Chapter 3 - Elena
Chap-ter 3 - Elena
The night air is thick with the scent of rain, the streets still damp from a pass-ing storm. Each step sends wa-ter splash-ing up my legs, my breath com-ing fast as I weave through the maze of al-ley-ways. My heart pounds so hard I swear it might shat-ter. I don’t know where I’m go-ing. I only know I have to run.
I had been plan-ning this since Dante locked me in. Ev-ery sec-ond in-side Dante’s safe-house had been spent mem-o-riz-ing pat-terns, study-ing weak-nesses, and wait-ing for the mo-ment when I could slip through the cracks. His guards ro-tated shifts like clock-work, his se-cu-rity sys-tems were nearly im-pen-e-tra-ble, and the man him-self? Al-ways watch-ing. Al-ways wait-ing.
Dante’s pres-ence was a weight that never lifted. His icy blue gaze tracked my ev-ery move, a silent warn-ing that es-cape was im-pos-si-ble. But I re-fused to ac-cept that.
So, I watched. I learned.
The win-dow in my room was the only weak point—re-in-forced glass, but the latch was old, worn down just enough for me to pry it loose with a stolen hair-pin. I waited un-til the dead hours be-fore dawn, when ex-haus-tion dulled the senses of the men pa-trolling the perime-ter, when the house was quiet enough for me to hear my own heart-beat.
I had hes-i-tated only once—hand pressed to the win-dow frame, legs trem-bling. The knowl-edge of what would hap-pen if I was caught had wrapped around my throat like a noose.
But stay-ing?
That would kill me just as surely.
So, I pushed the win-dow open and dropped down into the dark-ness, my breath catch-ing as my feet hit the wet ground. The im-pact sent a sharp jolt up my legs, but I didn’t stop. I ran.
Now, my lungs burn as I dart around a cor-ner, my pulse a fran-tic drum-beat in my ears. My clothes cling to me, soaked from the mist still lin-ger-ing in the air. The city is quiet, the rem-nants of the storm leav-ing be-hind an eerie still-ness.
I should feel free.
But the truth is, I’ve never been more trapped.
Ev-ery shadow feels like a threat. Ev-ery flick-er-ing street-light, a spot-light ex-pos-ing me. I glance over my shoul-der, ex-pect-ing to see them—Dante’s men—clos-ing in.
Or worse.
Dante him-self.
The thought sends a fresh surge of panic through me. I know what he’s ca-pa-ble of. I’ve seen the way he moves, cal-cu-lated and con-trolled, a preda-tor who never loses his prey.
I need to get fur-ther. Find some-where safe.
But safe doesn’t ex-ist when Dante has his sights on you.
The night air clings to my skin as I stum-ble onto an un-fa-mil-iar street, my breaths com-ing fast and shal-low. My mind races, strug-gling to piece to-gether where I am. The city looks dif-fer-ent in the dark—ev-ery build-ing a face-less mono-lith, ev-ery al-ley-way a po-ten-tial trap.
I pause, forc-ing my-self to think. I need to fig-ure out where I am, but the adren-a-line surg-ing through me makes it im-pos-si-ble to fo-cus. My gaze sweeps across the empty street un-til it lands on a fa-mil-iar shape in the dis-tance—a tow-er-ing stone cathe-dral, its sil-hou-ette cut-ting against the night sky.
Recog-ni-tion sparks, faint at first, then stronger. The in-tri-cate arch-ways, the mas-sive wooden doors, the faint glow of stained-glass win-dows—it all tugs at some-thing buried deep in my mem-ory.
And then, it clicks.
Fa-ther Mat-teo.
The name comes un-bid-den, a whis-per from the past. I know him. Or at least, I did. The de-tails are hazy, but I re-mem-ber a kind voice from my younger years—when we still went to church as a fam-ily—along with steady hands and the scent of old books and burn-ing can-dles.
My pulse quick-ens as I turn to-ward the church, hope flar-ing in my chest. If any-one can help me, it’s him.
I break into a run, my boots slap-ping against the wet pave-ment, my lungs burn-ing with each breath. As I reach the mas-sive wooden doors, I hes-i-tate for only a mo-ment be-fore push-ing them open.
The scent of in-cense wraps around me im-me-di-ately—warm, fa-mil-iar, de-cep-tive. A false prom-ise of peace.
In-side, the cathe-dral is silent ex-cept for the faint flicker of can-dle-light cast-ing eerie shad-ows across the pews. The vast-ness of the space swal-lows me whole, the weight of cen-turies press-ing down on my shoul-ders.
And then, I hear it.
A soft shuf-fle of move-ment near the front.
I step for-ward cau-tiously, my heart ham-mer-ing in my chest. The flick-er-ing can-dle-light il-lu-mi-nates a fig-ure stand-ing by the al-tar, his back turned to me. He’s light-ing can-dles, the soft glow cast-ing long shad-ows over his worn face.
His hands are steady, but his shoul-ders are tense. As if he al-ready knows some-one is watch-ing.
I swal-low hard, forc-ing my voice to work. “Fa-ther Mat-teo?”
He stills. For a sec-ond, he doesn’t turn, as though con-firm-ing some-thing to him-self first. Then, slowly, he lifts his head and turns to face me.
His eyes, dark and know-ing, widen just slightly be-fore some-thing un-read-able set-tles over them. “Elena?” His voice is cau-tious—edgy and un-sure.
I take a step for-ward, my hands curl-ing into fists. “I need an-swers.”
A pause. A slow ex-hale.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
The words are quiet but firm, car-ry-ing the weight of some-thing fi-nal.
Anger flares in-side me, and I shake my head. “I don’t have any-where else to go.”
His gaze sharp-ens, flick-er-ing past me to-ward the open doors be-fore re-turn-ing to my face. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.
I swal-low against the tight-ness in my throat. “Dante won’t tell me any-thing. I don’t know who’s af-ter me or why.” My voice wa-vers, but I push for-ward. “Some-one tried to kill me three nights ago. They called me—” I stop short, the weight of the name suf-fo-cat-ing me. I can’t say it. Not yet.
But he un-der-stands.
I see it in the way his fin-gers trem-ble over the can-dle’s flame. The way his shoul-ders stiffen like a man who has been wait-ing for this mo-ment for far too long.
Si-lence stretches be-tween us, thick with some-thing un-spo-ken.
I step closer, des-per-a-tion claw-ing at my chest. “Please.”
Still, he hes-i-tates. His lips press to-gether, and his hands clasp tightly in front of him. “I can’t,” he fi-nally mur-murs, shak-ing his head. “I can-not be the one to tell you.”
Frus-tra-tion burns through me. “Why not? You know, don’t you? You know who they are. Why are they chas-ing me?”
His gaze dark-ens, his mouth a grim line. “Elena—”
“I was al-most killed,” I snap, voice break-ing. “And then I was res-cued. And now I’m trapped with a man I don’t un-der-stand, who re-fuses to tell me why I’m in the mid-dle of this night-mare.” I ex-hale sharply, my chest tight. “I need to know why they want me dead.”
The words hang be-tween us like a blade.
Fa-ther Mat-teo closes his eyes for a long mo-ment, his jaw tight-en-ing. When he opens them again, there is some-thing dif-fer-ent in his ex-pres-sion—some-thing weary, re-signed.
He sighs heav-ily and ges-tures to-ward the con-fes-sional booth.
“If I tell you what I know,” he says, his voice barely above a whis-per, “there will be no turn-ing back.”
I al-ready made that choice the mo-ment I stepped through those doors.
In-side the booth, the wood creaks be-neath my weight as I set-tle into the nar-row space. The flick-er-ing can-dle-light casts dis-torted shapes against the par-ti-tion, shad-ows shift-ing with ev-ery breath.
Fa-ther Mat-teo’s voice is quiet. “You were never meant to sur-vive.”
A chill rakes down my spine.
He con-tin-ues, each word slic-ing deeper than the last.
“The war be-tween the Ro-manos and their en-e-mies was bru-tal,” he be-gan. “Blood was spilled in the streets, and no one was spared—not even the in-no-cent.”
My pulse roars in my ears as I lis-ten.
“Alessan-dro Ro-mano’s wife had just given birth to a baby girl—Rafaella Ro-mano. Their ri-vals saw an op-por-tu-nity and bribed a nun from a lo-cal or-phan-age to en-sure the child never left the bat-tle-field alive.”
My fin-gers curl into fists.
“The nun was meant to de-liver the baby into the cross-fire, en-sur-ing the Ro-manos lost their heir.” Fa-ther Mat-teo’s voice grew heav-ier. “But she couldn’t do it. She chose mercy in-stead.”
I felt my stom-ach twist.
I could barely breathe.
“She took the child and hid her, in-tend-ing to re-turn once the blood-shed had calmed. But when she went back, the child was gone.”
The walls of the con-fes-sional felt like they were clos-ing in on me.
“That child was you, Elena.”
“No.”
Fa-ther Mat-teo’s si-lence was a con-fir-ma-tion.
I had been liv-ing a lie. I wasn’t Elena Moretti. I was Rafaella Ro-mano—a name I had never known, yet one that had been mine from the mo-ment I was born.
I press my shak-ing hands against my lap, my nails bit-ing into my palms. “My whole life….” My voice is barely above a whis-per. “I was liv-ing a lie?”
“Years later, the nun came to me, seek-ing ab-so-lu-tion,” he con-tin-ued. “Wracked with guilt, she con-fessed what she had done.”
My whole body was trem-bling, my mind was rac-ing up and down.
“She tried to find you but never could. She left me with a sin-gle piece of ev-i-dence—a rosary that once be-longed to Alessan-dro Ro-mano’s wife.”
My stom-ach twists.
The same rosary I wore as a child, the one Nic-colò Moretti al-ways told me was a fam-ily heir-loom.
“My fa-ther—” I choke on my words. “Nic-colò Moretti knew?”
Fa-ther Mat-teo hes-i-tates. “All he knows is that you were a baby de-serted by par-ents who could not care for you. He took you in and gave you his name, but if the Ro-manos are look-ing for you, he might soon find out the truth.”
A cold shiver runs down my spine.
“If Nic-colò finds out, you will be seen as a threat.”
The walls of my world are crum-bling, ev-ery-thing I thought I knew re-duced to ashes. I knew I was adopted, but I had al-ways been told that my par-ents were poor farm-ers who had left me at the church with Fa-ther Mat-teo be-fore my ‘fa-ther’ adopted me.
The fa-ther I loved—the name I car-ried. Nei-ther was mine to be-gin with.
And the most ter-ri-fy-ing part?
I was never sup-posed to ex-ist.
The heavy doors of the church slam open. The sound shat-ters the si-lence, re-ver-ber-at-ing through the stone walls.
I barely have time to re-act be-fore a shadow moves through the can-dle-light, cut-ting through the dark-ness like a blade.
Dante.
His pres-ence fills the space in-stantly, his gaze lock-ing onto mine with lethal pre-ci-sion.
I stum-ble back, my heart rac-ing. “Dante—”
He’s on me in sec-onds.
His hand clamps around my wrist, firm but not painful. Not yet. “What the fuck are you do-ing here?” His voice is low, vi-brat-ing with fury.
I try to wrench free. “Let go.”
He doesn’t.
His grip tight-ens just enough to make a point. “I turn my back for one god-damn sec-ond, and you run straight into the fire?”
Anger coils in-side me, twist-ing with fear, with con-fu-sion, with the un-bear-able weight of ev-ery-thing I’ve just learned.
I shove against his chest. Hard. “Leave me alone!”
Dante doesn’t budge. Doesn’t blink.
“What do you want from me?” I ask, my voice break-ing.
He doesn’t an-swer.
I shove at him again, but this time, his grip snaps tight.
Be-fore I can fight, be-fore I can re-act, Dante moves.
In one swift mo-tion, he hauls me over his shoul-der.
“Dante!” I scream, kick-ing wildly. “Put me down, you son of a—”
“Not up for dis-cus-sion,” he growls, his voice edged with some-thing dark, some-thing dan-ger-ous.
My fists ham-mer against his back, but he barely flinches.
Fa-ther Mat-teo’s voice fol-lows us as Dante storms to-ward the doors. “You can’t keep her locked up for-ever, Dante.”
Dante’s hold on me tight-ens. “Watch me.”
The night air bites against my skin as we step into the open, the weight of ev-ery-thing press-ing down on me like a vice.
I don’t know who I am any-more.
But one thing is cer-tain.
The man car-ry-ing me into the shad-ows is the only per-son stand-ing be-tween me and the mon-sters lurk-ing in the dark.
And he doesn't even know it yet.