Chapter Eight – Father Romani
It’s close to midnight when I step outside my quarters. The air bites at my skin, sharp with damp. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones and lingers there. I wrap my coat tighter, draw the scarf higher around my neck, and light a cigarette with shaking fingers.
I shouldn’t smoke—not in these robes, not at this hour. But old habits find their way back when sleep won’t come.
I stand beneath the old olive tree beside the chapel, watching the moon slide through a gauze of clouds. The parish is silent now.
It’s just me and the sting still left in my cheek.
I press my fingers there absently, feeling the residual burn of her slap. It still hums beneath my skin.
I don’t blame her. She was always fire beneath stillness.
I see the shape before I hear her footsteps. A cloaked figure moving through the gravel, her hood pulled low. Her presence has always struck me like this, quiet and consuming.
She stops just a few paces from me. And slowly, she pushes the hood back.
Carmela.
She’s smaller now—frailer than I remember. Her body wrapped tightly in the cloak, her hair a mess of silver and black coiled low beneath her scarf. But her eyes… those haven’t aged a day.
I’d been a younger man when she arrived at this parish all those years ago— she was in her late thirties restless, buried under sin. She’d walked into Mass with shoulders hunched and eyes cast down, a woman trying not to be seen. She was ashamed of who she was, ashamed of the road that brought her there.
And I had been… intrigued.
There was something about the way she moved—like everything in her wanted to disappear, but her soul refused. That contradiction stirred something in me.
I’d loved her, in my own way. Quietly. Secretly.
Looking back, I wish I took the chance but she would never have loved me back.
She glares at the cigarette between my fingers.
“You’re disgusting,” she says.
I take another drag and blow the smoke slowly toward the sky.
She doesn’t wait for pleasantries.
“I won’t waste your time,” she says coldly. “I came to tell you I’m taking the money.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What money?”
“The trust,” she snaps. “The one Lena and Vasco left for the child.”
I go still.
She continues, voice clipped. “The bank won’t release it without your signature. I’m giving you notice—I’ll be collecting it tomorrow.”
I nod once. “Fine.”
She turns, tugging the cloak tighter around her body, ready to leave.
But I can’t stop myself.
“They’ve come for her,” I say. “It was only a matter of time.”
She pauses.
“The child was doomed from the day she was born,” I murmur. “She was never meant to stay in your world. They’re taking her to where she belongs.”
She whirls around, eyes blazing.
“She is my child,” she spits. “She is mine.”
I shake my head slowly. “Saying it yourself doesn’t make it true. What are you planning, Carmela?”
She smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “Give me some credit, Romani. I’m no fool.”
I step forward and reach for her hands. Her skin is cold beneath my fingers, but I hold on, let my thumb brush lightly over her knuckles.
“We can still make something of ourselves,” I whisper. “Carmela…”
Her eyes narrow. My meaning lingers in the air.
She yanks her hands free like I’ve burned her.
“Sei un pezzo di merda senza vergogna.”
You are a shameless piece of shit.
I don’t move. I watch her as she turns to go again.
But I speak once more, low and bitter.
“Her parents were sinners,” I say. “They died in sin. And they passed that sin to her. She will carry it for the rest of her life.”
Carmela stops.
“She was their treasure,” she says, turning back to me. “They knelt in front of us and begged us to protect her.”
She steps closer now, her voice trembling with fury.
“Twenty years, their money kept this church running. Twenty years, their trust covered your debts and funded your life, you fucking piece of shit!”
She’s screaming now.
“You brought the very people they died to protect her from to her doorstep!”
Thunder cracks above us.
I stay still. The smoke from my cigarette curls upward and disappears.
“You’re making a mistake,” I say.
She spits at my feet.
“Go to hell.”
Then she turns and walks into the dark.
I don’t stop her. She thinks she’s shielding that girl from the world. But it is far too late
I stand there for a long moment after she disappears into the night. The wind rustles the olive branches overhead, and the cigarette in my fingers burns low, the ash curling toward my wrist.
Then I turn and walk back inside.
The stone corridor feels colder now. The quiet presses heavier against my back. My steps echo as I make my way into my quarters—small, modest, but suffocating tonight.
I close the door, draw the curtain, and cross to the telephone mounted on the wall beside my bookshelf.
My fingers dial the number from memory.
It rings once.
Twice.
Then a click.
“She’s about to run,” I say, voice low. “She’s going to take the child. From the looks of it, she’ll do it in a matter of days.”
“Good job,” says the voice on the other end.
“She wants me to sign to release the trust.”
“Do as she asks,” the voice says. “Keep your eyes on her.”
I hesitate.
“What about Tavano?” I ask. “I can’t have him showing up again and raising questions.”
“I told you I’d handle Vieri Tavano myself,” the voice replies, calm and absolute. “Have I ever failed you in twenty years?”
I fall silent.
My hand grips the phone tighter.
“Good,” the voice says again, firmer now. “So trust me. Do as I say, and you’ll be rewarded. As you’ve always been.”
“…Thank you,” I murmur.
“You know what, Father?” The voice softens, almost amused. “Say a prayer this time. It’s been years… but our plans are finally bearing fruit.”
I swallow and close my eyes.
“Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…”
I recite the prayer slowly, steadily, the words old and heavy on my tongue.
“Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra…”
I continue, shifting into a second chant—a deeper invocation in Latin, one we used in the older circle. One we swore never to speak aloud unless the time had come.
When I finish, there’s a pause on the other end of the line.
“Amen,” the voice grates. “I feel rejuvenated. Prayer is the key, isn’t it?”
The line goes dead.
I return the phone to the hook and walk to the window.
Then I light another cigarette and the ember glows in the dark.