Chapter 6 Pia
Pia
The Pull Into the Night
Santino doesn’t give me time to breathe.
One second I’m standing in the hallway, pulse ricocheting from the shadow we both saw, and the next—his hand clamps around my arm.
Firm. Unhesitating. The grip that says move with no need of the word.
He drags me out the rectory’s side door, the old wood slamming behind us hard enough to rattle the frame.
Cold night air slaps my face.
I stumble, catching myself on uneven stone as the courtyard yawns open before us—wide, empty, silent in a way that doesn’t feel natural.
Too silent.
Even the wind feels like it’s holding its breath.
Santino releases my arm only long enough to scan the shadows, his shoulders squared, stance wide, body angled between me and every threat. He moves like he’s done this a hundred times—like violence is muscle memory, like danger is a language he speaks fluently.
“Stay close,” he snaps over his shoulder.
It’s not a suggestion.
I fall into step behind him, fighting the instinct to tell him to stop fucking ordering me around. The words rise in my throat—sharp, defensive, the reflex of someone hunted too long to trust anyone’s lead.
But I swallow them.
Because for the first time since entering this church, I’m scared.
And not of Santino.
Of the shadow that moved like a ghost behind me.
That shape vanished into shadow, as though it knew its destination.
Of the fact that Santino—a man built from stone and sin—looked like he didn’t fucking like what he saw.
My heartbeat thrums in my ears, too loud, too fast.
I try to breathe. It comes out shaky.
Santino keeps walking—fast, controlled—every line of his body vibrating with tension, with that dangerous quiet fury he wears like a second skin. The collar at his throat means nothing right now. Priest, my ass.
This is the heir of Giovanni Rivas.
This is the man the mafia world whispers about — the one who walked away from the crownbut kept all the teeth.
And the darkness looks good on him.
Too good.
He stops near the fountain in the center of the courtyard. His head tilts, listening—really listening. His fingers flex once at his side, itching for a weapon he isn’t carrying.
Or maybe he is. Santino doesn’t exactly scream unarmed.
I take a slow step toward him. “Santino…”
He lifts a hand—not to touch me, but to silence me. That alone sends a shiver down my spine. Not fear. Something else.
“Don’t talk,” he says. “Hear.”
I do.
And there it is—
The faintest scrape of stone somewhere behind the cloister wall.
Too intentional to be wind.Too soft to be an animal.
My breath catches.
He heard it too. I see it in the way his shoulders tense, the way his posture shifts half an inch toward threat-mode, the way his eyes narrow like he’s tracking a ghost.
“What the fuck was that?” I whisper.
Santino doesn’t answer.
Which tells me everything.
He turns his head just enough to look at me—dark eyes burning, jaw tight, breath steady in that lethal, controlled way that says he’s seconds from violence.
“Don’t fall behind me,” he says quietly. “Not tonight.”
Not tonight.
The words punch deep—cold and hot at the same time.
They confirm what I already feel twisting low in my stomach—
There is someone out here with us.Someone who knows where we are.Someone who watched me walk into the church…and followed.
Santino’s gaze sweeps the courtyard again, and for a split second, something feral flickers in his eyes.
Protective.Possessive.Dangerous.
“This doesn’t feel right,” I murmur.
“No shit,” he mutters. “Stay close.”
And for once in my fucked-up life, I don’t argue.
Not because I’m weak.Not because I trust him.
I know a hunter’s presence when it breathes down my neck.
And tonight…
I can smell blood in the air.
Mine.Or his.
We step into the dark together.
The Ambush
The alley behind the church feels wrong the second we step into it—like the night tightens around us, like the darkness is waiting for something to happen.
The space is narrow, squeezed between old brick and rusted dumpsters, a claustrophobic slice of shadow that smells like wet stone and old secrets.
Santino moves ahead of me, a living wall of muscle and tension. His shoulders are rigid, his stride precise, silent. Every inch of him coils as he listens and hunts. I can practically feel the violence simmering beneath his skin—the part of him the collar never truly tamed.
Then—he stops.
Too suddenly.
I nearly collide with him. My breath catches, instinct screaming that something is off. My mouth opens to ask what he sees—
—but he beats me to the answer.
A figure steps out from behind the dumpster.
Slow.Deliberate.Confident.
Male.Tall.Lean.
And smirking as if he already knows how this ends.
My stomach plummets.
His eyes lock onto me — not Santino — me.
Predator recognizing prey.
“Long way from home, princess,” the man says.
His voice slithers down my spine. Cold. Familiar. A sound I’d prayed never to hear again.
I freeze.
I know that voice.That smirk.The black-ink tattoo curled along the side of his throat.
Rocco.
He was a scout for the faction that killed my father. He once tried to force me into a car, screaming. He covered my mouth and said it would hurt less if I didn't fight. I watched him bleed out on the pavement. Or so I thought.
He steps forward, slow and fucking smug, gaze sliding down my body like filth.
“Boss has been looking for you,” he drawls. “Said you’d come crawling back.”
My pulse spikes. My palms go cold. The alley tilts for a second, and the memory of the car door, the smell of gasoline, my father’s blood—
Santino’s body goes still.
Still like a trigger before it snaps.
The shift is so sharp I feel it radiate through the air—a cold, lethal change in the surrounding energy. His shoulders lock. His hand drops an inch closer to his side, like he’s reaching for a weapon he doesn’t need.
Rocco finally glances at him.
But it’s a lazy glance.Dismissive.Like Santino is an inconvenience, not a threat.
A mistake.A fatal fucking mistake.
My throat closes.Fear and rage coil inside me, thick and suffocating.
I can’t move.I can’t breathe.
All I can do is watch Rocco’s smirk widen.
“Well, shit,” he says lightly. “Didn’t know you had a babysitter.”
Santino doesn’t react.
The silence vibrates between them—dangerous, electric. My heartbeat pounds in my ears so loud I swear the whole alley can hear it.
Rocco shifts his stance, weight tilting onto his back foot, testing Santino, testing the space, testing me. His hand twitches near the pocket where he always kept his knife.
My vision blurs.
Not with tears — with fury.
Not because I’m scared — because I fucking remember.
The night my father died.The hands dragging me.The voice whispering lies and threats.The look in the scout’s eyes when he realized I wasn’t dead.
And now — he’s here.In this alley.Staring at me like unfinished business.
I feel Santino’s tension spike—sharp enough that my skin prickles.
Then Rocco smiles—slowly, cruelly, taunting.
“There she is,” he says softly. “The one that got away.”
My breath stutters.
Santino exhales—once, controlled.
And in that single breath, I recognize the shift.
The priest is gone.The heir is awake.And the man standing between me and Rocco?
He will let no one touch me.
Not tonight.Not ever.
Santino’s Darkness Unleashed
Rocco barely finishes his sentence before Santino moves.
It’s not priestly.It’s not holy.It’s not even human.
It’s pure Rivas blood.
One second Rocco is smirking—thinking he’s won, thinking he still owns the fear he carved into me years ago—
—and next, Santino is on him.
The impact is brutal.A crack of bone against brick that splits the night like a gunshot.
Rocco gasps, the sound punched out of him.
Santino’s hand clamps around his throat, knuckles white, jaw clenched with lethal fury. His other arm pins Rocco’s body to the wall, forearm braced across his chest, weight pressing in like he’s caging a threat—and he is.
“No one touches her,” Santino growls.
I’ve never heard his voice like this.Raw.Possessive.Murderous.
It sends a shock through me so hard I nearly sway.Not fear.Not safe.
Something darker.Something I shouldn’t feel.Something that fills the empty spaces inside me like wildfire.
Rocco wheezes, clawing at Santino’s arm, fingers scrambling for leverage. He reaches for the blade in his pocket—
He doesn’t get the chance.
Santino seizes Rocco’s wrist and twists—fast, efficient, cruel.
The snap is loud.
Pain erupts across Rocco’s face. I jump at the sound, breath catching in my throat.
Santino doesn’t flinch.Not even an inch.
He is silent violence incarnate — a storm in human form,a weapon forged by Giovanni Rivas himself.
He presses harder, pinning Rocco by the throat. His eyes—God, his eyes—burn with something primal and unrestrained. No mask. No priest. No limits.
Just a man ready to kill.
“Who sent you?” he demands.
Rocco’s only answer is a wad of spit aimed at Santino’s face.
“Go to hell, padre.”
Santino slams him again.
Harder.
Brick dust shakes loose from the wall, drifting like ash. Rocco groans—thin, broken—his legs kicking weakly against the stone.
My breath stutters. My pulse hammers so violently I feel it in my fingertips.
I should feel horrified.I should be screaming.I should run.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
Because, God help me—
I’m not horrified.I’m captivated.
It’s not just the violence.It’s the reason behind it.The way he didn’t hesitate.The way he stepped between me and danger like he was born for it.The way he looked at Rocco, like murder was mercy compared to letting him touch me.
Santino leans closer to Rocco, voice low and deadly calm.
“You come into my church,” he says, each word dripping with promised destruction, “and you hunt a woman under my roof?”
Rocco tries to speak, but only a strangled rasp comes out.
Santino’s jaw flexes.
“That was your last mistake.”
Another slam.Another groan.