20. Massimo
MASSIMO
The church smelled like incense and cold stone.
I hadn't been inside since the wedding. My wedding to Vittoria.
The thought sat like a stone in my chest, heavy and wrong.
The pews were empty at this hour, rows and rows of polished wood stretching toward the altar in silence.
My footsteps echoed off the vaulted ceiling as I walked down the center aisle, and every sound felt too loud, like the building itself knew I didn't belong here anymore.
Like it was calling me out for what I'd done.
The stained glass windows threw colored light across the floor, reds and blues and golds that hadn't changed since I was a boy. I'd been baptized here. I'd taken my first communion here. And I'd stood at that altar and married a woman who wasn't my wife.
God, what had I done?
Padre Ignazio was at the altar, adjusting the candles with careful hands.
He looked up when I stopped at the first row, and his expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened.
He knew. Of course he knew. He'd married us here, Vittoria and me, with all the family watching and my mother smiling like she'd won something, and now I was back alone.
"Massimo." He said my name like a question.
I nodded. My throat felt tight, my pulse already kicking up. "Padre."
He stepped down from the altar, his movements slow and deliberate, and gestured toward the confessional.
I shook my head before I could think about it.
This wasn't confession. I didn't know what the hell it was, but it wasn't that.
I wasn't here to be absolved. I was here because I didn't know where else to go.
He waited, patient as stone, and the silence stretched between us until I couldn't stand it anymore.
"Vittoria made a mistake." The words came out flat, harder than I meant them to. "She said something she shouldn't have."
Padre Ignazio's jaw tightened, just barely. His hands folded in front of him, and I watched his knuckles go white. "What did she say?"
It was on the wedding night. I told her it was not going to happen.
My own hands curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. God, saying it out loud made it real.
Made it something I couldn't take back. "And Vittoria said—her exact words—'I did not work this hard with your family to let it all fall apart now. '"
The priest was silent for a long moment. The candles flickered behind him, casting shadows across his face. When he spoke, his voice was careful, measured in the way that meant he was already thinking three steps ahead. "You're certain."
"Yes."
"You couldn't have misheard? In passing, perhaps?—"
"No." I cut him off. "I'm certain, Padre. I know what she said. With my family. Not for them. Not to marry me. With them. Like she'd been working alongside my mother and Enzo and Signor Greco the whole time."
He studied me, and I felt like a boy again, caught in a lie, standing in front of someone who'd known me my whole life and could see right through me.
My pulse kicked up under his stare, heat crawling up the back of my neck.
I wanted to look away, but I forced myself to hold his gaze.
I needed him to believe me. I needed someone to believe me.
"And the proof itself?" he asked quietly. "The evidence from Rome that ended your first marriage. What do you believe about it now?"
I exhaled hard, the air punching out of my lungs like I'd been holding it for weeks. My chest ached. "I think it was a lie. I think the whole thing was manufactured to get Laney out of the way so Vittoria could take her place."
"Massimo—"
"I know what it sounds like," I said, the words coming faster now, like something breaking open inside me that I couldn't stop.
"I know how it sounds. Like I'm desperate.
Like I'm making excuses because I can't face what she did.
But my mother has wanted this marriage for years — she never hid that.
Enzo has always hated Laney, always thought she was weak, that she didn't belong.
And Vittoria's father stood to gain everything if the families tied together.
" I dragged a hand through my hair, frustrated and desperate and so damn tired I could barely stand.
"It fits. All of it fits. The timing, the people involved, the way they all pushed me toward the annulment the second the proof came in.
They didn't even give me time to think."
Padre Ignazio was quiet. His face was unreadable, the way it always was when he was thinking something he wouldn't say. Finally, he sighed, and the sound was heavy, resigned.
"What do you want from me?"
"I want to prove Laney innocent." The words felt like they'd been dragged out of my chest with a hook. "I need time to prove the first marriage was ended on a lie. That she never betrayed me. That this whole thing was set up to destroy what we had."
The priest's eyes were sad. That was the worst part. Not anger, not judgment — just sadness, like he was watching me drown and couldn't reach me. He folded his hands in front of him again, and his shoulders sagged under the weight of whatever he was carrying.
"How much time?"
Relief hit me so hard I almost staggered. My knees went weak, and I had to lock them to stay upright. "I don't know. I have to go back to Rome. I need to pull apart every piece of the proof until I find where it breaks, where the lie is."
"And if you can't?"
The question landed like a stone in water, sinking fast. I didn't have an answer for that. The silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable, and I felt something twist in my gut. Fear, maybe. Or just the weight of how badly I'd already failed her.
"I have to try," I said finally. My voice was rough.
Padre Ignazio nodded slowly. He walked to the nearest pew and sat down heavily, like the conversation had aged him ten years. I stayed standing. Sitting felt wrong, like I'd be lying to him about how steady I was. Like if I sat down I'd never get back up.
"I'll give you time," he said.
I exhaled, something in my chest loosening just enough to let me breathe. "Thank you."
"But, Massimo, you need to understand what this means."
"I understand."
"No." His voice was sharp now, the tone he used to use when I was young and stupid and thought I knew everything.
"You don't. If the first marriage still stands, the Church will not tolerate you living as husband to two women.
You can't have both, Massimo. You can't stay married to Vittoria and keep Laney on the side while you sort this out.
That's not how this works. That's not how any of this works. "
I flinched. The words hit like a fist to the ribs, knocking the air out of me. "I'm not trying to?—"
"Aren't you?" He looked at me, and there was something almost pitying in his expression.
"You want time to prove Laney innocent, but you're still living in the same house as Vittoria.
You're still playing the part of her husband in front of your family.
What exactly do you think you're doing, if not hedging your bets? "
My jaw clenched. Heat crawled up the back of my neck, spreading across my face. He was right. God, he was right, and I hated him for it.
"I don't have a choice," I said, and my voice came out rough, defensive.
"If I leave Vittoria now, before I have proof, the family will close ranks.
They'll bury whatever evidence is left. My mother will make sure of it.
Enzo will cover every track. I'll never get to the truth if they know I'm looking. "
"Then don't touch her."
I met his eyes. "What?"
"You heard me." Padre Ignazio's gaze didn't waver, didn't soften. "If you're serious about proving the first marriage still stands, then you treat Vittoria like a stranger. You don't touch her. You don't share a bed. You live like a man whose vows are elsewhere, because if you're right, they are."
The air felt too thin. I couldn't breathe right, couldn't get enough oxygen. My hands were shaking, and I shoved them into my pockets so he wouldn't see. So he wouldn't know how close I was to falling apart.
"Understood," I managed.
He wasn't finished. He stood up, and the movement was slow, deliberate, like he was giving me time to brace myself for whatever was coming next. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, but somehow that made it worse.
"What did Laney see in Rome?"
The question landed like a blow. My stomach dropped, acid rising in my throat.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
What the hell was I supposed to say? That I'd gone to Rome and put my hands on her friend?
That I'd warned Nate off like a thug, like exactly the kind of man I'd promised her I'd never become?
That I'd shown up at her door and she'd looked at me like I was every terrible thing she'd ever feared I'd turn into?
"Massimo." Padre Ignazio's voice was patient, but there was steel underneath it. The kind of patience that wouldn't last forever. "What did she see?"
"She saw me," I said finally. The words tasted bitter, like ash in my mouth. "She saw the family in me. The part I promised her I'd never become."
"And?"
"And she sent me away." My throat was tight, my chest aching like something had cracked open inside it.
God, I sounded pathetic. "She told me I'd broken my promise.
That I was just like the rest of them. That this—" I gestured vaguely, helplessly, at nothing and everything, "—is what all of them say.
That it's always for her, always to protect her, but it never is.
It's always about control. About keeping her in line. "
The priest didn't say anything. He just looked at me, and I wanted to look away, wanted to run, but I couldn't. I felt stripped bare, every mistake written across my face for him to read.
"Do you believe she's innocent?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I know her." My voice cracked, and I hated myself for it.
Hated how weak I sounded, how desperate.
"She's not capable of what they said she did.
She doesn't lie. She doesn't cheat. She gave up everything for me — her career, her country, her whole life — and I—" I stopped.
My hands were shaking again, worse now. "I let them take her from me.
I believed the proof instead of believing her.
I looked at a photograph and I didn't even ask her for the truth.
I just... I just believed it. Like she meant so little to me that one picture was enough. "
Padre Ignazio was quiet for a long time. The candles flickered. Somewhere outside, a car horn blared, muffled and distant. Finally, he stepped forward and put a hand on my shoulder. The touch was brief, firm, but it steadied me anyway.
"Then prove it," he said. "Prove she's innocent. Prove the first marriage stands. But, Massimo, if you're going to do this, you need to be prepared for what comes after."
"I know."
"Do you?" His hand dropped. "If you're right, you'll have to face some very hard things with your own family. You'll have to choose between them and her. And you know what they'll do if you choose her."
I knew. God, I knew. The weight of it was crushing, a vise around my ribs that made it hard to breathe, hard to think. But I nodded anyway, because what else could I do?
He studied me for another moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed, and it sounded like defeat. "Go, then. Find your proof. But remember what I said. You don't touch Vittoria. Not while you're trying to prove you're still married to someone else."
I turned to leave. My legs felt unsteady, like I'd been holding myself upright by sheer force of will and the effort was finally catching up to me. I made it three steps before his voice stopped me.
"Massimo."
I looked back.
"She sent you away for a reason," Padre Ignazio said quietly.
"Whatever you saw in Rome, whatever she saw in you — if you want her back, you're going to have to prove you're not that man anymore.
Proof about the photograph won't be enough.
You'll have to prove it to her. You'll have to show her you've changed. "
I didn't have an answer. I just nodded, my throat too tight to speak.
He turned away, his shoulders heavy, and I stood there in the silence of the church, the candles flickering behind me.
The colored light from the stained glass still stretched across the floor, reds and blues and golds, and I stared at it without seeing.
The weight of what he'd said settled over me like a stone.
I didn't know how to be the man she needed. I didn't even know if I could find the proof. But I had to try.
I had to.