Life in the monastery flowed like the waters of the Arno River—quiet, slow, and without ripples.
For Isabella and Anton, however, it was a strange kind of quiet.
A silence as heavy as a tomb.
The following morning, everyone in the monastery saw the mother and son.
Isabella had changed into a coarse linen robe provided by the monastery.
Her hair was neatly combed, bound behind her head with a simple gray cloth band.
She no longer looked like the pampered wife of a wealthy manor lord; she looked like a devout widow who had come to seek sanctuary.
She led Anton to every single prayer of the monks, missing none from matins to vespers.
Inside the church, she knelt in the rearmost corner, her head bowed and her lips moving silently, appearing more pious than any monk present.
Anton knelt beside her, imitating her actions, his small body held perfectly straight.
Seeing this, the monks nodded approvingly to themselves.
They believed the abbot’s mercy had truly redeemed these souls tainted by sin.
Look at them, repenting to God in the humblest way imaginable.
Luca was particularly moved.
On several occasions during prayer, he saw Isabella’s shoulders trembling slightly, as if she were weeping silently.
He was convinced the poor woman was grieving her husband’s sins and feeling profoundly grateful to receive the Lord’s forgiveness.
He reported all of this to Giovanni.
Giovanni merely listened with a gentle smile, nodding slowly.
“The Lord’s light never fails to illuminate the darkest corners.” Isabella, however, knew that every time she bowed her head, she was not praying.
She was enduring.
Every time her shoulders trembled, she was not weeping.
She was suppressing a hatred so fierce it threatened to burst from her chest.
Anton was no different.
Kneeling there, his knees throbbed with pain, yet he didn’t utter a single sound.
He merely used his peripheral vision to steal glances at the man on the altar who was revered like a deity.
He engraved every movement, every subtle smile of that man into his memory.
His mother had told him to remember.
So he remembered.
Only after returning to their small guest room and bolting the door would Isabella allow herself a brief moment of exhaustion and fury.
She would pull her son into a tight embrace, repeating those same words into his ear over and over again: “Remember, Anton.
Everything we do now is so we can survive.” “Survive…
and then take back what is ours.” In her arms, the child nodded with all his might.
They were like two wounded wolves hiding in a sheepfold, licking their wounds while waiting for their chance at revenge.
They believed they could afford to wait.
What they did not know was that Giovanni never gave anyone the chance to wait.
*** Night fell deep once more.
In the Saint Lucia Village, the lights in every household were extinguished.
Inside Jacopo’s butcher shop, only a single dim oil lamp burned.
Under the flickering light, Giovanni unhurriedly carved a piece of roasted leg of mutton.
He used a small knife to slice off a thin sliver of meat, placed it in his mouth, and chewed carefully.
Jacopo stood opposite him, watching silently as he waited for the abbot to speak.
He knew the abbot’s late-night visit was certainly not to taste his culinary skills.
“The meat is good,” Giovanni said after swallowing the mutton, wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin.
“Roasted just right.” Jacopo remained silent.
Giovanni set down his knife and fork, raised his wine glass, and took a slow sip.
“The mother and son are settling in well at the monastery.” “They are very devout.
Especially the woman, Isabella.
Every day she prays to God, feeling deep guilt for her husband’s sins as well as the unholy wealth she once enjoyed.” Jacopo’s eyelids twitched slightly.
He caught the underlying meaning in the abbot’s words.
“She is also terrified,” Giovanni continued.
“She fears the villagers.
She knows that although they took her family’s possessions, the hatred in their hearts hasn’t vanished.
She fears that one day, she and her son will end up like her husband, having their heads smashed open with a hammer.” Giovanni set down his glass and turned his gaze toward Jacopo.
“She no longer wishes to live, Jacopo.
She feels that death would bring ultimate peace for her and her child.
A release.” “She wants to go to a place where no one can ever hurt them again.” Jacopo understood completely.
The abbot wanted him to “help” the mother and son attain “peace.” Although Bartolo’s property had been transferred to the monastery under the deed of donation, as long as Bartolo’s legal heirs were alive, there would always be variables.
Especially that woman, Isabella.
She was far too intelligent, and the hatred in her eyes ran too deep.
Giovanni could see it clearly.
And he never left behind any future trouble.
“Let them go quietly.
Make it look like it was their own choice.
Out of guilt, out of fear…
they chose that path themselves.” Jacopo nodded.
He knew what had to be done.
“Keep it clean.” Giovanni stood up, pulled a heavy money pouch from his robes, and set it on the table.
“This is your due.” Jacopo didn’t touch the pouch.
Giovanni reached into his robes again, pulled out another small bag of gold coins, and pushed it across the table.
“These aren’t for you.
I need you to take this money to Florence or Pisa and buy a flock of the finest homing pigeons.” “It will make contacting you far more convenient in the future.” Jacopo’s eyes lit up.
Homing pigeons.
This meant the abbot now viewed him as an indispensable, long-term asset.
That realization excited him far more than any amount of gold coins ever could.
“Understood, Abbot,” he replied in a low voice.
Giovanni nodded with satisfaction.
Draping his cloak around himself and pulling up his hood, he vanished out the back door of the butcher shop.
Jacopo stood where he was, staring at the two bags of gold coins on the table.
He picked up the pouch meant as his payment, weighing it in his hand.
Heavy.
Then, he tossed it into the deep recesses of a cabinet.
He picked up the other bag—the money meant for buying homing pigeons—and tucked it inside his tunic.
Licking his cracked lips, a predatory glint flashed in his eyes.
*** In the dead of night, the monastery was deathly quiet.
A dark figure scaled the perimeter wall without a sound.
It was Jacopo.
He knew the monastery’s layout intimately—better than many of the monks themselves.
Avoiding all potential watch routes used by night-patrol monks, he made his way to the side wing where the guest rooms were located.
The area was remote and deserted.
Hugging the base of the wall, he reached the window of the room where Isabella and her son were staying.
From his tunic, he drew a thin blowpipe and two short darts soaked in a specialized herbal decoction.
He had learned to prepare this concoction from a Gypsy.
It was colorless and odorless, capable of plunging a person into a deep coma almost instantly without being fatal.
Carefully prying the window open, he inserted the blowpipe.
He possessed great patience, waiting outside the window for a full quarter of an hour.
Only after confirming that the occupants inside were completely unconscious did he leap silently through the window.
*** In the village, the “contaminated” well lay quiet beneath the moonlight.
The mouth of the well was pitch-black, resembling a gaping maw waiting to swallow its sacrifices.
The villagers were all fetching water from the river now; this place had been abandoned, and not a soul was in sight.
Carrying the mother and son, Jacopo arrived at the well’s edge.
First, he set Isabella down on the ground.
Then, he lowered Anton from his shoulder.
He glanced at the child, whose face looked as pale as paper in the moonlight.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Jacopo grabbed the boy by his ankles, lifted him upside down, and threw him into the well.
*Plop!* Water splashed, quickly settling back into stillness.
Then, he picked up Isabella and tossed her down as well.
*Plop!* Another heavy thud echoed.
Ripples spread across the water’s surface before returning to absolute calm.
Jacopo stood at the edge, leaning over to peer inside.
The well water was deep and dark.
He could see nothing at all.
*** Early the next morning.
Just as dawn broke, an early-rising woman, unwilling to trek all the way to the river, decided to sneak over to the abandoned well to fetch water for her laundry.
Carrying her wooden bucket and humming a little tune, she walked up to the well.
She dropped the bucket down, turned the windlass, and hauled it back up.
She noted that the bucket felt unusually heavy today.
Straining to pull it to the rim, she leaned forward and glanced inside.
“Eek—!” The woman dropped her bucket, spilling water everywhere.
Scrambling on all fours, she ran while screaming at the top of her lungs: “Dead bodies!
There are…
there are dead bodies in the well!” Before long, a crowd gathered around the well.
They craned their necks, peering down inside.
And there they saw them.
Floating on the murky surface were two corpses.
A woman and a child.
It was Bartolo’s wife and his spawn.
The crowd instantly erupted into a frenzy.
“Heavens!
How did they end up dead in the well?” “Suicide!
It must be suicide!” “It has to be!
Didn’t the abbot say they felt guilty for their sins?” “They killed themselves to escape their guilt!
They used their lives to purify this cursed well!” “This is God’s final judgment!” The panic lasted only a short while.
Guided by a few “shrewd” individuals, everyone quickly arrived at the conclusion they were most eager to believe.
Looking at the corpses in the well, their eyes held no sympathy—only a sense of profound relief.
The line of sinners had finally been extinguished.
The “curse” upon this village had at last been thoroughly cleansed.
Accompanied by Luca, Giovanni arrived fashionably late.
Looking down at the two corpses in the well, his face bore a look of perfectly calibrated sorrow and regret.
Walking to the edge of the well, he crossed himself over his chest.
“Rest in peace, stray sheep.” “The Lord shall forgive your souls at last.” Then, turning to the assembled villagers, he announced in a somber and solemn tone: “Bury them…
alongside Bartolo.”