Isabella was completely stunned.
She looked at Giovanni.
Looked at his face, which appeared profoundly holy in the morning light.
Listened to his words that sounded so noble, so right, filled with redemption and hope.
Her mind had completely stopped functioning.
Fear.
Sorrow.
Despair.
What else could she say?
Could she say no?
If she said no, she and her son would be thrown out of the monastery immediately, torn to shreds by the fanatical villagers outside.
Their souls would forever bear the curse and fall into hell.
And her dead husband would never find salvation in hell, trapped forever.
And if she agreed…
She and her son could live.
They could shed the mantle of “sinners.” They could achieve “redemption.” Her husband’s soul could ascend to heaven.
This did not seem like a choice at all.
It was a trap.
A flawless trap wrapped in holiness, mercy, and redemption.
“I…
I am willing…” Isabella’s mouth opened and closed mechanically, delivering her answer.
Tears streamed down her face uncontrollably once more.
A satisfied, holy smile appeared on Giovanni’s face.
“Luca.” He called out toward the door.
Luca immediately pushed open the door carrying a wooden tray holding parchment, ink, a quill pen, and a seal box.
Giovanni picked up the parchment and unrolled it on the table.
It was a deed of property donation.
The terms were clearly stated.
Voluntarily and without compensation, donate all land, real estate, and debt claims under Bartolo’s name to Santa Lucia Monastery.
Giovanni dipped the quill full of ink and handed it to Isabella.
Isabella’s hand trembled so violently she could not hold the pen.
Giovanni guided her hand himself, signing her name crookedly at the bottom of the deed.
Then he took her finger, pressed it into the inkpad, and stamped a thumbprint over her name.
The deed was complete.
From this moment on, the estate accumulated over generations by Bartolo was legitimately transferred under the name of Santa Lucia Monastery.
“The Lord will remember your virtue, my child.” Giovanni picked up the priceless parchment and carefully rolled it up.
He offered Isabella a fatherly smile.
“From this day on, you and Anton may stay here in peace.
The Lord and His servants will protect you forever.” With that, he left the room with Luca, who followed behind him full of admiration.
The door was closed gently.
Tranquility returned to the room.
Isabella remained in her signing posture, sitting blankly at the table.
A long time passed.
Only then did she slowly, gradually turn her head to look at her sleeping son on the bed.
On her face, that numb, despairing expression was receding bit by bit.
Hatred.
A pure hatred, born from the marrow of her bones and the depths of her soul after being suppressed to the absolute limit, deceived to the absolute limit, and stripped of everything.
It crept onto her fairly attractive face.
She came to the bedside, bent down, and looked at her son’s face.
Reaching out, she stroked her son’s soft hair.
“Anton…” “My child…
you are awake, aren’t you?” Anton trembled slightly on the bed.
He slowly opened his eyes.
At this moment, those hollow eyes were brimming with tears.
“Mama…” he choked out.
“Don’t cry.” Isabella’s voice was frighteningly calm.
“Swallow your tears.
Starting today, we can no longer cry.” She helped her son up from the bed, sitting him down face-to-face with her.
“Anton, remember today.
Remember how your father died.
Remember how our home was destroyed.
Remember how we lost everything.” “Remember those faces.
The people who bowed and scraped before us yesterday, but rushed into our home with axes and pitchforks today.” “But the person you need to remember most isn’t them.” She cupped her son’s face, forcing him to look into her eyes.
“It is the man from earlier.
That saint dressed in a black robe, with a face full of mercy, talking about saving us.” “He is the one who stole everything from us.
He is the one who killed your father.
He is the one who drove us to this brink.” “It is him—Abbot Giovanni da Fiesole.” “You must live, Anton.
No matter what it takes, you must live.
Learn to endure, learn to disguise yourself.
You must be more pious than anyone else, know how to pray better than anyone else.
Make him like you, trust you, and treat you as his most loyal dog.” “And then, you wait.” “Wait until you grow up.
Wait until you have strength.” “In the future, you must take back everything we lost today.
With interest, take it all back from him.” Young Anton trembled all over listening to his mother’s words.
He did not quite understand what “endurance” or “disguise” meant.
But he understood the final phrase.
*Take it back.* He looked at the burning, fiery hatred in his mother’s eyes—a hatred he had never seen before.
Then, using every ounce of strength in his body, he nodded.
Outside the guest room, in the hallway: Giovanni held the signed deed of donation and gently patted Luca on the shoulder.
“Look, Luca,” “The Lord has finally granted this poor mother and son true peace.”