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“I destroyed it.”

The gunshot shattered the room. My father’s body jolted. For a heartbeat, he remained on his knees. Then the man released him. He collapsed onto his side.

“Papa…” I gasped.

Blood spread beneath him. A dark stain widening across his shirt, then spilling onto the tiles beneath him.

I tore free. Or perhaps the man let me go. I dropped beside my father and pressed both hands against the wound. Blood forced its way between my fingers. Hot. Too hot. Too much.

“No. No, no, no.”

His chest lifted. His eyes searched the room until they found me. Then they did not leave.

“Papa, stay with me.”

His lips moved. No sound came. I leaned closer. His hand shifted across the floor. His fingers brushed mine. I caught them and held on. His eyes moved past me towards the open back door, where rain swept through it in silver lines. Then his gaze returned to mine, terror in his eyes. His fingers tightened once.

Run.

The word was not spoken. It lived in the desperate pull of his brows. In the way his eyes flicked towards the door again. In the final command he tried to give me when his body could no longer obey him.

Run, Adriana.

I shook my head.

“I can’t.”

His eyes hardened. For one last moment, my father returned to himself. My father. The man who had raised me. The man who had taught me when to hold on and when holding on would destroy me. He looked towards the door again. Then back at me.

Go.

I sobbed and pressed harder against the wound.

“I love you.”

His face softened. A breath left him. Small. Almost peaceful. His fingers loosened in mine. But his eyes remained open. Still fixed on me. Still begging me to run.

4

DEMITRI

The woman sagged against me, her warm blood soaking through the front of my cassock. Her fingers caught in the fabric, clutching as if even unconsciousness could not convince her to let go.

Outside, car doors slammed. Three. I counted them without meaning to. Three doors meant at least three men. The old part of me gathered those details and placed them neatly into the back of my mind.

I carried her down the centre aisle, past the pews and the watching saints, her legs swinging limp above the stone. Blood dripped from her hair onto the floor in small, vivid spots. There were too many and they were too obvious.

I tightened my hold and moved faster.

The confessional stood in the left transept, its dark wood polished. I pulled the curtain aside with my shoulder and lowered her onto the narrow bench inside. Her head lolled against the wall. Her lips parted around a shallow breath, barely conscious.

“Stay quiet,” I whispered, though I didn’t know if she could hear me.

Her lashes fluttered once.

The men’s voices grew louder outside.

I looked at her for half a second too long. She was young. Not a girl, but too young to have been subjected to such violence. Something cold and clean slid through me, and it felt a little like rage.