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Under the blood and mud, I had not noticed the color.

“Is she dangerous?” I asked.

The scarred man smiled. “No, Father.”

“Then perhaps you do not need three men to retrieve her.”

A brief silence followed, tight and uncomfortable.

The tall man stepped forward.

“I understand your concern,” he said. “But this is a family matter.”

Family. Men used that word to justify everything. Murder. Possession. Cruelty. A woman’s fear.

I took one step toward them, drawing their attention with me, away from the confessional.

“Would you like me to call the carabinieri?” I asked. “If a woman is missing and unwell, they should be notified.”

“No,” the tall man said too quickly.

The young one glanced at him.

“No?” I asked, all gentle surprise.

“We have people already searching,” the tall man replied. “There is no need to make this official.”

The scarred man’s gaze slid past me again. To the pews. Then the confessional. He took a step toward it.

“Of course.”

My hand closed around the candle snuffer. The brass was cool against my palm. Heavy enough. Solid enough to crack a man’s head open.

There were three of them, and only one of me.

The scarred one took another step. Inside the confessional, the woman made no sound. The church held its breath. The priest in me prayed. The scarred man reached the end of the pew. My grip tightened. For one breath, Father Demitri Marco disappeared. He was there, and then he was not. In his place stood the man I had buried under scripture and years of quiet obedience. A man who knew the body as a structure of weaknesses. A man who knew how easily a throat closed under pressure; a man who had once listened to another man beg for mercy and felt only a clean, terrible calm.

The old me rose like I was being pulled from deep water. Cold. Patient. Ready.

The scarred man turned his head toward the confessional curtain.

I shifted my weight.

Then the tall man snapped, “We’ve wasted enough time here.”

The scarred man paused.

The tall one’s face tightened with caution. Perhaps some long-dead instinct had warned him that stepping closer would turn their search into a night of confessions.

“We are disturbing the Father,” he proclaimed.

The scarred man looked annoyed, but he obeyed.

Slowly, my fingers loosened around the brass.

The tall man faced me again and bowed his head. “Forgive us, Father, for the disturbance.”

“There is nothing to forgive if your intentions are good.”