Chapter 8
I stood at the small pulpit in my simple gray nun’s habit, looking
down at the innocent faces of over twenty orphans.
“Heavenly Father, please bless these children…” I prayed softly, feeling a long–lost sense of peace wash over me.
Two years. No fear, no scheming, no bloodshed. Just simply
caring for these children who needed love, living as a nun under
Father Patrick’s protection.
“Amen.” The children’s tender voices echoed through the
church.
I was about to continue the children’s mass when I suddenly heard heavy footsteps behind me. I knew that stride all too
well–confident, domineering, possessive.
I slowly turned around and saw the man standing at the back of the church. Dominick Correone, my husband in name, the
nightmare I’d fled from for two years. He wore an expensive black suit, flanked by two men who were obviously bodyguards. Among the devout Irish parishioners, they stood out like devils
in the darkness.
Dominick’s eyes locked onto mine, his lips curling into that cold
smile I once feared.
After mass ended, the congregation began to leave. I tried to stay calm, continuing to talk with the children, hoping Dominick would have the sense to leave. But I knew that was
wishful thinking.
Sure enough, he strode toward the pulpit, each step echoing off
the floor.
“Valentina Correone!” His voice boomed through the church.‘ Your husband has come to take you home!”
Everyone who hadn’t yet left stopped in their tracks, staring at us in shock. The children were frightened; some of the younger ones began to cry. I instinctively moved to shield them.
“Dominick,” I tried to keep my voice steady, “this is my home. I
won’t go with you.”
His face immediately darkened. “You are my wife! You belong to
me, in life and death!”
Just then, Father Patrick hurried over from a side door. He was a tall man with gray–white hair and kind blue eyes that now
blazed with protectiveness.
“Sir, please respect God’s sanctuary and Sister Anissa’s choice,” Father Patrick said firmly, positioning himself in front of me.
Dominick laughed contemptuously. “Father, mind your own business. This is a family matter.”
“Let’s go
back to Philadelphia and start fresh, Valentina.”
“Start fresh?” I almost laughed out loud. “As if nothing happened? As if Isabella never killed my three children?”
Gasps echoed through the church. The parishioners looked at each other, unable to believe what they’d heard.
“You’re insane!” Dominick’s voice rose an octave. “Isabella is dead! Stop talking nonsense!”
“She’s dead, but the evidence remains.” My voice grew calmer
and clearer. “Fellow believers, this man allowed his mistress to kill my three innocent children.”
“Shut up!” Dominick lunged toward me, but Father Patrick
blocked him.
I continued speaking, each word like a sharp blade. “And this
man, their father, knew everything but did nothing. Because he
loved the killer, not his own children.”
Just then, the church doors burst open. Several men in suits entered, one of them flashing credentials.
“FBI. Dominick Correone, you’re under arrest. Charges include
organized crime, conspiracy to commit murder, money laundering, extortion…”
Dominick’s face went deathly pale.
I looked at his terrified expression, feeling a surge of vindictive satisfaction. “Dominick, what do you think I’ve been doing these past two years? Hiding here? Healing here?”
FBI agents began handcuffing Dominick. He struggled desperately, staring at me with crazed eyes.
“I’ve been collecting evidence,” I said word by word, “to let the law seek justice for my children. You thought killing Isabella would cover everything up? You thought I’d live in fear forever?
You were wrong.”
“You demon! You’ve destroyed my family!” Dominick screamed hysterically as he was dragged toward the door.
“No, you destroyed yourself,” my voice remained calm. “The
moment you chose to protect a child killer, you sealed your fate.
Father Patrick came to my side, gently touching my shoulder.
Police cars and black FBI sedans were already parked outside the church. Through the window, I watched Dominick being shoved into a car. He glared at me malevolently through the window, like a caged beast.
Just then, a baby’s crying came from the doorway. A young woman entered carrying a swaddled infant, looking desperate and exhausted.
“Father, I… I can’t take care of him,” the woman sobbed. “His father abandoned us. I can’t even pay rent.”
Father Patrick took the baby–a little boy less than a month old. He gazed up at the world with big blue eyes, curious and innocent.
“Of course, we’ll take care of him,” Father Patrick said.
I reached out and gently stroked the baby’s soft cheek. He
immediately stopped crying and grabbed my finger with his tiny hand. At that moment, sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, bathing us in warmth and sanctity.
Perhaps this is God’s plan, I thought. He took my three children so I could save many more.