The cathedral was old, older than the city itself, its stones blackened by centuries of candle smoke and whispered sins. Dante's hand rested at the base of Liliana's spine as they stepped through the bronze doors of St. Ignatius Martyr, the Moretti family's private parish. No Sunday mass today—just them, two bodyguards who melted into the shadows, and a priest who owed Dante his life twice over.
She wore black.
A simple, high-necked dress that hid every bruise, every bite, every brand. The collar was concealed beneath a silk scarf the exact shade of fresh blood. Only the ring and the faint tremor in her knees betrayed what she truly was.
Dante had dressed her himself that morning: black lace panties he'd torn off with his teeth the night before, now replaced with new ones; sheer stockings held by a garter he'd fastened with deliberate slowness; the dress that clung like guilt. No bra. He liked knowing her nipples were bare beneath the fabric, hardening every time the cool church air touched them.
He guided her down the center aisle. Candles flickered in red glass votives. The scent of incense and old wood wrapped around her throat tighter than any leash.
Father Luca waited in the confessional, white stole already in place.
Dante stopped at the kneeler, brushed a kiss across her knuckles, and murmured, "Tell him everything, amore. Leave nothing out."
Then he walked away—only far enough to lean against a marble pillar twenty feet back, arms folded, watching.
Liliana knelt.
The wooden door slid shut behind her. Darkness. The faint scent of myrrh.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," she began, voice shaking.
Silence on the other side of the lattice.
"It has been… twenty-one years since my last confession."
A soft intake of breath. Father Luca knew who she was. Everyone in this world did now.
She started with the auction. The ropes. The twenty-five million. The way Dante had taken her virginity on blood-red sheets while she screamed. She told him about the brand carved into her skin, the collar locked around her throat, the way she had come apart on Dante's tongue that very morning while still tasting herself on his fingers.
Her voice cracked on the details: how she had begged, how wet she had been, how even now, kneeling in the house of God, her thighs were slick beneath the dress.
When she finished, the silence stretched so long she thought the priest had fled.
Then Father Luca spoke, voice low and steady.
"Do you repent, my child?"
She closed her eyes. Tears slipped free.
"I don't know," she whispered. "I think… I think I'm starting to like the sin."
Another silence.
Then the small door beside the confessional opened. Dante stood there, silhouetted against candlelight like the devil come to collect.
Father Luca stepped out, head bowed. "I'll leave you," he murmured, and disappeared into the shadows.
Dante entered the confessional, closed the door, and pulled Liliana onto his lap.
The space was tiny. His thighs were hard beneath her. The scarf came off in one smooth motion; cool air kissed the collar.
"Tell me again," he said against her ear. "Tell me what you confessed."
She repeated it—every filthy detail—while his hand slid beneath her dress, pushed the lace aside, and found her soaked.
When she reached the part about liking the sin, he pushed two fingers inside her and curled them hard.
"Say it to me," he growled.
"I like it," she gasped. "I like belonging to you. I like the way you hurt me and make it feel holy."
He fucked her slowly with his fingers, thumb on her clit, until she was grinding against his hand, biting her lip bloody to stay quiet.
"Ask for absolution," he commanded.
"Please," she sobbed. "Please forgive me."
He withdrew his hand, brought his fingers to her mouth. She licked them clean without being told.
"My beautiful little sinner," he whispered. "There is no forgiveness here. Only ownership."
He turned her, lifted her, pressed her back to the confessional wall. The wood creaked. Her dress rode up to her waist.
He entered her in one brutal thrust.
She cried out—sharp, broken, perfect.
He fucked her right there in the confessional, one hand over her mouth to muffle the sounds, the other gripping the collar like a handle. Every stroke drove her higher, the lattice digging into her spine, candlelight flickering through the gaps like watching eyes.
When she came, it was silent and devastating, her whole body seizing around him.
He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and spilling inside her with a guttural prayer in Italian that sounded like damnation.
Afterward, he held her trembling body, kissed the tears from her cheeks, and fixed her dress with gentle hands.
He draped the scarf back around her throat, hiding the collar once more.
As they walked out, Father Luca was lighting candles at the altar. He didn't look up.
Dante paused at the holy water font, dipped two fingers, and traced a cross on her forehead.
"Go in peace, wife," he murmured.
She was still dripping with him when they stepped back into the sunlight.