WITHOUT SAYING A WORD, they crossed the sacristy, hearing the desperate cries of that "unfortunate woman," a sharp, piercing sound that echoed through the walls covered with ancient frescoes and the lingering scent of burnt incense. The candlelight flickered as if dancing to the rhythm of her agony, casting distorted images of saints and martyrs upon the walls.
Fabrizzio felt his heart beating out of sync, as though each step toward the exit were a transgression against something sacred. Tito walked just behind him, silently praying a Hail Mary that never seemed to end.
Before they passed through the heavy wooden door leading to the side nave, a terrifying scream tore through the air—so shrill it made the nearest stained-glass window tremble. Fabrizzio froze for a moment, a chill running down his spine. Tito, pale, simply murmured:
— It's better not to look back.
And so they didn't. They quickened their pace, crossing the side courtyard like fugitives from a crime they did not fully understand.
When the church lights were left behind, silence settled once more—heavy, almost suffocating. Neither of them dared speak until the car engine broke the stillness with a rough growl.
Inside the vehicle, the air felt dense, saturated with fear and regret. After a few minutes, Fabrizzio could no longer bear the silence and burst out:
— That was my last job for you.
His voice sounded hoarse, cracked with remorse.
— I'm no saint, Tito. I've spent years of my life behind bars because I killed my fiancée.
He gave a bitter smile, his gaze fixed on the windshield, as if seeing through it into the memories that haunted him.
Tito glanced at him, intrigued.
— I know that. And now, where are you going with all this?
Fabrizzio tightened his grip on the steering wheel, veins bulging.
— That bastard could have screwed that woman anywhere in the world—but not there, not in front of that image of the Virgin Mary! — His tone rose, charged with contained emotion. — I spent my childhood watching my mother kneel before her, crying, praying. That image was everything that remained of faith in our home.
Tito took a deep breath and turned toward him, indignant.
— I can't believe you're saying this… You, of all people, talking about faith? Do you even hear yourself, Fabrizzio?
— I do — he replied through clenched teeth. — And I'm seeing what you all pretend not to see. What do you think he's going to do to her in that little secret room? Do you really think it's just a prayer?
Tito hesitated. The uncertain glow of the headlights cut through the wet road, reflecting in his eyes a shadow of doubt.
— It's quite simple… — he finally said, his tone colder now, almost rehearsed. — Father Marin is an exorcist.
Fabrizzio let out a muffled, bitter laugh.
— Exorcist… — he repeated slowly, as if savoring the weight of the word. — Or just another man who believes he can play God.
The car continued along the deserted road, winding beneath the cloak of the early morning hours. Behind them, the basilica stood tall against the black sky—a colossus of stone guarding secrets that should never have been awakened.