Chapter 7: Kira - Marrying the Mafia Daddy

Vinny pulls around the back of Saint Benedict’s, navigating the narrow service alley that deliveries and employees use.

The brick wall rises on our left, stained dark where decades of rain have streaked the mortar, and I can smell the dumpster from the parish hall kitchen even before he cuts the engine.

“Wait here, Mrs. DeLuca.” That’s the first thing he’s said since we left the penthouse.

He exits first, surveying the alley with the same methodical attention he gave the parking garage. His head turns slowly, tracking from the dumpster to the fire escape to the narrow gap between buildings where someone could theoretically hide.

When he’s satisfied, he steps aside and lets me out, maintaining that careful space between us as I climb from the car. The alley feels smaller than I remember, which I blame on Vinny’s presence.

We reach the parish office entrance, a door painted institutional green with a brass handle worn smooth by years of hands, and I push it open without waiting for permission.

Vinny follows me inside, his presence filling the space behind me without overtaking it. I can feel him scanning—doors, corners, the staircase that leads to the choir loft, the open archway into the nave.

His professionalism is a wall I can’t ignore, and part of me wants to tell him that the most dangerous thing in this building is the coffee Father Joseph makes, which is strong enough to raise the dead.

I move automatically toward the reception desk, my body knowing this path before my mind catches up. The desk sits where it always has, cluttered with the same organized chaos. But instead of being empty, someone else sits there.

And that’s when it hits me for the first time: I don’t work here anymore.

The realization lands with physical force, a hollow in my chest that wasn’t there a moment ago. How could I have forgotten that I resigned a week before the wedding? Is that denial or forgetfulness?

“Kira?”

Father Joseph’s voice comes from his office doorway, and I turn to find him standing there in his clerical clothes. He smiles when he sees me, but it’s strained at the edges. I don’t blame him after what happened at the wedding.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, and the question isn’t unkind, just genuinely confused. “You resigned, didn’t you?”

I smile sheepishly. “I forgot,” I admit, and my voice comes out smaller than I want it to. “Well, I mean…” I look at Vinny, who has positioned himself near the wall with clear sightlines to both entrances, and I don’t know how to explain any of this in front of him. “… my husband said I could continue working here.”

The word husband tastes strange, foreign, a language I’m learning to speak without understanding the grammar.

Father Joseph’s expression shifts, something careful moving behind his eyes. “And do you want to?”

“I do,” I say firmly. “I want to return, even if I have to volunteer.”

Father Joseph watches me for a long moment, long enough that I feel Vinny’s attention shift slightly, tracking us both. “We can arrange that,” he says. “There’s always work to be done, Kira. You know that better than most.”

He steps closer, moving into the reception area with the comfortable familiarity of someone who has walked these floors thousands of times. I notice the lines around his eyes seem deeper than I remember, as though he’s been losing sleep over things he can’t discuss.

Or maybe it’s because Domenico pulled a gun on him. I hate how bad that makes me feel.

“About the wedding,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry about—”

Father Joseph holds up his hand. “It’s not up to you to apologize, Kira. You did nothing wrong.”

His eyes hold mine, and I know he’s seeing through the smile I’ve plastered on my face. He’s known me since Mom started working here. He’s watched me grow up and watched my family fracture. He knows what I look like when I’m avoiding the truth.

“Come to my office,” he says quietly. “There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

The relief is immediate and overwhelming. If I’m honest with myself, this is what I came for—not the work, not the normalcy, but this: a space where someone knows me, where I don’t have to perform.

I start to follow him, my feet already knowing the path to his office, when I hear Vinny shift behind me. I shouldn’t be surprised he’s following when Domenico’s orders were as explicit as they were.

Turning to face my bodyguard, I say, “I need to speak with Father Joseph privately, Vinny.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something hardens in his eyes. “I have orders, Mrs. DeLuca.”

“But this is a private conversation with my priest,” I implore. “It’s confidential. Religious. Whatever you want to call it.”

Vinny’s jaw tightens. “The Don said—”

“I know what he said.” I glance at Father Joseph, who has stopped and is watching us with that careful neutrality he employs when parishioners argue in front of him. “But he also said I could come here. Look, I’m not asking you to leave the building. All I’m asking is that you wait outside a closed door.”

For a moment, I think he’ll refuse. His hand moves slightly, almost reaching for the phone in his pocket, and I imagine him calling Domenico to ask permission for me to have privacy in a church office. Surely he wouldn’t deny that, would he?

Vinny exhales through his nose. “Show me the office first.”

Father Joseph leads the way, and Vinny follows two steps behind me, maintaining that careful distance. When we reach the office, Vinny enters first, checking corners I would never think to fear.

Once he’s satisfied there are no other entrances, and no threat visible to his trained eye, he nods stoically at me. “I’ll be directly outside,” he says. “The door stays closed, and you call if anything—anything at all—seems wrong.”

“I will,” I promise, and I’m surprised to find I mean it.

Vinny steps into the hallway and pulls the door closed behind him.

Father Joseph gestures to the chair across from his desk, the one I’ve sat in hundreds of times, usually when I’ve shared things that weighed heavily on me. I’ve told Father Joseph about everything from Mom’s accident to Dad selling me.

I sit, and the familiarity of it—the worn armrests, the slight tilt to the left—grounds me in a way nothing has in way too long.

“So,” he says gently while getting us both some fresh water from the cooler in the corner.

I take the glass he offers me, expecting him to say more. But Father Joseph says nothing else. He simply sits down across from me, giving me the same patient silence he always has when he knows I’m struggling to find the words.

Eventually, he asks, “Are you safe, Kira?”

I stare down at the water in my hands. “I don’t know.”

Father Joseph’s expression doesn’t change, but his hands fold together on the desk, fingers interlacing with the unconscious rhythm of a man who has held thousands of confidences.

“Tell me what you know,” he says. “Not what you’ve heard, not what you fear. What you actually know.”

I close my eyes and inventory the facts like items on a grocery list, stripped of emotion, stripped of meaning. “Domenico hasn’t hurt me,” I begin. “He let me come here today, even said I could continue working at the church if I wanted to. And he assigned Vinny to protect me.”

“So, what is it that frightens you?”

I open my eyes. “Everything else. What he is. What he’s done. Everyone says he killed his first wife, Father Joseph. And the way he looks at me…” I stop, because describing it feels dangerous, like naming something gives it power.

I try to continue the explanation, but I find my vocabulary lacking. The harder I think about it, the more I wonder if it’s all in my head. Because I want to say Domenico’s a monster, which would be inaccurate when he hasn’t actually been monstrous to me.

“He says things,” I continue, quieter now. “Threatens things, maybe, or maybe I’m hearing threats because I’m waiting for them. He told me I can’t wear clothes with holes in them because I belong to him now.”

Father Joseph regards me carefully. “Did he threaten you not to wear ripped clothes?”

I tap my index finger against the desk. “He said that if other men see what’s his, it won’t end well for anyone. But he said it while he was touching me.” I feel heat rise to my face, the memory of his body behind mine, his hardness pressing through fabric, his teeth at my earlobe. “So I don’t know if it was a threat or something else.”

Rather than speaking, Father Joseph continues looking at me, and I know he’s silently telling me to keep going. To get everything off my chest.

“He’s more than twice my age,” I add. “He’s done things I can’t imagine. And I’m supposed to be his wife and give him what a wife gives a husband.”

I can see Father Joseph processing, separating threads I can’t untangle. “You believe he killed his former wife,” he says. “Do you know this, or do you believe it because everyone says so?”

Even though the question is fair, I want to resent it. “I guess I don’t actually know know,” I admit, feeling slightly miffed at having to admit that.

Despite the seriousness, his eyes crinkle at the corners as he reminds me that one should never listen to rumors. He’s right, of course. And yes, okay, I don’t know if there’s any merit to this particular rumor. But when enough people whisper it, it sounds like the truth.

“I’m not sure if it would be foolish to brush it away,” I say thoughtfully.

Father Joseph doesn’t tell me what to think, nor does he even try to influence me. He just sits there, letting me think through everything on my own. Feeling all talked out, I take a large sip of water, letting it cool my throat.

“You said you’re supposed to give him what a wife gives a husband,” he says when he sets the glass down. “Tell me what you mean.”

The memory of the time we’ve spent in our bed is visceral, immediate. “The night of our wedding, I waited for him in bed for hours. I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. What you said wives are supposed to do.”

I look up, searching Father Joseph’s face for judgment, for disappointment.

“You told me marriage is a union in every sense. That husband and wife give themselves to each other. And I thought if I could be what I was supposed to be, then maybe I’d be safe. Maybe he’d want me enough to keep me alive.”

His expression shifts into one of surprise and discomfort. “Kira,” he says, and his voice is gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “When I spoke to you about marriage being a union in every sense, I was not telling you that your body is currency to be exchanged for safety.”

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I feel tears building, pressure behind my eyes I didn’t expect. “But you said—”

“I said husband and wife give themselves to one another,” he interrupts, not unkindly. “And they do. But that giving is meant to be a mutual gift.”

The tears spill over, tracking down my cheeks, and I don’t wipe them away. I’m so confused and overwhelmed right now. I don’t know if I want my husband, or if I just want to survive. Is there even a difference?

What I do know is that when he touched me and made me come, it felt good and like something I wanted. If Domenico had taken it further then and there, duty wouldn’t have mattered. I wanted it and would have done it for myself.

Father Joseph hands me a tissue from the box he keeps on his desk. I press it to my face, breathing through the softness, through the familiar scent of lavender and old paper.

Then he leans back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “What do you actually want, Kira? Not what your father demanded, not what you think survival requires. What do you want?”

The question is enormous. I feel it expand in my chest, filling spaces I’ve kept carefully empty.

“I want to not be afraid all the time,” I sniffle slowly. “I want to understand what’s happening to me instead of just reacting to it. I want my mom to get better, to wake up, to know that I did this for her and not hate me for it.”

Father Joseph nods. “Those are real wants,” he says. “And definitely things worth wanting. The question of whether you can have them with this man, in this marriage, that’s between you and him, and perhaps God. I can’t give you that answer.”

I know what he’s not saying: talk to your husband, Kira. He’s the only one who can answer your questions. And I get that. But how do you ask someone if they’re going to kill you?

With a frustrated huff, I blow some strands of hair from my face while considering everything Father Joseph has said. Maybe this isn’t about answers, but about faith. Not just in God, but in myself.

So far, he hasn’t given me a reason to think he’d harm me. If I look at his actions and forget about the rumors, he hasn’t been cruel or abusive. Yes, he’s decisive and commanding. He’s definitely not gentle. But he also stopped my dad from hitting me.

Domenico used force to get what he wanted, he even threatened Father Joseph. That’s hard to reconcile with the man who, today, gave me space to find my feet and freedom to come here.

I sit with this, feeling it settle into places that have been clenched tight since last week. It fixes nothing. It doesn’t make Domenico safe, or my marriage simple, or my fear irrelevant. But it gives me something to hold on to.

“Do you feel better now?” Father Joseph asks, clearly reading my slowly relaxing posture correctly.

I nod slowly. “I think so.”

“Would you pray with me?” he asks.

The request is familiar, comforting in its ordinariness. We’ve prayed together plenty of times over the years. Prayer has always been the ground we meet on, the language we share when ordinary words fail.

“Yes,” I say. “Please.”

He comes around the desk and lowers himself into the chair beside me, close enough that our knees almost touch. He doesn’t take my hand—that’s not his way, not in this context—but he bows his head, and I bow mine.

“Lord,” he begins, and his voice is quiet, conversational, the way he speaks to God when it’s just the two of us in his office rather than the formal cadences of the liturgy. “Watch over Kira as she begins this new chapter of her life.”

He pauses, and I feel the weight of his next words before he speaks them.

“Grant her wisdom when she is uncertain, courage when she is afraid, and the clarity to know the difference between fear and danger. Guide her and Domenico as they learn to be husband and wife, and help them find patience and understanding in one another.”

When Father Joseph stops, I add, “And watch over Mom. Give her strength, comfort, and healing.”

“Amen.”

“Amen,” I whisper.

When I lift my head, I feel calmer—not resolved, not safe, but calmer. The prayer hasn’t changed anything external. But I’ve been reminded that I exist beyond these circumstances, that there is a Kira who is not defined by what she endures.

“Thank you,” I say.

Father Joseph smiles, and this time it reaches his eyes. “Come back,” he says. “Tomorrow, next week, whenever you need. We’ll find work for you to do, and we’ll talk when you need to talk, and we’ll pray when you need to pray. This place hasn’t stopped being yours just because your last name changed.”

I stand, smoothing my hands over the black shirt Domenico approved, the gray trousers that replaced my ruined jeans. I feel more solid than I did when I arrived, more capable of facing whatever waits outside this office.

“Thank you, Father Joseph.” I smile. “I’ll definitely be back tomorrow. And if it’s okay, I’d like to sign up for the choir again.”

“Of course,” he replies smoothly. “We’ll continue as if you never left.” He smiles and waves as I walk out of his office.

Vinny is exactly where he said he’d be, positioned against the wall with his hands clasped in front of him. His eyes meet mine as I emerge, checking for signs of distress, of danger, of whatever he’s trained to look for.

Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he simply nods and falls into step beside me as we leave. Once we’re back in the car, Vinny catches my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Where to now, Mrs. DeLuca?”

“Kira,” I correct him on a sigh. “And, um, can we go to the hospital? I really want to see my mom and make sure she’s okay.”

“If the boss says it’s okay.”

Right, right. I forgot I have to text Domenico.

Me

I’d like to go see my mom.

Domenico

Is that your way of asking permission?

I frown at the screen because no, I wasn’t actually asking. Maybe I should have.

Me

You told me I had to text you if I went anywhere else. You never mentioned asking permission.

Domenico

Good girl.

What the hell does that mean? Is that a yes or a no? I decide to take it as him being okay with it, so I tell Vinny we’re good to go and give him the address.

My first week with all this freedom and a chauffeur doubling as my bodyguard, I only go to Saint Benedict’s and to see Mom. The second week, I add a few detours to mine and Vinny’s outings. I take him to a museum I love, and we even stop in the local park to watch some kind of art performance.

At first, having him constantly shadowing me felt strange, but with every trip, I got a little more used to him. Somewhere along the third week, I stop thinking of him as the man Domenico assigned to watch me and start talking more with him.

Apparently, I also trust him enough now to finally ask the question that’s been sitting in the back of my mind for almost three weeks.

“Vinny, can I ask you something?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you the only one who’ll take me places?”

He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “As far as I know. Why?”

I chew on my bottom lip. “I, um, I saw a red-haired man at the penthouse my first night there.”

“You met Greg?”

Huh, that’s not what I thought his name would be. “I guess I did,” I reply.

Vinny must hear something in my voice, because he pulls over to the side and turns to face me completely. “Did he do something to you?”

“He just scared me a little, that’s all.” When I see the thunderous expression on Vinny’s face, I gulp. “You’re not going to tell Domenico, are you? I don’t want to get into trouble.”

An icy knot forms in my stomach when he doesn’t reply, and instead starts the car again and pulls away from the curb.

Stupid, stupid Kira. I should have kept my mouth shut.