The Mafia and The Nun

(WARNING: This is a dark romance novel and contains depictions of mafia violence, strong language, adult themes and sexual content. Reader discretion advised.)

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A piercing scream tore through the midnight air.

It was raw and agonizing, shattering the silence that had settled over the convent grounds.

Sister Lucia stopped dead in her tracks, trying to figure out where the scream had come from.

A ragged cry followed, hoarse and heart wrenching.

And then—

A thud, the sound of a body collapsing to the ground.

Lucia clutched her rosary at the impact, confused on whether to run back inside the church or continue descending the steps.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the scent of rain thickened the air. Lightning slashed across the dark sky—a stark warning of the approaching storm. She needed to return to her cell before the downpour began.

But the storm was no longer her concern. It was the scream and the thud.

It was very close. Not distant.

She shouldn't even be out here in the first place. It was strictly forbidden to be out at this hour. Mother Carmela would be furious if she found out.

Lucia had snuck out earlier to pray, needing solitude within the confines of the church to quiet the storm within her. Something had been bothering her all day, pulling her to the church like a calling.

A buried part of her dark past had started to resurface, cracking her resolve in ways she did not understand and she fought it the only way she knew—through prayer. Long hours of prayer. That was what had kept her out later than she had intended.

Another sickening sound reached her ears. At first it was like a crack, and then it sounded like someone was being kicked with shoes that hit like a hammer. A weak, gurgling groan followed each kick, the sound of someone struggling, barely hanging on..

The noise came from the direction of the parking lot —a secluded area behind the courtyard, partially hidden by a low brick wall.

The kicking stopped and a harsh, angry voice tore through the night, speaking rapid Italian:

“Pensavi davvero di farla franca?”

(Did you really think you’d get away with it?)

Lucia should have turned back. Pretended she heard nothing. Walked straight back to the Convent and closed her eyes to whatever evil lurked in the shadows.

But her body betrayed her.

Her legs moved on their own, hurrying down the church steps toward the noise, her veil swaying with each step. She pressed herself against the cold brick. Using the shadows as cover, she looked through a small opening between the parked cars.

What she saw made her freeze on the spot:

A man was on the ground, dying.

Four men surrounded him, dressed in crisp black suit, their polished shoes reflecting the dim glow of the streetlight.

Mafia.

The man on the ground struggled weakly, his attempts to rise futile as the men in suits resumed kicking him. One of them grabbed the dying man's collar and lifted him like a ragdoll, driving a fist to his throat.

Lucia pressed a hand to her mouth, making a sign of the cross. The other hand twitched towards her phone. She would call the police. But what good would that do? By the time they arrived, it would be too late.

She should run back to the Convent. Or call for help.

But it was past midnight, no nun would be awake. Mother Carmela? As strict as she was, she never worked past her designated hours.

The convent’s security—two aging guards—were never armed, only present for minor disturbances. Even if she screamed, the thick walls around the convent would swallow the sound.

If those ruthless men noticed her, she wouldn’t live to tell the tale.

Before Lucia could fully process her next move, four knives were plunged simultaneously into the man's ribs.

A gun was rammed into his skull.

And then—

A single gunshot.

It was over in a flash.

Lucia watched the man's body collapse, ceasing to move.

His murderers stepped back, job done.

The tallest of them wiped the blood that had splattered on his knuckles on a white handkerchief. When he glanced at the body, his gaze held neither pity nor regret. Another nudged the body with his shoe to check if he was completely dead, while one trampled on the body.

The last of them glanced around to check if anyone was watching. His gaze flickered toward the low brick wall. Lucia's heart pounded as he took a step forward.

Then another step, his gaze lingering dangerously close to where she hid.

She lowered her head quickly, muttering a silent prayer as he advanced closer.

Please God. Let him not see me.

His footsteps halted. Then a low murmur followed in Italian, very close to where Lucia hid:

"Niente. Ma sembrava che qualcuno fosse qui."

(Nothing. But it looked like someone was here.)

Lucia barely breathed.

A sharp whistle cut through the silence before another voice called out from the distance:

"We don't have time for this."

The man near the brick wall hesitated before he responded:

"Andiamo."

(Let's go.)

Lucia remained frozen even when their footsteps faded into the night. It was only when the distant hum of an engine revved that she dared to take a breath.

And when she did, it came out in a sharp, trembling gasp.

That was close!

Had they spared her for now, or she had truly escaped?

She waited a while before she slowly raised her head. The coast was clear; no one was in sight but she didn't move. She should run back to the convent.

But her gaze drifted back to the corpse.

She had been too shocked to react when he was being tortured, too afraid to move. But she could still do something to salvage the situation. Maybe she would take a picture, as a witness to the crime.

But not now. She would wait a little. If eventually the killers returned, she would be next.

She lowered her head, observing her surroundings.

There was still no movement. Nothing. Just silence.

With slow steps, she emerged from behind the wall and inched toward the corpse as it lay on the ground, blood sprawling from underneath. It was a horrific sight. The man's face was barely recognizable- swollen, broken, drenched in blood.

His eyes were still open, as if staring at the heavens above, his lips parted as if wanting to scream but his body lay still and motionless. He was dead. Far gone.

Lucia's fingers trembled at the sight as she clutched her rosary tightly. With a deep breath, she reached for her phone from the folds of her habit. As her fingers closed around it, doubt crept in.

Was she doing the right thing by taking a picture?

If she walked away now, it would be as if he had never existed.

She had always trusted divine justice, believing God would judge in His time. But what justice was this? A man was brutally killed like an animal, and she only watched?

Holding her breath, she lifted the phone just enough to get a perfect view of the man's lifeless body. A video would be better evidence, but holding up her phone too long might get her caught, should those men return. They had not cleared the body. If they would eventually come back to clear it, she had little time.

With the dim glow from the church entrance casting an eerie light over the scene, she proceeded to take a picture.

CLICK!

She captured his badly battered face.

Another, capturing the stabs in his ribs.

That was enough. Any more, and she would be tempting fate.

Tucking the phone back into her habit, her fingers tightened around her rosary as she bent her head, saying a prayer for the dead man:

“Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ei.”

(Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him.)

Her voice shook as a tear slipped down her cheek. She had seen too much in one night and it overwhelmed her.

She wiped the tear drop and proceeded to leave the scene for the Convent when a shadow shifted in the distance.

And then—

A door slammed shut.

Her stomach twisted into knots.

She was not alone.

Beyond the dim glow of the street lights, someone watched her. She couldn't see who it was, but she felt the presence lurking in the darkness, watching her with a suffocating glare.

Another subtle movement in the shadows confirmed her thoughts.

A black armored truck parked at the far end roared to life, the headlights casting long beams across the spot where Lucia stood with the body. Her breath hitched as the truck rolled forward, slow at first. Lucia stepped back as it moved faster in her direction.

The tires screeched against the asphalt, the engine roaring as it gathered speed, coming straight for her. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but her legs refused to move.

Tires screamed.

Lucia gasped.

And then —

Darkness.

A drop of rain landed on Lucia's cheek forcing her eyes open as her back slammed against the cold brick walls of the parking lot. The armored truck was parked some distance from her, its headlights glaring, making her squint. She took in a breath, the air thick with the acrid smell of burning rubber. It overwhelmed her senses and memories came flooding back.

Moments ago, the truck had knocked her down. The sharp screech of tires was the last thing she heard before she was flung, landing just inches from the corpse. She clutched her back in pain, her pulse hammering beneath her skin. She tried to push herself up, but before she could, a strong hand clamped onto her arm, yanking her up with a force that sent a jolt of pain through her shoulders.

Her vision blurred for some seconds when she was upright, barely registering who was holding her with such force.

She struggled, but the grip only tightened. She was dragged away from the light of the truck to a dimly lit pav