Santa Lucia Convent
The first bell for Matins cracked through the dormitory like a whip.
Alexia came awake gasping, the dream still clinging to her skin: smoke, red lights, the brutal stretch of Luca Moretti's cock driving into her while the entire club screamed for more. For one terrifying heartbeat she thought the sirens were real, that the convent was burning, that her sins had finally caught fire and were devouring everything she'd tried to bury.
Then the dream dissolved into cold stone walls, the sour smell of old incense, and the dull, relentless ache between her thighs.
She sat up too quickly. Pain flared deep inside, his ghost still lodged there, thick and unyielding. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her lips, half-moan, half-sob. She pressed her thighs together, feeling the slick proof of last night: her own arousal dried on the insides of her legs, mingled with the faint trace of him. She hadn't even dared wash properly when she'd stumbled back through the postern gate at dawn, too afraid someone would smell the sex on her.
He knew my name.
That single thought was a blade sliding between her ribs.
Alexia.
Not "Monaca Nera." Not "puttana."
Her christened name growled against her throat while he was one thrust away from spilling inside her.
How?
She had been so careful. Two years of masks, of burners, of never letting any man follow her into the night. The convent itself paid for her sins, hush money filtered through anonymous donations that kept the roof repaired and the orphans fed. Mother Superior had looked the other way as long as the envelopes kept arriving.
But Luca Moretti didn't buy silence. He bought ownership.
The second bell rang, sharper. If she was late to chapel again there would be questions.
Alexia swung her legs over the side of the cot. The rough wool blanket scraped across nipples still tender from his teeth. Every movement reminded her: the bruise on her hip where his fingers had dug in, the faint abrasion on her throat where the mask's lace had bitten, the swollen, sensitive folds that pulsed with every heartbeat.
She stood, swaying, and caught her reflection in the tiny mirror above the washstand.
Christ have mercy.
The woman staring back looked freshly fucked. Lips bitten plump, eyes glassy and too dark, faint purple shadows beneath the wimple line that would be tomorrow. She looked like the kind of creature who belonged on her knees in a club booth, not on them in a chapel.
Alexia continued to splash icy water on her face until the nun resurfaced. She dressed with frantic efficiency: coarse linen shift, black habit, starched guimpe, veil pinned so tight it felt like penance.
The heavy fabric scraped over her raw skin and she welcomed the sting. Pain was honest. Pain could be offered up.
By the time she got to the chapel, the sky outside the high windows was the color of dried blood. The other sisters were already kneeling, their rosaries clicking like insects. Alexia slipped into her place at the front and folded her hands.
The familiar Latin should have soothed her. Yet every word seemed obscene.
Dominus vobiscum.
Et cum spiritu tuo.
She could still taste him on her tongue: salt and whiskey and something darker.
When it was her turn to read the psalm, her voice cracked on "In sinu meo concepi me mater mea."
My mother conceived me in sin.
A few heads turned. Sister Chiara cast her a worried look. Alexia forced her eyes back to the missal and read on until the letters of the text finally stopped swimming.
After Mass, the youngest novices flocked around her like blackbirds begging for their catechism lesson. Alexia taught the eleven- and twelve-year-olds three mornings a week, little girls who still believed holiness was something you could wear like a veil.
Today their chatter sounded like mockery.
"Sister Alexia, why are you looking so sad?"
"Sister, are you sick?"
"Sister, will you tell us again about guardian angels?"
She wanted to laugh until she screamed. Guardian angels. She'd danced half-naked on the lap of a mafia king while he fucked her raw and promised to come back for more.
Instead, she smiled the small, serene smile they were expecting and took them to a classroom scented with chalk dust and innocence.
Across the city – Moretti Tower, 9:12 a.m.
Luca Moretti had not moved from his chair since dawn.
He sat, shirtless, behind the smoked-glass desk, his torso a map of old scars and new scratches-crescent moons from her nails raking down his back while she came the second time. The torn black veil lay across his blotter like a surrender flag. He kept lifting it to his face, inhaling what little remained of her: jasmine, smoke, sex, terror.
The door opened; Salvatore entered warily.
"Boss, club footage is useless. Too much smoke, too many masks. The girl melted away before the first truck arrived. Russo's pissing himself; swears on his children he doesn't know her real name. Payments came through encrypted drops, never the same runner twice."
The ripped hem of the veil was traced by Luca's thumb. "She's disciplined," he said softly. "Trained."
Salvatore hesitated. "The fire marshal says the blaze started in the kitchen - grease fire, accidental. No one's claiming arson… yet."
Luca's smile was slow, lethal. "And I believe them. For now."
He leaned back in his chair, steepling ink-stained fingers. The memory of her cunt clenching around him played on an endless loop, her broken cry when he'd almost filled her
This isn't over, Sister. I know exactly where to find you.
He'd thrown the word Sister like a dart, half-guess, half-instinct. The way she'd kissed the crucifix before biting it, the guilt that flared in her eyes even while she fucked him like the apocalypse. But when he'd said Alexia…
Her body had seized up around his cock, a panic of recognition in that one devastating clench.
Salvatore shifted. "You really think she's—"
"I don't think," Luca cut in, voice velvet over steel. "I know. Start with every convent in Sicily that takes in 'problem' girls-the ones with ancient walls, old money, and newer bank accounts. Look for a postulant or novice, twenty-three to twenty-six, dark hair, green eyes. Name Alexia or some variation. Probably transferred in the last three years."
Salvatore's brows rose. "That's… a lot of convents, boss."
"Then you'd better start driving." Luca's smile never reached his eyes. "I want her found before sunset."
Salvatore nodded once and then left.
The door closed with a soft click.
Luca lifted the veil again, pressed it to his mouth, and spoke into the silk, as if she could hear him clear across the city.
"Run all you want, Alexia. I already own you."
Santa Lucia – 11:40 a.m.
The catechism lesson was over. The little girls filed out, clutching their crayons and innocence. Alexia stayed behind to erase the blackboard, needing the mundane rhythm to steady her breathing.
As she turned to leave, something caught her eye.
A single black envelope had been slid beneath the wood kneeler in the front pew of the chapel; she must have walked right past it after Mass.
Her heart stopped.
Heavy paper, sealed with blood-red wax. No name. Just the crest pressed deep into the wax: a crowned wolf devouring a lamb.
The Moretti crest.
She glanced around; the chapel was empty, the only sound the wind rattling the stained-glass windows. Her fingers were shaking so hard
she almost dropped the envelope twice before she broke the seal.
Inside, a single card. Thick stock, elegant black ink.
Confessional. Tonight. 11 p.m.
Come willingly, Sister,
Or I come for you at dawn.
— L.
The card slipped from her numb fingers and fluttered to the stone floor like a death sentence.
Behind the altar, the life-sized crucifix of the suffering Christ stared down at her with eyes that looked suddenly, terrifyingly familiar-black, amused, merciless.
Somewhere beyond the convent walls, a dozen black SUVs fanned out across the island like wolves on a scent.
And far away, church bells began to toll the noon hour, counting down the hours until nightfall claimed her for good.