Aria’s POV

Rain soaked the cathedral grounds like spilled ink bleeding through old parchment. The scent of wet stone and lilies lingered in the air as Aria stood by the arched window of her room, her fingers grazing the cold glass. She had always found comfort in storms. They silenced the world—offered a space where no one demanded hymns or obedience.

But today, something was different.

A figure stood at the gates.

He wasn’t seeking shelter. He just stood there, arms folded, face hidden beneath a soaked hood. Aria blinked once. Twice. He didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch beneath the thunder’s growl.

A shiver crawled down her spine.

She shouldn’t be looking. Father Matteo forbade her from gazing beyond the garden walls. “The world is a snare,” he’d said, “its eyes are hungry and full of sin.”

But what if sin looked like that?

Her heart thudded—strange, rapid. She turned away, trying to dismiss it. Yet something in her refused to be still. Aria reached for her shawl and tiptoed through the hall, careful not to alert Sister Bianca. With silent steps, she pushed open the side door and stepped into the rain.

The cold bit through her sleeves, but her curiosity burned hotter.

He hadn’t moved.

She approached the edge of the garden, eyes locked on the stranger. A flicker of movement—his head tilted, just enough for her to catch a glimpse beneath the hood.

Eyes.

Storm-gray. Sharp. Familiar in a way that made no sense at all.

The stranger saw her.

She gasped and stepped back, heart hammering. But he didn’t chase her. Didn’t speak. He simply lifted one hand—two fingers pressed to his lips—then pointed at her chest.

Her breath caught.

Was it a warning?

Or a vow?

She fled before she could decide. Her bare feet slipped on the stone path as she ran through the side cloister, soaked and breathless.

Back in her room, she peeled off the wet shawl and stood trembling before the mirror. A streak of mud marked her ankle. A petal from the rain-lashed garden clung to her hair. She didn’t recognize the girl in the glass.

And she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

Later that night…

Thunder rumbled again, softer now, as Aria crept through the narrow hallway toward the candlelit cathedral. She needed clarity. She needed prayer.

The great doors creaked open. Rows of pews sat empty beneath the vaulted ceiling, their shadows long and accusing. But Aria wasn’t alone.

A shape knelt before the altar.

Her heart leapt—then dropped. It was Father Matteo.

She should’ve turned around. But instead, she watched.

He wasn’t praying. He was whispering.

“…De Rossi has returned. He’s come for her.”

Her blood froze.

De Rossi.

She had heard that name once, long ago, spoken in hushed tones by the priests during her mother’s funeral. A name woven in secrecy, always followed by silence.

She pressed a hand to her lips.

Matteo rose, turning slightly—enough for her to see the anguish etched across his face. He reached into his robes and pulled out something small. Metallic. Gleaming.

A locket.

He kissed it before tucking it away.

Then, as if sensing her presence, he turned toward the shadows. Aria ducked, heart thudding, and scrambled back down the corridor.

She didn’t sleep that night.

She couldn’t.

Who was the man at the gate? And why did Father Matteo know his name.

The next morning…

The storm had passed, but the sky remained gray—muted, watchful.

Aria lingered by the side door again, pretending to sweep fallen leaves. Her eyes darted to the gates.

Empty.

But her chest still burned with questions. She returned to her room, determined to find something—anything—that connected her mother to the name “De Rossi.”

She searched through old trunks, hymn books, beneath floorboards and loose tiles. Nothing.

Until she noticed the tapestry.

A faded depiction of the Last Supper hung above her bed—one she’d stared at for years without ever truly seeing. But this time, her eyes caught a strange seam in the wall behind it.

With trembling hands, she tugged it down.

A hidden compartment.

She pulled it open.

Inside lay a single folded note and a yellowed photograph.

The note read:

“If he finds her, the blood debt will be paid in full.”

The photo was older than her—creased and worn. Her mother, smiling beside a man in a tailored black suit. His eyes were unmistakable.

Storm-gray.

Just like the man outside the gate.

Just like the stranger who hadn’t said a word—yet somehow unraveled everything she thought she knew.

Her fingers trembled as the door creaked behind her.

She turned.

Sister Bianca stood there, face pale. “Where did you get that?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” Aria said breathlessly. “Who is he?”

Sister Bianca swallowed hard. “That man is a curse, child. You must never go near him.”

But it was already too late.

Because he was coming for her.

And something deep within her wanted to follow.

Aria stumbled back from the window, her breath caught in her throat. That smile—it wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t kind. It was something else entirely.

A promise.

She clutched the photo tighter in her hand, her mother’s face pressed to the stranger’s chest—Luca’s chest. The same eyes. The same aura of danger. Her hands trembled as she shoved the hidden compartment shut and threw the tapestry back into place.

Downstairs, the cathedral bell rang. Morning prayer. But for the first time in years, Aria didn’t move.

The car was still there.

The man—Luca De Rossi, the name whispered in fear—still watched.

Sister Bianca’s words echoed through her head like a curse. That man is a curse…

But curses didn’t smile like that.

She moved away from the window, heart hammering, and knelt beside her bed—not to pray, but to think. Her mother’s photo. Matteo’s whispered warning. The man at the gate. The name De Rossi.

Everything was unraveling. And she wasn’t sure if she was terrified… or awakening.

A knock jolted her.

Not at the door.

At the window.

She turned, slowly.

Luca was gone.

But a single red rose lay on the stone sill.

Outside, beneath the watchful eyes of the cathedral gargoyles, a black car pulled up once again. The same man stepped out—this time without a hood. He looked directly at her window… and smiled.