Days blurred in the Don’s estate like ink in water.
Mary moved through them in a daze, her world shrunk to the kitchen and the nursery, the quiet murmur of women stitching lace and slicing herbs. She peeled carrots beside widows and stirred pots of stew, swept marble floors with girls who whispered about death between prayers.
She embroidered initials into linens she didn’t care about and held babies who cried for men already buried. She smiled when she was expected to, cried only when no one watched.
Will had disappeared again — this time into the smoke of war — and Mary was left with nothing but silence and the fear that he wouldn’t return.
Carmela watched her from across the long halls and quiet courtyards. On the third night, as they prepared dinner, she pulled Mary aside.
“I do feel for you,” she said gently, smoothing flour from her palms. “But I need you to understand something.”
Mary met her gaze.
“No one leaves this life, Mary. Not you. Not him. Not anymore.” She reached for a fresh apron. “You know too much. And Will… he knows everything.”
Mary said nothing. But the words stuck like splinters in her chest.
That night, the restlessness was unbearable. She asked to go to the church — not with guards, just alone. She needed to light a candle. Say a prayer. Beg, if she had to.
Carmela didn’t argue.
The church was empty, dimly lit, the air thick with incense and wax. The pews stretched like a forgotten path toward the altar. Mary’s footsteps echoed too loudly in the space.
She crossed herself and knelt, whispering a prayer under her breath. Her hands shook.
Please bring him back to me.
That was when she noticed the folded note tucked beside the candle box.
She picked it up, heart skipping.
Come to the confessional. I can’t be seen. I’ll wait for you inside. — W
Mary didn’t hesitate.
She stood, heartbeat loud in her ears, hope rising too fast to be safe. Her heels clicked on stone as she walked to the booth tucked in the back corner of the chapel — dark wood, red velvet curtain drawn shut.
She pushed it open and stepped inside. It was quiet. Too quiet.
“Will?” she whispered.
Then a sharp prick at her neck. The curtain swayed. Her limbs went soft, heavy.
She turned, breath caught in her throat, and saw not William—
—but Neil.
Calm. Smiling. His suit perfect. His voice smooth as silk.
“Hello again, my dear Mary.”
Then darkness claimed her.