Sins of the Saint

Rain slammed against the windshield as if someone were throwing tiny, sharp stones. The wipers dragged back and forth in desperation, trying to push away the water that poured from the sky as if the sea itself had opened. The road was narrow, uneven, and in the curves, the car skidded dangerously. Isabella gripped the steering wheel too tightly, her fingers trembling, knuckles turning white. She didn’t know where the road led. Only away.

Away from that house. Away from that man. Away from the life that no longer felt like life.

She pressed the accelerator slightly. Headlights ripped through the darkness ahead of her like two thin blades carving a path out of chaos. Just a little more. Just a few more kilometres. Then it will be safe. She lied to herself. She didn’t know what safe was anymore. Not for a long time.

Wind slammed against the sides of the car as if trying to ram into it. She was drowning in an unfamiliar landscape—hills lined with dark cypresses, sharp silhouettes rising like stern sentinels. Somewhere in the distance, lightning lit up a hillside, revealing an old stone wall running along the road. The GPS lost signal. Of course.

She tried to calm down, to breathe evenly, but her head fell back against the cold headrest. Just for a moment. Just a second. Enough for something else to flood in: A memory.

Isabella stood in a jewellery store, surrounded by crystal display cases that smelled of expensive perfume and cold marble. Light from the cases reflected off a diamond on her hand—so perfect it felt almost hollow.

Luca stood behind her. His hands rested on her shoulders. It looked gentle, but it was a warning. The saleswoman spoke excitedly about the cut, the origin, the brilliance.

“This one is fine,” she said quietly. She didn’t dare raise her voice. The ring was too much. Everything was too much. Luca leaned toward her ear slowly.

“Don’t pretend you don’t care, princess. My wife will not wear anything small.”

Her eyes met his in the reflection of the glass. All she saw was possession.

“This one is too expensive,” she whispered. “I don’t want—”

Luca raised his hand. Not to hit her. To show her how close he was to it. The saleswoman pretended not to see.

“We’ll take this one,” Luca said. His voice was calm, almost gentle.

“My bride deserves the best.”

While the saleswoman entered numbers into the register, Isabella offered her finger for measurement. She felt his hand move to her back. Right where he could control her body.

“Smile,” he said.

It wasn’t advice. It was an order. She smiled.

When they walked out of the store, he pulled her by the hand so roughly her fingers nearly dislocated. She stumbled after him across the parking lot, trying to keep up—wet tiles, high heels, his anger.

When she opened her mouth to say something—anything—he was already speaking.

“What part of this don’t you understand, Isabella?”

“Luca… you’re hurting my hand.”

“You are mine. And when you’re mine, you don’t question me.”

He opened the car door and almost shoved her inside. When she sat down, she tried to pull her hand free, but he only tightened his grip.

“Look at me,” he said.

She didn’t.

Pain shot up her arm as he grabbed her by the chin and turned her face toward him. Outside, the sun was shining, but inside the car, it was cold.

“I said—look at me.”

When she finally lifted her gaze, his eyes were burning. Not with love. With ownership.

“If you ever doubt me again…”

He leaned closer, close enough she could feel his breath on her neck.

“…I’ll make sure you understand what it means to be my wife.”

And he smiled. His smile taught her fear.

That night, his fingers around her wrist were even tighter. He asked her something insignificant—she couldn’t even remember what. When she didn’t answer quickly enough, he grabbed a wine bottle and crashed it into the wall beside her head.

Glass shattered. A red drop slid down her cheek. Not blood. Wine. But to her, it was the same.

“Don’t play games with me, Bella.”

Her hands were shaking.

“Don’t forget,” he whispered into her ear.

“No one will ever love you like I do.”

And Isabella understood that in his world, love meant captivity. That was the moment she knew:

S wouldn’t survive if she stayed.

She was shaking. Her hands barely held the wheel. The rain was now so heavy that she couldn’t see more than a few meters ahead. When she pulled herself out of the memory, the road suddenly curved sharply right, and the car didn’t follow fast enough. The back tires lost traction.

“No, no, no—!”

The car skidded. Spun. Headlights turned into streaks of moving lines. The road disappeared.

The tires dug into the mud at the edge. Something snapped. Then—darkness. The engine died.

Rain kept battering the world. Isabella sat frozen. Breathing loudly. A sound rose from deep inside her—half sob, half panic.

“Not now… please, not now…”

She turned the key again. The engine caught for a moment—then died completely. All she could hear was the fury of the storm.

“It’s okay,” she whispered to herself.

“It’s okay. You can still get out.”

She unlocked the door. Wind slammed into her as she stepped out— icy water pouring on her like punishment. Within seconds, she was completely soaked. Her hair clung to her skin, her dress heavy. Water ran down her neck, dripping along her spine, searching every patch of exposed skin.

She lifted her head. In the distance, there was light. Not big. Small. Like a trapped candle inside a glass. An old stone church with a bell tower, surrounded by tall cypresses on a hill. The only building in this dark, wooded world. She didn’t think. She ran. Her wet shoes splashed through puddles, water spraying everywhere. Her throat burned as she breathed. Cold cut through her clothes. She was used to pain. Not freedom.

When she reached the church door, she placed her hand on the cold handle and pushed.

Locked.

“No… please…”

Of course, it was locked.

She grabbed the handle with both hands. Water streamed down her face, her neck, into her eyes, into her mouth. She pushed harder. The door shifted—barely a centimetre.

“Please… is anyone there?”

No answer.

She leaned her shoulder into it and pushed with all her weight. The door finally gave in and opened with a long, aching creak. She stepped inside.

The air was cold, but dry. There was darkness—except for one candle burning on the altar, casting a long, trembling beam of light across the stone floor. Water dripped from her coat, echoing through the space, marking her presence where she didn’t belong.

“Hello?” she whispered.

Something moved in the shadows near the altar. Isabella froze. A silhouette. A man.

He stepped out of the darkness slowly, like a shadow detaching from the wall. First, she saw his black shoes. Then the hem of a long black coat. The candlelight caught the metal cross hanging around his neck.

A priest.

When he stepped fully into the light, Isabella saw something else: His eyes. Dark. Sharp. Focused on her. Not fearful but assessing. As if in one second, he could decide whether she was a threat or someone begging for mercy. She trembled. Water dripped from her eyelashes.

“Please,” she breathed.

“I don’t know where else to go.”

He didn’t answer. His posture wasn’t hostile. Or kind. Just cautious. Too cautious. Silence stretched through the church long and heavy. Then he spoke for the first time. His voice was low and very calm.

“Who are you running from?”

The word running triggered something dark inside her. Images flooded back—before she could stop them.

Isabella stood in a dark hallway. Barefoot with a small backpack in her hands. Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure the entire villa could hear it. Lucа’s car key lay on the kitchen counter. Black and metallic, with the logo of a luxury car. She knew she had only seconds. She stepped silently, carefully—so slowly she could hear the rush of her own blood. Her lungs felt too small to hold all the fear.

In the living room, she saw him. Luca was asleep on the leather couch, shirt half open, one arm hanging off the side. An empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table.

Maybe—just maybe—she was lucky.

She reached for the key. When her fingers brushed it, metal scraped against marble—too loud.

She froze.

Luca shifted on the couch.

Isabella held her breath. Perfectly still, hand hovering, fingers on the key. He exhaled a low, muffled sound. Then silence. Slowly, she pulled the key toward her. Quiet. Careful.

When it was in her hand, she almost cried with relief—but didn’t allow herself a sound.

In her head, only one thought: If you turn around, it’s over. She headed toward the door when she heard a dull movement behind her.

Luca turned in his sleep. A moment of silence. Then a voice from the dark:

“Bella?”

Her heart stopped. She didn’t turn. Didn’t breathe. She waited. Waited to know if it was real—or a nightmare. After a long second, she heard him snore. Her knees nearly buckled as she reached the door. She tried to open it quietly, but the old lock clicked—too loud.

No reaction.

She stepped outside. Night air, sharp and free, hit her face. The car stood in front of the house. With a trembling hand, she pressed the key and sat behind the wheel. Only once the door closed did she release the breath she’d been holding forever. When she started the engine, she glanced toward the house. Nothing moved.

She shifted into reverse, rolled off the driveway, then into drive, pressed the gas—and for the first time in years, she felt something she had forgotten existed.

Freedom.

As the car drove away, a light turned on in the villa window. Luca stood inside. Watching the red taillights of his car. And smiled. To him, it was all just a game.

“Bella?” The voice from the past clung to her mind like a shadow she couldn’t shake

Her breathing quickened. Too fast. Too shallow. As if she were drowning. The priest stepped closer.

“Hey.”

She didn’t react.

“Listen to me.”

Only when he gently—yet firmly—placed his fingers under her chin and lifted her face toward him did he break the spiral. They didn’t really touch. But the distance between them became dangerous. Her eyes were wide, unfocused, full of fear she could no longer hide. He saw everything and didn’t look away. This man was used to reading people before they spoke. His voice was lower now, almost softer. Not priest-like.

“Are you with me?”

Isabella blinked slowly—like someone waking from a nightmare. It took her a second, two, for reality to form: candles, cold stone under her feet, the smell of old wood. And a man standing in front of her, looking at her so sharply that lying became impossible. When she finally spoke, her voice was rough, barely audible.

“Sorry. Just… memories.”

He didn’t look away. He didn’t say It’s fine. He didn’t say You’re safe.

“Who are you running from?”

This time, it wasn’t a question. It was a demand. Isabella opened her mouth but couldn’t form words.

Her hands were clenched into fists, shoulders tense. In her eyes—he saw it. Someone owns her. He stepped closer. Raindrops from her clothes still hit the floor.

He placed one hand on the door beside her head—not touching her, but close enough that she couldn’t walk away. Trapped between the door and his body.

“If you want to stay in this church, you have to tell me the truth.”

Her heart beat like a trapped bird. She opened her mouth. She wanted to say the name. But when she tried, her throat closed. Worse than fear of rain, or cold, or a stranger. That name had power. And if she spoke it aloud, it would become real. Instead, only one sentence escaped her:

“He will find me.”

His gaze didn’t move from her face.

“Not while you’re here.”

He stepped back a fraction—enough for her to breathe. For a moment, she thought he would send her away. Instead, he reached into his pocket. And locked the church door.

Click.

The door was locked. Not to keep her in. But to keep him out.

“As long as I am here, no one crosses this threshold.”