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The relief is immediate and overwhelming. If I’m honest with myself, this is what I came for—not the work, not the normalcy, but this: a space where someone knows me, where I don’t have to perform.

I start to follow him, my feet already knowing the path to his office, when I hear Vinny shift behind me. I shouldn’t be surprised he’s following when Domenico’s orders were as explicit as they were.

Turning to face my bodyguard, I say, “I need to speak with Father Joseph privately, Vinny.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something hardens in his eyes. “I have orders, Mrs. DeLuca.”

“But this is a private conversation with my priest,” I implore. “It’s confidential. Religious. Whatever you want to call it.”

Vinny’s jaw tightens. “The Don said—”

“I know what he said.” I glance at Father Joseph, who has stopped and is watching us with that careful neutrality he employs when parishioners argue in front of him. “But he also said I could come here. Look, I’m not asking you to leave the building. All I’m asking is that you wait outside a closed door.”

For a moment, I think he’ll refuse. His hand moves slightly, almost reaching for the phone in his pocket, and I imagine him calling Domenico to ask permission for me to have privacy in a church office. Surely he wouldn’t deny that, would he?

Vinny exhales through his nose. “Show me the office first.”

Father Joseph leads the way, and Vinny follows two steps behind me, maintaining that careful distance. When we reach the office, Vinny enters first, checking corners I would never think to fear.

Once he’s satisfied there are no other entrances, and no threat visible to his trained eye, he nods stoically at me. “I’ll be directly outside,” he says. “The door stays closed, and you call if anything—anything at all—seems wrong.”

“I will,” I promise, and I’m surprised to find I mean it.

Vinny steps into the hallway and pulls the door closed behind him.

Father Joseph gestures to the chair across from his desk, the one I’ve sat in hundreds of times, usually when I’ve shared things that weighed heavily on me. I’ve told Father Joseph about everything from Mom’s accident to Dad selling me.

I sit, and the familiarity of it—the worn armrests, the slight tilt to the left—grounds me in a way nothing has in way too long.

“So,” he says gently while getting us both some fresh water from the cooler in the corner.

I take the glass he offers me, expecting him to say more. But Father Joseph says nothing else. He simply sits down across from me, giving me the same patient silence he always has when he knows I’m struggling to find the words.

Eventually, he asks, “Are you safe, Kira?”

I stare down at the water in my hands. “I don’t know.”

Father Joseph’s expression doesn’t change, but his hands fold together on the desk, fingers interlacing with the unconscious rhythm of a man who has held thousands of confidences.

“Tell me what you know,” he says. “Not what you’ve heard, not what you fear. What you actually know.”

I close my eyes and inventory the facts like items on a grocery list, stripped of emotion, stripped of meaning. “Domenico hasn’t hurt me,” I begin. “He let me come here today, even said I could continue working at the church if I wanted to. And he assigned Vinny to protect me.”

“So, what is it that frightens you?”

I open my eyes. “Everything else. What he is. What he’s done. Everyone says he killed his first wife, Father Joseph. And the way he looks at me…” I stop, because describing it feels dangerous, like naming something gives it power.

I try to continue the explanation, but I find my vocabulary lacking. The harder I think about it, the more I wonder if it’s all in my head. Because I want to say Domenico’s a monster, which would be inaccurate when he hasn’t actually been monstrous to me.

“He says things,” I continue, quieter now. “Threatens things, maybe, or maybe I’m hearing threats because I’m waiting for them. He told me I can’t wear clothes with holes in them because I belong to him now.”

Father Joseph regards me carefully. “Did he threaten you not to wear ripped clothes?”

I tap my index finger against the desk. “He said that if other men see what’s his, it won’t end well for anyone. But he said it while he was touching me.” I feel heat rise to my face, the memory of his body behind mine, his hardness pressing through fabric, his teeth at my earlobe. “So I don’t know if it was a threat or something else.”

Rather than speaking, Father Joseph continues looking at me, and I know he’s silently telling me to keep going. To get everything off my chest.

“He’s more than twice my age,” I add. “He’s done things I can’t imagine. And I’m supposed to be his wife and give him what a wife gives a husband.”