The villagers revelled amid the ruins, dividing the “justice” they had just seized through violence.
Giovanni had permitted this pillage; his absolution instantly eased the consciences of those lambs who still retained a shred of goodness, even filling them with a sense of sacred mission.
They hauled away gold coins, silverware, bolts of cloth, grain—everything they could carry—shouting “Praise Father Superior!” as they worked.
Against this backdrop of clamor, Bartolo’s wife, Isabella, held her son Anton tight.
She was wrapped in Giovanni’s oversized friar’s cloak, but this garment symbolizing “sanctuary” offered her not a shred of warmth.
Her husband—the man who had been the head of the household just yesterday—lay near the treasure room doorway not far off, his head smashed like a rotten pumpkin.
Her home was gone.
Her world had collapsed.
Giovanni’s voice was as gentle as a spring breeze, as though the bloody riot that had just transpired had nothing to do with him.
“My child, do not be afraid.
It is all over.” Isabella raised her head, staring at him blankly through swollen, tear-stained eyes.
Afraid?
She no longer knew what fear meant.
She had watched her husband beaten to death, felt her clothes torn off by the mob, and seen her home put to the torch.
Fear as an emotion seemed to have burned itself out inside her body, leaving behind only the numb ashes.
“The Lord has punished the sinner,” Giovanni continued, “yet His mercy does not end there.
He would not wish to see a widow and orphan left destitute.” He gestured to Luca behind him.
Luca stepped forward and bowed humbly to Isabella.
“Madam, please come with us.
The monastery will provide a safe sanctuary for you and your child.” The monastery.
Isabella’s body shuddered violently.
Go to that place?
Go to the lair of this man, the devil who had orchestrated it all?
Her first instinct was to refuse.
To scream.
To hurl herself forward and claw open his hypocritical face with her nails.
But then she looked down at Anton in her arms.
The boy was neither crying nor throwing a tantrum; he just gripped her clothes tightly, his normally clear eyes as hollow as two dried-up wells.
Then she cast a glance around at the villagers hauling away her belongings, who occasionally cast gloating or greedy looks her way.
She knew she had no choice.
This village no longer had any place for them.
If they stayed, they would be eaten alive.
Their only path to survival unexpectedly pointed directly toward the man who had destroyed everything she had.
It was the cruelest irony in the world.
Isabella closed her eyes as two fresh trails of tears slid down her cheeks.
“…Very well.” She stood up, her legs giving way so that she nearly collapsed.
Luca quickly stepped forward to support her.
“I…
we can walk on our own.” Isabella pushed Luca’s hand away.
Steadying herself against the wall, she staggered until she found her balance, then gripped her son Anton’s hand and followed behind Giovanni.
Giovanni led them through the reveling crowd.
Seeing Father Superior leading Bartolo’s wife and son in person, the villagers stopped what they were doing and parted to make way.
They watched the widow and orphan with complex gazes.
There were lingering traces of pity, but mostly, scrutiny.
As if to say: *Look, this is what happens when you offend Father Superior, when you offend the Lord.* Giovanni did not merely destroy a man’s body and wealth; he dismantled his social ties, erased all trace of his existence, and finally, posing as a “savior,” turned his family into his own personal trophies.
This was true, complete victory.
Walking behind, Luca gazed at Father Superior’s back, his heart overflowing with boundless adoration.
He truly felt that Father Superior had saved not only the entire village, but also this pitiable mother and son.
His mercy shone even brighter than the sun.
Only Anton felt differently.
The seven-year-old boy was pulled along by his mother, his tiny frame nearly engulfed by Giovanni’s shadow.
He raised his head and looked at the tall back in the black friar’s robe walking ahead.
He had seen his father beaten to death.
He had seen his mother humiliated.
He had seen how those familiar faces had turned into devils.
And then this man had appeared.
With a single sentence, he had brought every devil to their knees.
With another sentence, he had made every devil shower him with gratitude.
Now he was taking him and his mother back to his domain.
Anton did not understand political maneuvering or demagoguery.
But instinctively, he caught a scent from that figure—a chill far colder than the smell of blood.
…
The guest room at the monastery had been cleaned thoroughly.
A wooden bed draped with linen sheets, a small table, and two chairs.
A wooden crucifix hung on the wall.
Outside the window lay the quiet courtyard of the monastery, where the ethereal hymns sung by the monks during evening prayers floated gently, as though descending from heaven.
This place and the estate outside—which had just suffered a bloody rampage—were two entirely different worlds.
One serene and sacred.
The other savage and filthy.
Isabella sat on the bed, hugging her knees.
The monks had brought her clean clothes, hot soup, and bread.
Anton curled up beside her, already asleep, though teardrops still clung to the corners of his eyes.
Isabella hadn’t touched any of the food.
She just stared blankly out the window.
Dawn was fast approaching.
She hadn’t slept all night, yet felt no trace of fatigue.
In her mind, the events of the past twenty-four hours played on repeat.
Her husband’s brutal death.
The mob’s wild revelry.
And Giovanni’s holy, smiling face.
She couldn’t understand it.
How had all of this happened?
*Knock, knock, knock.* A knocking sound echoed.
Isabella’s body went rigid.
“Lady Isabella,” came Giovanni’s gentle voice from outside the door, “may I come in and speak with you?”