Chapter 1
Sabrina
It’s just another day at Our Lady of Grace Academy.
Okay—no, it’s really not.
Every now and then, I feel it.
A shiver across my skin.
Goosebumps on my arms.
The fine hair at the back of my neck is rising like a silent alarm.
It’s like I’m being watched.
Or hunted.
Or something worse.
And I feel ridiculous for even thinking that, because let’s be honest—I’m not the kind of girl who stars in one of those spicy shows or novels I binge-read late at night.
You know the ones.
Where the heroine is all doe-eyed innocence or fierce sass and somehow ends up being stalked by a dark, dangerous man who turns out to be her soulmate.
And we eat it up.
Every. Single. Time.
But that’s not me.
I’m thirty-five, single, and I wear a size eighteen—not an eight.
I’m five foot four, which technically makes me a giant compared to the women in my family.
But still. This?
Me? My life?
Yeah, it’s not exactly leading lady material.
I mean, I am average at best.
My big dream?
To buy this house that sits on edge of Verona with yellow stucco, a Spanish tile roof, wraparound porch, huge garden boxes, and a yard big enough for a pool.
I got up enough courage once to tour an open house, and yeah, it has that perfect big, yellow kitchen with Sub Zero Wolf appliances.
But that’s just a fantasy.
Back to my real life.
So why did someone break into my apartment?
Why was my classroom unlocked when I got here this morning?
And my desk? Someone went through it. I’m sure of it.
Nothing was stolen. Nothing broken. But it felt wrong. Used. Violated.
What could they possibly want?
I don’t have anything valuable.
No jewelry. No secrets. No family heirlooms or piles of cash under the floorboards.
Hell, I don’t even have much family. Not really.
Just a brother who can’t be bothered to call once a year to say Merry Christmas.
The moment I think about him sadness slams into me like a punch to the ribs.
Marco.
The last time we spoke was at Ma’s funeral.
And even then, all he wanted was his share of the house sale.
Six thousand three hundred and eighty-four dollars.
No more, no less.
That’s all it came to after taxes and medical bills.
Not exactly the windfall he was hoping for.
But what did he expect?
That house was already falling apart when Ma got sick, and once the hospital bills rolled in, it was over.
He didn’t even pretend to be there for anything but the money.
Didn’t stay. Didn’t look back.
And now? I haven’t heard from him since.
So no.
I don’t have any family.
I don’t have enemies.
I don’t have anything anyone would want.
The police said it was probably some unhoused addict looking for money, which—honestly? Rude. And probably racist.
Just because my school is in a quiet part of Jersey doesn’t mean bad things can’t happen here.
And just because I don’t have diamonds or designer bags lying around doesn’t mean someone wouldn’t think I had something worth stealing.
Still, the feeling won’t go away.
That tight little knot behind my ribs.
That low-grade hum under my skin.
That something is off.
That someone is targeting me on purpose.
That this isn’t just some random thing.
That I’m being watched.
Followed.
Hunted.
I keep telling myself I’m being dramatic.
I watch too much true crime, read too many dark romance novels where the heroine ends up with the obsessive stalker, and listen to way too many podcasts about women who disappear in broad daylight.
But this? This isn’t fiction. It’s not entertainment.
I can feel it.
Something dangerous is coming.
Still, you can’t live your life in a vacuum.
At least that’s what Ma used to say—usually right before pushing me out the door to socialize when all I wanted was to stay home in my pajamas with a book.
Which is probably why, in a moment of weakness, I said yes when Mary—the first-grade teacher whose classroom is next to mine—begged me to go with her to a Catholic singles speed dating thing.
Tonight.
Hosted right here in the parish basement.
She was so excited I couldn’t say no.
Plus, I figured maybe if I threw the universe a bone, it would ease up on the cosmic horror show.
Besides, supposedly all the guys attending are quality men. Church-attending. Clean-cut. God-fearing. The kind you could bring to a family barbecue.
I highly doubt it, but whatever. Maybe there’ll be free wine.
It’s not like I’m expecting some lightning bolt connection. I’m not even sure I want one.
Not like this.
Not with all of this fear living under my skin like a second pulse.
Not when I can’t shake the feeling that I’m already in someone’s crosshairs.
Not when falling in love feels like the most dangerous thing of all.
Still, I put on lipstick this morning. Just in case.
Because maybe the man I fall in love with won’t be Catholic.
Or clean-cut.
Or expected.
But maybe he’ll show up, anyway.
And maybe—just maybe—I’ll be brave enough to let him in.
My musings are cut short when one of my students raises his hand for help with his coat.
“Okay, Billy, go stand by your desk and get ready for prayers,” I tell him and grin, when another student catches my attention.
“Manny? Back to your desk please,” I say, but something is captivating the boy.
“Miss Rosetto, he’s HUGE!”
I blink and turn toward the spot where Manny Ortega is practically frozen in place in his puffy Spider-Man jacket.
His mitten-covered hand is pressed against the glass pane of the door.
“Who’s huge, sweetheart?”
“That guy,” he whispers loudly. “Right outside the door. He’s a giant!”
A nervous flutter tightens in my chest.
“Back to your desk,” I say again, trying not to cause alarm as I cross the room quickly, my eyes darting to the hallway.
Yup, sure enough, there’s a man standing just outside.
Not just any man.
A very large man in all black—broad-shouldered, black boots, fitted jacket, buzzcut, and the kind of presence that makes you rethink your life choices.
He looks like he belongs in a Jason Bourne movie, not outside a kindergarten classroom.
I stiffen instantly.
My heart jackhammers as my mind races with a dozen awful scenarios in less than a second.
Until the man’s dark eyes meet mine and he moves to open the door with the gentlest push imaginable, like he’s trying not to scare the children.
“Miss Rosetto?” he asks, voice low and steady. “Sorry to interrupt. May I have a word?”
I blink. Stare. Swallow.
Then I hear my own voice, automatic and polite. “You’ll have to wait a moment. We’re about to pray.”
The dismissal bell hasn't rung yet, and it’s Friday.
That means final school-wide prayers, broadcast over the PA system so every classroom can join.
The man—tall, terrifying, tattooed—actually pauses.
His brow furrows.
And then something shifts in his expression.
He nods once, comes all the way inside the classroom.
And—this part stuns me—he clasps his hands together, bows his head slightly, and steps back respectfully toward the chalkboard corner, just out of the way.
I stare at him for half a beat longer, but he doesn’t look up.
Not even when the whiteboard flickers, and a video begins to play of one of our eighth-grade students leading the school in prayer.
All around me, my little ones begin to settle down. They stand with their tiny hands folded, eyes closed.
Some of them peek.
Manny definitely peeks.
But I do what I always do. I bow my head and murmur the words alongside the rest of them.
“Loving Father,
Thank you for this day, for our friends, for our teachers, and for the love you give us. Amen.”
The room stills.
Even the chaos of coats and snack wrappers seems to pause, like we’ve all been wrapped in a soft blanket of peace for thirty seconds.
And when I risk one more glance at the giant in the corner, I catch the faintest smile on his face.
Not mocking. Not impatient.
Soft.
Like maybe once upon a time, he prayed this exact prayer, too.
When the final “Amen” echoes through the room, the kids giggle, the spell is broken, and the mad dash for backpacks and bus lines begins.
But the tall man waits.
And I appreciate his patience.
Whatever he wants, I know he must’ve passed through security at the front of school. All the other entrances and exits are locked until dismissal, and even then, there are guards at each one.
The school takes security very seriously, which is likely because the student body comprises some very important, influential and, yeah, rich families.
I don’t know why this man is here, but something tells me he always gets what he came for.