𝒀𝒖𝒂𝒏𝒇𝒆𝒏 | 𝙏𝙤𝙣𝙮 𝙎𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙠

Chapter 4

Flashback

(3 weeks after Tony's disappearance)

Iliana's emotions churned within her, a volatile mix of anger and sorrow that always spelled disaster. The storm had been brewing for days, ever since she had first stepped into St. Catherine's Cathedral, not out of faith, but with a desperate prayer on her lips—for Tony's safe return. She hadn't expected an answer from a God she didn't believe in. She hadn't even expected peace. But what she found there that day was far more disturbing.

As she knelt in the worn wooden pews, the smell of incense heavy in the air, her sharp eyes had caught something unsettling. The priest, Father John, a man of medium build with graying hair and a face that many would describe as kind, allowed his gaze to linger far too long on a little girl. The child, no older than six or seven, had been seated with her father, Ethan Steel, a name that echoed through the halls of power in New York. Steel was a man of towering influence, a lawyer whose reputation for integrity was almost as well-known as his hidden abilities.

Iliana recognized the girl immediately. Her name was Melione, a sweet, bright-eyed child who adored the whimsical books Iliana wrote for children. She had met Melione at several of her fan events, where the girl had shyly approached her for an autograph, her little hands clutching a well-loved copy of "The Whispers." But what truly made Melione and her father stand out to Iliana was their hidden gifts—gifts that mirrored her own in a way that had always intrigued her. Ethan Steel and his daughter possessed the rare ability to hear lies, a talent that had undoubtedly shaped Steel's formidable career. More intriguing, though, was Melione's gifts: she could see ghosts, the restless spirits that wandered between worlds, unseen by most and like her father hear lies.

When Iliana had once touched the girl's small hand during a fan event, she had a glimpse of all her memories. But despite this connection, the Steels were not her enemies. Nor were they prey in the hunt that drove her restless nights. Her true target, the one who had become the object of her vengeance, was far more sinister.

As the last of the parishioners filed out of the church, their murmured prayers fading into the distance, Iliana remained seated, her thoughts churning with dark intent. The massive, ancient church was silent now, its towering stained glass windows casting fractured, kaleidoscopic light onto the cold stone floor. The silence was thick, almost tangible, as if the walls themselves held their breath in anticipation of what was to come.

She rose slowly, her movements deliberate, her face a carefully crafted mask of vulnerability. She approached Father John, who was extinguishing the final candles on the altar. When he noticed her, his expression softened into what might have passed as a concern in a more innocent world, but Iliana saw the truth lurking beneath his practiced smile.

"Father," she began, her voice soft, trembling, "I need to make a confession."

Father John's eyes lit up, a flicker of something unholy flashing behind them. He was eager, too eager to shepherd this lost soul back to the fold. To him, she must have seemed the perfect victim—broken, seeking solace in the church's embrace. Little did he know, he was the one walking straight into a trap.

"Of course, my child," he replied, his tone dripping with false warmth. He gestured for her to follow him, leading her to the confessional booth, a small, suffocating space made of dark oak, its shadows heavy with centuries of whispered secrets.

Iliana stepped inside, the door creaking slightly as she closed it behind her. She sat down on the worn wooden seat, her senses heightened. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and something else, something rotten that clung to the walls like a bad memory. Through the small lattice panel, she could see Father John's silhouette, the dim light casting his features in shadow. But she didn't need to see his face to know the thoughts running through his mind. She could feel them—the predatory hunger, the vile intentions.