Page 12
Story: Mafia Maiden
The bed is ice cold beside me, sheets tangled from what we did last night. From the way we tried to erase everything ugly between us with our bodies, and heat, and whispered lies.
But some truths don’t burn away so easily.
My thighs still ache.
My mouth is sore from kissing him so hard.
And I can still feel the phantom imprint of his voice on my skin—low, rough, filthy.
I sit up slowly, scanning the room.
The letter’s gone.
So is Luca.
There’s no note. No trace. Just silence.
I find my robe and slip it on, knotting the belt tight. I pad barefoot through the halls, past dust-moted sunlight and empty rooms, not sure if I’m looking for him or for the version of myself I lost somewhere between his mouth and the feel of him thrusting deep inside me.
Eventually, I find him.
Not in the study. Not in the garden. Not in the bedroom where I left him gasping my name into my throat.
He’s in the chapel.
Tucked in the farthest part of the house, behind a heavy wooden door I’ve passed a dozen times without looking twice. I push it open gently and step inside.
The air is thick with incense and memory.
Dust clings to the pews. The altar is bare, the stained-glass windows faded by time. But he’s there.
Luca.
Seated near the front, elbows on his knees, head bowed like a man not sure whether he’s praying or bracing for damnation.
He doesn’t move when I enter. Doesn’t look at me. But I feel him register me all the same. His shoulders stiffen. His breath pauses. His whole body shifts just enough for me to know I still affect him—even now. Even after everything.
“I thought you’d be gone by now,” he says without lifting his head.
“I thought about it.”
He lets out a short exhale. A nod.
I walk down the aisle slowly, letting my fingers trail across the edge of a dusty pew, then slide in beside him. The wood creaks beneath me.
“You took the letter,” I say softly.
He nods again. “I didn’t want you to burn it.”
“I wouldn’t have.”
“I would have.”
We sit in silence.
I glance sideways at him.
He looks wrecked. Haunted. Like sleep didn’t touch him. Like the ghost of what he’s done is heavier than any priest could absolve.
But some truths don’t burn away so easily.
My thighs still ache.
My mouth is sore from kissing him so hard.
And I can still feel the phantom imprint of his voice on my skin—low, rough, filthy.
I sit up slowly, scanning the room.
The letter’s gone.
So is Luca.
There’s no note. No trace. Just silence.
I find my robe and slip it on, knotting the belt tight. I pad barefoot through the halls, past dust-moted sunlight and empty rooms, not sure if I’m looking for him or for the version of myself I lost somewhere between his mouth and the feel of him thrusting deep inside me.
Eventually, I find him.
Not in the study. Not in the garden. Not in the bedroom where I left him gasping my name into my throat.
He’s in the chapel.
Tucked in the farthest part of the house, behind a heavy wooden door I’ve passed a dozen times without looking twice. I push it open gently and step inside.
The air is thick with incense and memory.
Dust clings to the pews. The altar is bare, the stained-glass windows faded by time. But he’s there.
Luca.
Seated near the front, elbows on his knees, head bowed like a man not sure whether he’s praying or bracing for damnation.
He doesn’t move when I enter. Doesn’t look at me. But I feel him register me all the same. His shoulders stiffen. His breath pauses. His whole body shifts just enough for me to know I still affect him—even now. Even after everything.
“I thought you’d be gone by now,” he says without lifting his head.
“I thought about it.”
He lets out a short exhale. A nod.
I walk down the aisle slowly, letting my fingers trail across the edge of a dusty pew, then slide in beside him. The wood creaks beneath me.
“You took the letter,” I say softly.
He nods again. “I didn’t want you to burn it.”
“I wouldn’t have.”
“I would have.”
We sit in silence.
I glance sideways at him.
He looks wrecked. Haunted. Like sleep didn’t touch him. Like the ghost of what he’s done is heavier than any priest could absolve.