the end of the hall.
Someone else is in the church.
The Warning She Doesn’t Expect
I force myself to go back. To find her.
I breathe once. Hard.Enough to think.Enough to remember what I saw outside.
“Someone is following you,” I say.
Her reaction is immediate—visceral.
Her eyes widen, not with surprise…but recognition.
Not the look of a woman caught off guard.The look of someone who has just named their nightmare.
She swallows. It’s small, quick, but impossible to miss. That tiny movement tells me everything.
She already suspected it.
A cold blade of realization slices under my skin.
I take a step back—not away from her, but far enough to look at her clearly. Not at the temptress. Not at the liar testing my restraint. Not at the woman who keeps dragging me closer to the edge of a cliff I swore I’d never fall from.
I look at the fear.
“You heard me,” I continue, voice dropping. “A figure. Tonight. Watching from the courtyard.”
She goes still. Too still.
I add, “Not one of my brothers.”
That’s when the mask cracks.
Her breath stutters.Her shoulders pull tight.Her posture shifts—the careful poise slipping, replaced by something raw and wounded and terrifyingly real.
Fear.
Holy shit.
She’s scared.
And that—more than anything she’s lied about—makes my stomach drop. Because a woman like her? A woman who walked into my confessional with deliberate poise, who toyed with temptation like she was tasting it for leverage?
A woman like that doesn’t scare easily.
I step toward her again before I even register the movement. Instinct—violent, territorial—surges to the surface. The part of me I thought I buried with Giovanni. The part that protects what it wants.
“Tell me who you’re running from,” I say.
She shakes her head immediately. Too fast. Too absolute.
“I’m not—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
The growl is sharper than I intended, scraping my throat raw. Her breath catches at the sound, chest rising with a tremor she can’t hide.
Her back hits the wall again—not because she’s afraid of me, but because she’s retreating from the truth strangling her.
Her eyes flick up to mine.
We’re inches apart.Close enough to share breath.Close enough for the tension between us to hum like a struck wire.
Close enough for me to feel the tremor pulsing through her bones.
“Pia,” I say, quiet but lethal. “Someone is hunting you.”
Her lips part—just barely. A tremble. Almost invisible. But not to me.
“Who is he?” I press. “Who the fuck is following you?”
“I’m not—” she tries again.
But her voice fractures on the second word.
My jaw tightens. “Stop. Lying.”
Her eyes flare—anger, desperation, terror colliding at once—but the fire collapses just as fast. She sucks in a shaky breath. Her fingers curl at her sides like she’s holding herself together with the last thread of her will.
I lean in—slowly, deliberately—until our foreheads almost touch.
“You think I can’t feel it?” I murmur. “You think I haven’t been watching you fall apart since the moment you walked into this church?”
Her inhale is sharp.Painful.Human.
And, fuck me… I hate it.I hate that she’s been carrying this alone.Hate that someone out there thinks they can get close enough to touch what I—
I stop the thought before it finishes.
But it’s too late.The truth already pulses in my throat.
Whatever she’s running from…it’s close.
Too close.
And its shadow is already inside these walls, pressing into my sanctuary like a violation.
The air between us tightens—thick with heat, fear, and the truth she refuses to speak.
Two liars.Two sinners.Two trapped animals circling the same danger.
And neither of us knows which one will break first.
A creak splits the silence.
Not from us.Not from the storm outside.
From the far end of the hall.
A footstep.
Soft.Measured.Not ours.
Someone else is here.
A Confession Neither Was Ready For
Pia exhales.
It’s a small sound, barely more than a breath—but it hits like a confession.
Shaky, uneven, dragged from some place she’s been barricading since the moment she stepped into my church.
For one fleeting second, I watch it all break open inside her.
Not the mask. Not the performance. The raw shit underneath. Truth. Fear. Guilt.
“I’m not here for God,” she whispers.
The words fall soft, but they land heavy—like a stone dropped into holy water, rippling outward, tainting everything it touches.
My stomach tightens at the admission. Of course she’s not.
I’ve known it since her very first lie in the confessional.
She walked these halls as if she was mapping exits and weaknesses.
From the moment Giovanni's ghost seemed to stand up in the shadows and stare intently at her arrival.
But hearing her say it?Hearing her own it?
That’s different.
Her gaze lifts, flicks to mine in the half-dark. Those eyes burn—too bright, too honest, too full of something that looks like surrender and defiance twisted together, like she’s daring me to flinch.
“And I’m definitely not here for you.”
The words slice straight through me.
They shouldn't.I shouldn't care.I should be relieved—she’s not here to tempt me, corrupt me, drag me back to the life I abandoned.
But something in my chest pulls tight—ugly and hot—like someone reached in and twisted the knife I've been pretending isn't there.
“Good,” I say, even though it comes out rough as hell. “You shouldn’t be.”
The lie tastes metallic.
She is here for me.Not for blessings.Not for absolution.Not for salvation.
She’s here to break something open inside me.And God help me—she’s halfway there.
She drops her eyes, lashes brushing her cheeks as she gathers herself. When she looks back up, the fire in her eyes has sharpened—no longer just fear or frustration, but something edged and desperate.
“You said someone was watching me,” she murmurs.
I nod once, steady. Controlled.
“Fine,” she says, voice low. “Then watch me instead.”
The challenge hangs between us like smoke from a blown-out candle.
She turns before I can answer, pivoting on her heel and walking deeper into the hall.
The overhead lights barely touch her, outlining only the line of her throat, the flicker of her pulse racing just beneath her skin.
The storm outside rumbles faintly, its reflection stuttering through stained glass as she moves.
I stand there for a heartbeat, motionless.
She didn’t just step away from me.She invited the monster in me to follow.
The heir.The enforcer.The man I buried under robes and vows.The version of myself I thought I strangled to death.
And I’m already moving.
My feet follow before my brain does, steps soundless on the old stone. The distance stretches and narrows at once—three meters, then two, then one—close enough to reach, far enough to pretend I’m still choosing not to.
She doesn’t look back.
She doesn’t need to.I can see the tension in her shoulders, the brief clench of her fists at her sides, the steady pace that masks a heart tearing itself apart under her ribs.
“What are you doing, Pia?” I ask quietly.
She stops.
For a long moment, she doesn’t turn. She just stands there in the dim corridor, suspended between the priest’s office behind us and the rectory ahead—shadows gathering like witnesses.
Finally, she looks over her shoulder.
“Exactly what you accused me of,” she says. “Lying. Walking where I shouldn’t. Testing how far I can push you before you break.”
Heat ignites beneath my skin—anger, want, pure fucking frustration.
“You think this is a game?” I grind out.
Her gaze flicks down to my collar, slow and deliberate, before lifting back to my face. “I think you’re the only one pretending it’s not.”
I step closer, closing the remaining distance until her back brushes the wall—not trapped, not pinned, not yet. Just contained. Watched. Seen.
“You want me to watch you?” I ask. “Fine. Here you go.”
My gaze drags over her—slow, deliberate—the quickening pulse in her throat, the rise and fall of her chest, the tension in her jaw, the fear curled under all that defiance. She swallows, and the tiny movement vibrates through the air between us.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispers.
“Then why did you ask for it?” I shoot back, voice low, unforgiving.