AsherThe stairs down to Santa Maria del Gesù sweat history. Lime dust, candle smoke, the wet breath of stone. Beneath the nave, the crypt opens like a throat. Men in black suits and old rings line the aisle.At the left of the altar, they have Alessia, wrists bound, mascara boiled into salt. A relic they plan to parade when the pledges kiss the ring.Bruce breathes once in my ear, his voice a whisper under my collar. “Two on the stairs. Three by the bowl. One, left niche, long barrel.”“Hold,” I say. “We go when the Confiteor starts.”The words roll out. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. The room bows. We don’t.CaterinaI count bones in the walls so I don’t run at the first sight of her. Then Alessia lifts her head and I am a child again, choking on a laugh we weren’t allowed.“Cati?” Her mouth shapes it, no sound.I want to tear the crypt in half with my hands. Bruce’s hand finds my hip without looking. “We’re getting her out,” he promises.Nonna is not here. Of course she is
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