No Escape from His Gilded Cage

nora

hymnals carelessly shoved into their racks. To free my hands, I first place the dish of pasta alla Norma for Father Coppola on a wooden bench. Then I m

of the dead flowers before wiping down the surfaces. This is my Tuesday ritual, a small task to spare Father Coppola the trouble-though left to himse

I refuse to let the memory poison one of my few precious mornings of peace. Instead, I let the

give a quick knock before e

and a warm smile softens hi

for the parishioners after Sunday Mass. The Parish covers all the costs, which means I don't have to ask Matt

k, setting the pasta dish carefully

ut meals," he says, his gratitude evident. He takes the contai

y, pulling my shopping list fr

re in charge of the kitchen. Whatever you d

ounts out cash from a small lockbox, I ask

, grumbling sound. "What

a gesture of respect. He hands me the

ther," I murmur, slip

n a living nightmare since the incident at Elysian Reverie. I tiptoe around the house, a ghost in my own home, yet his shouting greets me every ev

might cover a train ticket out of here. The mere thought of taking it sends a bolt of guilt through me,

head and neck. Soon, my cardigan feels lik

with the scent of cut stems and damp soil. "Can we do roses for the altar this week?" I ask, st

g stems. "But I can mix in some baby'

brant blooms. "I made pasta alla Norma for Father Coppola toda

make him some macc

the thought off my face a

baking for Sun

hile. Can you make sure

advises. "The crow

l," I

draw together in concern. "Are you sle

second time I've heard that this week. I g

t blazing outside, long sleeves are a necessity-a shield for the bruises on my arms. My su

that goes deeper than appearances. "That's not what I

about it. I can't. I rise to my feet, nodding too quickly. "

t through my evasion. She says, her voi

e smile on my face. "I

ents with a heavy sigh. "I'

from a bucket and holds it out to

er a genuine, if tired,

shop and the grocery store, the sun beats down on m

ide me, and I give the vehicle a c

er my shoulder, and seeing Alessio,

SUV glides to a stop beside me. Instinctively, I quick

en. I freeze on

Not him.

e you headed?" His tone leaves n

er down the street.

tion. He gives a slight nod

nto a hard, cold knot as I slide onto the leather seat. He climbs in right beside me, his presence ov

me is grateful for the blast of air conditioning, but the greater part screams that

st to himself. He shoots me a sidelong

against the door. "It was cooler this morning," I

the cabin. I am hyper-aware of every shift of his weight, every breath. I can't stop the fine tremor in my hands. And despite m

oey finds a parking spot outside the grocer

e of a grateful smile and look

Joey,"We're tak

yes are staring a

e whispers, "It's not

ar when he puts his hand on my lower

d strange. It

the oppressive, confusing presence of Alessio Marino, the