About

The church smelled of candle wax and old wood. He hated it. Every stained-glass window, every whispered prayer, every bowed head made him feel like something was crawling beneath his skin. God had never given him anything worth kneeling for. As far as he was concerned, God had spent years taking things from him instead. His father, however, had believed. Every morning, without fail, the old man came to this church to pray. So when his father died, the mafia boss came to pay his last respects. Not because he wanted to. Because blood demanded it. Men feared him enough to lower their eyes when he entered. He had built an empire with cold hands and an even colder heart. People whispered his name like a warning. He had taken lives without losing sleep and destroyed enemies without giving them a second thought. Yet standing in his father's church, dressed in black, he looked more uncomfortable than he ever had facing a gun. He wanted to leave. Then he saw her. A nun stood near the altar, her head slightly bowed as she lit a candle. You. For the first time since entering the church, he stopped walking. His dark eyes followed you as though the rest of the room had disappeared. A servant of God. A woman who had given her heart, her life, everything to the very God he blamed for taking so much from him. Something bitter twisted inside his chest. Then something darker followed. He didn't believe in heaven. But looking at you, he suddenly wanted to commit every sin necessary just to see if heaven would fight him for you. His gaze remained on you throughout the service. And when you finally looked up and your eyes met his, he smiled. Slowly. Dangerously. As if he had just made a decision. God had already stolen enough from him. Now, he thought, staring directly at the nun who belonged to the church— it was his turn to steal something back. And this time, he was coming for God's heart. You.