Repent

Amalia Elena Ferrara lifted her chin, forcing her lungs to expand as she projected her solo out into the cavernous sanctuary of the church. She needed the grace of the Lord to wash over her. She prayed for the holy spirit to fill her chest, to guide her voice as communion was served to the quiet congregation below. She could sing this sacred hymn in her sleep. She never missed a single note, her pitch flawless as the melody echoed off the stained-glass windows. Yet, her mind remained hopelessly fractured. She felt a deep, gnawing guilt in her chest. Her heart was in the wrong place, failing to focus solely on the beautiful, pious lyrics meant as a pure ode to Jesus.

Her distraction had a source. Father Silvestro Accardi, her mother’s brother, stood at the altar conducting the service. His heavy, embroidered robes swished around his ankles with sharp, brusque movements. He handled the holy communion with rigid authority, his presence alone enough to tie Amalia’s stomach into tight, painful knots. Earlier that morning, he had cornered her in the hallway. He possessed a prideful, arrogant tilt to his head when he looked down at her, announcing in a voice that brooked no argument that he required her presence in his office immediately following mass.

Every single one of the twenty-five other choir members had frozen, their eyes going wide as her uncle’s harsh, judgmental gaze pinned her to the floor. All Amalia could offer in return was a meek, trembling submission, a quiet confirmation before he turned and swirled out of the room with a dramatic flourish.

Now, standing in the high choir loft overlooking the expansive church, Amalia gripped her sheet music. From this high vantage point, she noticed a crack in her uncle’s usual ironclad composure. Father Silvestro’s eyes kept darting nervously toward a man sitting dead center in the front row. Amalia strained to look. She could not see the stranger’s face from behind, but she knew with absolute certainty he did not belong to their humble parish. His tailored dark suit and staggering physical build set him apart from the regular churchgoers. The sheer, overwhelming width of his shoulders dominated the wooden pew.

As Amalia stepped back into her designated place among the sopranos, her best friend Ginevra leaned in close, elbowing her in the ribs.

"What do you think he wants?" Ginevra whispered, her voice tight with anxiety.

Amalia exhaled a shaky breath, keeping her eyes fixed on her hymnal. "I didn’t know the last six times you asked me."

"Do you think he found out we stayed late Thursday night?" Ginevra’s breathing hitched, terror creeping into her tone. "I mean, we were only praying. We didn’t do anything wrong. We locked up, right? Tell me we didn’t forget to lock the chapel doors when we left."

"We locked up, Ginevra," Amalia murmured, trying to soothe her friend. "He wouldn’t be angry just because we stayed longer to pray."

"Did you confess a sin?" Ginevra pressed, refusing to let it go.

"No."

Before Ginevra could spiral further, the choir director snapped his head toward them, his eyes narrowing as he shot them a venomous warning glance. The communion service drew to a close, and both girls snapped their mouths shut, freezing in place until the final prayer concluded.

By the time Amalia returned to the quiet choir room to hang up her heavy robe, the dread sitting heavy in her stomach had mutated into sharp, creeping panic. She assured Ginevra she would meet her back at their shared apartment, practically shoving her friend out the door to protect her from whatever wrath was coming. Amalia dawdled. She desperately needed to delay the terrifying, inevitable meeting with her uncle. She offered to tidy the room, straightening the rows of chairs and collecting stray sheet music, lingering in the shadows until the very last choir member vanished down the hall.

Her uncle was never a friendly or forgiving man, despite his sacred vows. Where other priests offered warm smiles, kind guidance, and loving forgiveness for human transgressions in the name of Jesus, Father Silvestro cast harsh, rigid judgments of hellfire and brimstone without a second thought. He ruled their parish and their family with an iron fist. More than once, Amalia’s skin had felt the brutal, biting whip of his leather flogger, wielded to punish her for wicked sins she was undoubtedly committing in her own mind.

Since the sudden death of his parents years ago, Silvestro had declared himself the supreme head of the Ferrara family. That family consisted only of himself, his younger sister Bettina, and her daughter Amalia. Bettina spent vastly more time on her bruised knees praying for salvation than Amalia ever did, and that spoke volumes. Her deeply repentant mother had been trapped in a cycle of endless shame since she found herself pregnant at sixteen, falling victim to the sweet, hollow words of a neighborhood bad boy. Her rigid parents had flatly refused to consider adoption for their only daughter. They insisted all children were blessings from God, forcing Bettina to keep the baby and raise it under a cloud of disgrace. When Amalia was only two years old, her grandparents died, leaving the helpless mother and her illegitimate child trapped under the watchful, ever-condescending, and oppressive rule of Father Silvestro.

A sudden scrape of movement near the heavy wooden door shattered the silence. Amalia jumped, startled. She was supposed to be the only person left in the wing. She looked up, her pulse spiking in alarm.

The stranger from the front row stood inside the choir room.

"Hello," she managed to say, offering a nervous, jerky nod.

She rarely spent time alone near a boy, let alone a grown man. She worked the front desk at a local dental office, so she occasionally interacted with male patients in the waiting room, but this presence felt entirely foreign. He was a devastating force of nature. He was arguably the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on. Striking, terrifyingly dark blue eyes—the rich, vibrant color of overripe blueberries ready to burst on the tongue—bored straight into her pale brown ones. His hair was incredibly thick, pitch-black, and glossy, slicked back sharply away from his strong temples.

His physical presence swallowed the room. His shoulders were impossibly wide; she could likely stand three of her own frame side-by-side across his chest and still have room to spare. He towered over her, standing well over six feet tall. As her nervous gaze perused his muscular frame, she took in the trim, lethal fit of his expensive suit. Her eyes roved back up to his face, noting the straight, aristocratic nose and the thick, sensual lips. She froze, transfixed as he slowly drew his tongue over his bottom lip. The corner of his mouth curved upward into the smallest, darkest hint of a mocking smile.

"Scusi," he murmured.

His thick Italian accent rolled smoothly off his tongue, wrapping around a deep, gravelly voice that sent an involuntary shiver skipping down her spine. His striking eyes flared with open amusement, openly mocking her as he caught her perusing the dangerous lines of his body.

A hot, furious red flush exploded across Amalia’s cheeks. She scrambled backward, clutching a thick red hymnal tight to her chest to form a desperate, flimsy barrier between them.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"What are you doing?" he asked, ignoring her question. He nodded his chin toward the book crushed against her racing heart.

She swallowed hard, fighting the dry lump in her throat. "I was putting the last of the hymnals away in their proper place. Director Sorrento requested I do so before I go home."

"And where is home?"

The dark, curious edge to his rough voice gave her serious pause. The air in the room suddenly felt too thick to breathe.

"It is not a far walk from here," she whispered, taking another step back. She sucked in a sharp breath and rushed her words. "Can I help you, sir? I need to go. I need to see my uncle as he is waiting for me."

The stranger let out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated in the quiet space. "Sir?" He tilted his head, his gaze darkening. "Oh, sweet Amalia. Is this how you would address me?"

She frowned, genuine confusion warring with her rising panic. "Do we know each other?"

She searched his harsh, beautiful features. She could not place him. If anything, she would remember a man with eyes like his. She was sure of it.

"Not yet, amoré."

He stepped deeper into the room. Amalia knew her eyes were wide with naked panic. He moved toward her, and the raw, lethal grace of his stride made her wonder if the massive man floated. He locked his intense focus onto her face like a starving hawk eyeing its trapped prey. She scrambled backward until her spine hit the hard wood of the bookshelves. She had nowhere left to run. Her fingers dug white-knuckled into the leather cover of the hymnal.

Her breath came to a dead stop.

He stepped directly into her space, his massive chest a hairsbreadth away from her own. She closed her eyes tightly and tilted her head away from him, terrified of the heat radiating off his imposing frame. He leaned over her, dipping his face toward the exposed skin of her neck. She felt the firm, deliberate brush of his nose sliding up the sensitive side of her throat, right below her ear. He inhaled long and deep, taking his time, as if he were memorizing her unique scent.

His breath rushed hot and heavy against the shell of her ear when he finally whispered.

"So fucking innocent. Almost worth saying a prayer of thanks."

He stood upright, his shadow swallowing her whole. He possessed the sheer audacity to reach out, his large, warm fingers cupping her chin to tilt her face upward. He leaned in and pressed a firm, burning kiss directly to the center of her forehead.

"I will see you soon," he promised.

Without another word, he released her. He turned his broad back to her and walked with deadly, silent purpose back toward the door. Amalia stood paralyzed against the wood, trembling in sheer terror. She was wide awake, buzzing with the terrifying awareness of a man she had never experienced in her life. The intimate way he had breathed against her neck made frantic goosebumps erupt across every inch of her flesh. The phantom heat of his lips still burned like a brand on her forehead.

He reached the threshold and stopped.

"Amalia."

He turned at the door, casting a hard, merciless look back at her. The dark amusement was gone. His expression was scary, menacing, and utterly frigid. Amalia struggled to catch a breath under the weight of his icy countenance, her blood freezing in her veins.

"You best remain untouched until then, or there will be hell to pay."

With that final, chilling command, he turned and disappeared into the shadowed halls of the church.

Left entirely alone in his heavy wake, Amalia gripped the edge of the bookshelf to keep her legs from buckling. Her heart pounded furiously, hammering a violent rhythm against her ribs. She was overwhelmed, drowning not just in profound fear, but in a strange, wicked emotion she never allowed herself to feel. A dark, forbidden physical arousal teased her brain, flooding her veins with a confusing heat. It made her head spin. It made her want to slide down the wood, fall to her bruised knees, and beg for desperate repentance.