Aria’s POV 

The candle flame shivered in the aftermath of her startled breath. Aria’s hands were clammy, ink smudged across her knuckles where she had tried to steady the note from Luca earlier, still hidden in her sleeve like a living pulse.

She watched from behind the curtains as the stranger stepped fully into view. His shoulders were narrower than Luca’s, his posture coiled, predatory. Every movement was precise — practiced. This was not a curious parishioner or a lost tourist.

He exhaled a stream of smoke, then crushed the cigarette beneath the heel of a polished black boot, eyes never leaving the cathedral door.

It was as if he was waiting for someone.

Her.

The weight of that thought pressed against her lungs. Father Matteo had always warned her: There are men whose eyes carry poison. Whose voices hold snares.

But those men were out there. Beyond the gates. Not watching her from just outside the walls of the sanctuary.

She tried to reason with herself. Maybe he was only a visitor. Maybe he’d come to light a candle. But in her bones, she knew that was a lie.

They’re watching you now.

Those words, from the second note left in the confessional, rattled in her skull.

The man by the car shifted his weight, checked his watch, then nodded to someone in the back seat.

Another silhouette moved.

Aria’s mouth went dry.

Whoever sat in that back seat was the one who truly mattered. The one sending orders. The one she should fear.

She pressed closer to the window, peering through the rain-beaded glass until her heart nearly stopped. A delicate gloved hand reached through the half-opened window, adorned with a ring shaped like a serpent eating its own tail.

She had seen that symbol before — on a scrap of rosary, tucked away in Father Matteo’s locked drawer when she was younger.

Back then, he had snatched it from her hands and slapped her so hard her ears had rung.

The memory, raw and trembling, jolted her deeper into the moment.

They have been here before.

Aria stepped away from the window, fear scraping down her spine like broken glass. She couldn’t breathe. I couldn't think.

Father Matteo. She had to find him.

She spun for the doorway, nearly crashing into Sister Bianca, who stood clutching a tray of leftover bread from the evening meal.

“Aria?” Bianca’s lined face creased with worry. “Child, what is it?”

Aria could hardly form words. “The car. Outside. He’s here. Someone’s here—”

Bianca went pale. Her eyes darted toward the window, then to Aria, and in that moment, something ancient and protective flared across the old nun’s face.

“You must hide,” Bianca said, dropping the bread, gripping Aria’s shoulders so firmly it hurt. “Do you hear me? Hide.”

“Why?”

Bianca shook her head. “No time. Go. Now!”

Aria’s stomach flipped. Fear turned to confusion, then back to fear again as Bianca shoved her gently toward the hall.

“Where?!”

“The crypt,” Bianca hissed. “Beneath the sacristy. Matteo sealed it years ago, but you know the way.”

“I can’t—”

Bianca’s voice softened, a tremor breaking through. “Aria, please. For your mother’s sake.”

Aria’s breath stuttered.

For her mother’s sake.

She didn’t argue. She ran.

The passage to the crypt was hidden behind the tapestry of St. Michael battling the serpent — how fitting, Aria thought as she lifted the edge of the cloth and ducked behind it. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she worked the ancient latch, splinters digging into her palms.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor behind her. Heavy. Purposeful.

She slipped through the opening and pulled the panel shut just as the sound grew near.

Darkness closed around her like a shroud.

In the crypt

The scent of damp stone and old myrrh swallowed her. She took one step, then another, boots crunching against bits of broken tile, her lungs fighting to stay calm.

She had not been here in years. Father Matteo had forbidden it, claiming the crypt was cursed ground.

Now, as she moved deeper, she began to wonder if he had meant it literally.

Shadows clung to the stone saints lining the walls. Candle stubs, long burned out, marked the alcoves where once mourners had prayed.

Aria reached the final archway — a small shrine to the Virgin. The air felt colder here, tighter. Like the ghosts of lost confessions still lingered.

She knelt, hands gripping the marble rail, and tried to pray.

But no words came.

Only the truth:

Her father had not been the priest who raised her.

Her mother had been running from men like the ones outside.

And Luca — Luca who claimed to be her brother — had been trying to protect her.

Why me?

A shuffle behind her froze her blood.

She turned, barely breathing.

Luca stepped from the darkness, his face pale in the torchlight.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.

He knelt in front of her, voice low. “Neither should you.”

“I had to know,” she choked. “What is happening, Luca? Why won’t anyone tell me the truth?”

His eyes held hers with a raw gentleness. “Because the truth will kill you.”

She swallowed. “Tell me anyway.”

Luca sighed. “That man outside? That’s Enzo. He works for Don Ciro — my father’s oldest rival. He thinks you are leveraged. He thinks you are… valuable.”

“Why?”

“Because you carry the blood of two kingdoms,” Luca said darkly. “The church. And the mafia. You’re worth more than any gold they could steal.”

Aria’s hands fell to her lap. “I’m not a kingdom.”

“To them, you are,” Luca said. “And they will tear you apart to own you.”

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes. “What do I do?”

“You come with me.”

She recoiled. “Where?”

“Away from all of this. Away from Matteo, from Don Ciro, from every name with blood on its tongue.”

Her mind whirled. Leaving the cathedral? Everything she had ever known?

Could she?

Luca reached for her hand, warm and steady. “Aria, you have to decide. Right now. Before they come down those stairs.”

The stone overhead groaned — a noise that made her heart lurch.

Too late.

Footsteps thundered above.

Aboveground

Enzo moved through the nave like a hound trained for only one scent. The way he pushed open the chapel doors, the way his eyes darted left and right — no respect for holy ground, no hesitation.

Father Matteo stood near the altar, fists white-knuckled at his sides.

“You have no right here,” Matteo snapped.

Enzo laughed. “I have every right. She belongs to the De Rossi bloodline. And Don Ciro owns that bloodline now.”

“She is under God’s protection.”

Enzo’s smile turned wolfish. “Then God better have a stronger army.”

He signaled to his men, four of them in crisp black suits, eyes cold and pitiless.

They fanned out, searching.

Back in the crypt

Aria could hear them now — boots on stone, voices that scraped the silence.

Luca tightened his grip on her hand. “Time’s up,” he whispered. “We move now.”

Her heart screamed no, but her voice whispered yes.

She followed him, deeper into the crypt, through a broken side tunnel Matteo had warned was cursed.

They passed tombs whose names had faded, bones of saints long forgotten.

Aria stumbled, caught herself on Luca’s arm.

“Don’t look back,” he told her.

She didn’t.

As they reached a rusted iron gate leading to the catacombs, a voice rang out from the shadows behind them — sharp, taunting.

“Going somewhere, princess?”

Aria turned — and froze.

Enzo stood framed in the archway, a pistol gleaming in his hand, smiling cold as winter.

Luca moved to shield her, but Enzo raised the gun, steady and sure.

“Next step you take,” Enzo said, “I put a bullet in your brother’s heart.”

Aria’s breath caught, terror and rage crashing through her like a rising storm.