4: "Who is Father Damien?"

Lilith POV

The plane touched down in Rome with a jolt that sent pain shooting through my still aching head, though I felt nothing but hollow emptiness as I followed other passengers through the terminal. The overhead lights stabbed at my eyes but I kept moving because stopping meant thinking and I couldn't afford to think right now.

My father had arranged a driver to take me from Rome to Bellmare and the man waited at arrivals holding a sign with my name printed in neat letters. He was older with gray threaded through his hair and kind eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, trying to make conversation in fractured English during the walk to his car but I pretended sleep in the backseat to avoid talking.

The drive stretched three hours through winding roads and villages that all blurred together until we reached Bellmare as the sun was setting, casting everything in shades of orange and gold. The town looked smaller than I'd imagined with narrow cobblestone streets and ancient buildings that seemed to have stood for centuries, a church sitting at the center with its bell tower reaching toward the darkening sky.

The driver pulled up in front of a small stone house with green shutters and flowers spilling from window boxes, telling me this was where my aunt lived. I thanked him and grabbed my suitcase, standing on the sidewalk for a long moment before I could force myself to knock.

Aunt Isabella answered almost immediately like she'd been watching from the window. She looked exactly like the photos my mother used to show me, the same dark hair and sharp cheekbones, the same way of standing like she was bracing for bad news.

"Lilith," she said in English but her accent was thick as honey. "Come in."

I followed her inside where the house was small and cold despite the warm evening, everything smelling of lavender and old wood. She showed me to a bedroom at the end of a narrow hallway and told me this would be mine for as long as I stayed before leaving without asking if I needed anything.

I dropped my suitcase on the floor and sat on the bed, looking around at the tiny room with its single window and plain white walls, feeling the weight of everything crashing down at once. This was my life now, a small room in a small town in a country where I didn't speak the language or know anyone, sent here because I was too much of an embarrassment to stay home.

I lay down and stared at the ceiling, trying not to cry but the tears came anyway and once they started I couldn't make them stop.

The first days were the worst, stretching endless and empty. Aunt Isabella barely spoke to me except to tell me when meals were ready or show me where things were kept in the house, while I spent most of my time in my room scrolling through my phone reading articles about the video and my father's campaign and Tyler's interviews where he painted himself as the victim.

Sophia called me on the second day and hearing her voice made everything hurt worse because she sounded so distant and I realized just how alone I really was. She tried telling me things would get better, that the video would eventually be forgotten but I didn't believe her and we both knew it.

On the third day I tried going for a walk to escape the house but everywhere I went people stared and whispered, making it clear Aunt Isabella must have told them who I was and why I was here. I made it two blocks before turning around and returning to my room where I didn't leave again for two days.

By the end of the first week I was losing my mind from boredom and loneliness and the silence in Aunt Isabella's house that felt suffocating. I needed to get out and do something but there was nowhere to go and nothing to do in Bellmare except walk the same streets and see the same people who all looked at me like I was something shameful.

On Sunday morning Aunt Isabella knocked on my door telling me she was going to mass and I should come with her. I told her no and she stood in the doorway for a long moment before saying something in Italian I didn't understand and walking away. I heard the front door close and then the house fell silent again while I lay in bed staring at the ceiling wondering how long I could survive like this.

That afternoon I went downstairs for water and found Aunt Isabella in the kitchen with two other women, their conversation stopping abruptly when they saw me. One was older with white hair while the other was maybe in her fifties with a kind face, both of them staring at me like I was some curiosity they'd heard about but never seen.

"This is Lilith," Aunt Isabella said in English for my benefit. "My niece from America."

The older woman said something in Italian and Aunt Isabella responded before they both looked at me again, making my face flush hot because I knew they were discussing me and I couldn't understand what they were saying.

"Mrs. Romano was just saying you should come to church next Sunday," Aunt Isabella translated. "It would be good for you to meet people your age."

"I'm not really interested in church," I said.

"Father Damien is very good," the woman with the kind face said in heavily accented English. "He helps many young people who are lost."

Something about the way she said his name sparked my curiosity and I looked at Aunt Isabella but her expression was unreadable.

"Who is Father Damien?" I asked.

"The priest at Saint Raphael's," Aunt Isabella said. "He came here three years ago from somewhere else and nobody knows much about his past but he is very devoted to the church."

The older woman said something else in Italian that made both her and the other woman laugh while Aunt Isabella's face tightened, responding with something sharp that made them stop laughing.

"What did she say?" I asked.

"Nothing important," Aunt Isabella said but she wouldn't meet my eyes.

After the women left I returned to my room but I couldn't stop thinking about what they'd said about Father Damien, the way they'd laughed, the way Aunt Isabella had reacted. There was something there and I wanted to know what it was.

That night at dinner I asked Aunt Isabella about him again and she set down her fork, looking at me with those sharp eyes that reminded me so much of my mother.

"Why do you want to know about Father Damien?"

"I'm just curious. Those women seemed interested in him."

"They are foolish old women who gossip too much," she said. "Father Damien is a good priest and that is all you need to know."

"But what about his past? You said nobody knows where he came from."

"It does not matter where he came from. What matters is that he is here now doing God's work." She picked up her fork again. "You would do well to follow his example and focus on being better instead of dwelling on your mistakes."

The words stung but I didn't let her see it, finishing my dinner in silence before going back to my room where I lay on my bed thinking about the mysterious priest that everyone seemed to talk about but nobody really knew.

By the second Sunday I was so desperate to escape the house and do something that wasn't staring at my phone or ceiling that when Aunt Isabella asked if I wanted to come to mass I said yes. She looked surprised but didn't say anything and that morning I stood in front of my closet trying to decide what to wear.

She'd left a conservative dress on my bed with a note saying it was appropriate for church but when I looked at it I felt something twist in my chest. I'd spent two weeks being quiet and obedient and everything my father wanted me to be and it had gotten me nowhere. I was still trapped in this town, still dealing with the fallout from the video, still being treated like I was something shameful that needed to be hidden.

I pushed the conservative dress aside and pulled out the white one instead along with the red heels, looking at myself in the mirror and seeing someone I barely recognized but at least I felt something other than empty.

If they wanted to treat me like the devil then I'd give them something to really talk about.