Chapter Five
LUCIA
The farther I walk from the restaurant, the quieter the streets become.
I don’t know where I am.
I don’t know how long I’ve been walking.
I only know I’ve put turn after turn between myself and Vesuvio, and each one makes it harder for Viktor’s men to find me.
The restaurants and crowded sidewalks gradually give way to narrower streets lined with brick buildings and iron fences. Apartment windows glow several stories above me. Through one, I glimpse a man washing dishes. Through another, a woman crosses a room carrying a sleeping child.
Small pieces of lives that have nothing to do with Viktor.
The crowds thin until only the occasional pedestrian passes me. Most people glance at the black dress and bare feet before looking away.
No one stops.
My feet ache against the uneven pavement. Every crack and loose stone finds a new place to hurt, but putting the heels back on would be worse.
They dangle from two fingers, little more than dead weight now.
The night air slides beneath the satin of my dress, raising goose bumps across my bare back. My toes have gone numb, but the cuts on my soles burn with every step.
I should have taken a coat.
I should have taken the money.
I should have waited until I had a real plan.
I should have—
My thoughts stop when I round the next corner.
A church rises from the middle of the block.
Weathered brick glows amber beneath the streetlights. Three broad arches frame heavy wooden doors at the top of a short flight of granite steps. Above them, a square bell tower disappears into the darkness.
A bronze plaque beside the steps reads SAINT CECILIA’S.
I slow.
It’s just a church.
It can’t help me.
Then I notice the light.
One of the tall arched windows glows from within, and the center door stands open a few inches, as though someone forgot to pull it closed.
Warmth.
Silence.
Safety, even if only for a few minutes.
For one impossible moment, I remember my mother.
Not her whole face. I try to summon it, but all I find are pieces. Dark hair brushing my cheek. The faint floral scent of her perfume. The warmth of her hand wrapped around mine as she led me into Sunday Mass.
I remember incense and candle wax.
The hush of the sanctuary.
The way she dipped two fingers into the holy water, touched them to my forehead, and crossed herself.
I haven’t stepped inside a church since she died eight years ago.
My feet carry me across the street before I decide to move.
The granite steps are cold beneath my soles. A dark footprint remains behind when I climb to the next one.
I hesitate outside the open door.
Viktor’s men will already be searching.
They’ll check the restaurant and surrounding streets. Train stations. Bus terminals. They’ll show my photograph to cabdrivers and hotel clerks. Viktor will send Yevgeny to anyone who might know where I’ve gone.
Would they think to look inside a church?
The question almost makes me laugh.
No.
Viktor would never think to look for me here.
I press one trembling hand against the heavy wooden door.
It swings inward with a low groan.
Warm air washes over my skin.
Then I look up.
And stop breathing.
The sanctuary opens above me in a sweep of ivory, blue, and gold. Massive arches rise toward a painted dome where angels float among pale clouds. Chandeliers cast warm light across the polished marble floor, and colored saints watch from tall stained-glass windows.
Candles flicker beneath statues, their flames trembling in the stillness. The faint smell of incense lingers beneath the older scents of wood, stone, and extinguished wax.
The city disappears when the door closes behind me.
I don’t know what I expected.
Not this.
Not something so beautiful.
My steps echo as I move toward the last pew.
I slide onto the wooden bench and set my shoes beside me. My dirty feet look out of place against the gleaming floor.
So does the dress.
So do I.
But no one tells me to leave.
I look toward the altar.
No guard stands behind me. No camera watches from the corner. No one waits to report where I look or what I touch.
For the first time in six years, I am alone.
The realization settles over me so suddenly that my shoulders begin to shake.
I don’t realize I’m crying until a tear lands on the back of my hand.
I wipe it away at once.
Another follows.
I press my palms to my eyes, but that only makes it worse.
The fear I’ve held inside since I pushed through the restaurant door finally breaks loose. It comes silently at first, then in shaky breaths I can’t control.
I’m free.
I’m cold.
I’m alone.
And I have absolutely no idea what to do next.
I don’t know how long I sit there.
Five minutes.
Maybe thirty.
Time feels different inside the church. The city continues without me beyond the doors, but in here, the only sounds are the faint hum of the lights, the sputter of a candle nearing its end, and the occasional creak of old wood settling.
Eventually, the tears stop.
They leave my cheeks tight and my eyes swollen, but my breathing steadies.
“Miss?”
The quiet voice startles me.
I turn so quickly that my knee strikes the pew in front of me.
An older man stands several rows away.
His gray hair is neatly combed, and wire-rimmed glasses sit low on his nose. He wears black trousers and a black clergy shirt, the white Roman collar visible at his throat. A ring of brass keys hangs from one hand.
He makes no move to come closer.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he says. “I was locking up for the night.”
“Oh.”
I reach for my shoes and stand.
“I’m sorry.”
When I step into the aisle, his gaze drops to my feet.
They’re bare and filthy. A thin line of blood marks one heel where the pavement cut me. Grit has collected along my toes, and the red marks left by the shoes circle both ankles.
I pull the heels against my chest, suddenly aware of what I must look like.
“Thank you,” I say.
I turn toward the doors.
“Miss.”
I look back.
“Let me get you a sweater.”
He slips the keys into his pocket.
“No, I’m fine.”
“You look cold.”
“I’m okay.”
The lie comes automatically.
He studies me for a moment. His gaze moves from my swollen eyes to the expensive dress and then to the blood on my heel.
Concern deepens the lines around his mouth.
“I’m going to be honest,” he says. “You look like you’re in trouble.”
My fingers tighten around my shoes.
He’s not wrong.
My gaze shifts toward the doors.
If I step outside, Viktor’s men might already be waiting.
“I can’t go to the police,” I whisper.
“Okay.”
No questions.
No demand for an explanation.
He simply sits at the end of the nearest pew, leaving several feet of space between us.
The distance feels deliberate.
Safe.
“I’m Father Russo,” he says. “You don’t have to tell me your name.”
I remain standing.
“I don’t have any money.”
“I see.”
“I don’t have anywhere to go.”
He nods thoughtfully, as though I’ve given him a problem to solve rather than confessed something shameful.
“I know a family a few streets over. They own a small boardinghouse.”
“A boardinghouse?”
“They’ve helped people before.”
I step back into the pew and sit at the opposite end.
“I don’t have identification.”
“They won’t ask.”
“I can’t pay.”
“I’ll speak with them.”
“No one can know I’m there.”
My voice sharpens.
He doesn’t react.
“They won’t.”
“You can’t tell anyone you saw me.”
“I understand.”
I search his face for suspicion or curiosity.
There is concern, but no greed. No calculation. No sign that he’s trying to decide what helping me might be worth.
I don’t know what to do with that.
“You don’t have to give anyone your name,” he says.
I look down at the heels clenched against my chest.
They’re the only things I own outside Viktor’s house.
In truth, I don’t even own them.
Even the dress belongs to him.
Father Russo stands.
“Come. I think we have some clothes in the donation room. We may even find you a pair of shoes.”
“I don’t know.”
“One thing at a time.”
He offers me a gentle smile, but not his hand.
“First, we’ll find you something warm to wear. Then we’ll find you a bed.”
I glance toward the altar.
My mother brought me to church because she believed someone was listening.
I stopped believing that a long time ago.
Still, a door opened tonight.
Then another.
And another.
“What happens tomorrow?”
Father Russo retrieves his keys.
“Tomorrow is another story.”