Chapter 102

MATEO’S POV

The bells of San Miguel Arcángel did not sound the same that morning. Maybe it was my mind, no longer able to distinguish between bronze and the beat of my own guilt, or maybe it was God reminding me that even those who kneel end up on the ground.

The news had spread like gunpowder. I opened my phone at 5:47 a.m., and it was already everywhere: websites, newscasts, screens, parish WhatsApp groups.

“The saint of Chiapas has secret daughters.”

“Father Mateo denies his own twin girls.”

“Hypocritical priest: the cassock hides a double life.”

Each word was a rusted nail sinking in slowly. It didn’t hurt all at once; it hurt as it twisted.

When I arrived at the parish, the sidewalk was a swarm. Cameras, microphones, phones raised high. A reporter thrust a lens into my face:

“Father Mateo, are you going to resign?”

“Are the twins yours?”

“What does the Vatican think of your double life?”

I didn’t answer. I simply crossed the main door with the cassock clinging to my body from cold sweat. The gate shut behind me with a bang that echoed through the empty vault.

Inside, the hallways were deserted. Not an altar boy, not a parishioner praying, not the old sacristan who always greeted me. The silence was dense, as if the entire parish had held its breath to avoid catching my sin.

By midafternoon, the bishop summoned me to his office. The same office where I had been ordained a priest, where I had been congratulated for every record-breaking collection. Now it smelled of cold coffee and fear.

Monsignor Aguirre stood by the window, his pectoral cross gleaming like an execution order. On the desk lay a navy-blue folder and an envelope sealed with the Vatican stamp.

“Mateo,” he said without looking at me, “Rome has decided to suspend you a divinis while everything is clarified. It is not a condemnation. It is a preventive measure. So the boat does not sink.”

I took the paper. My fingers trembled when I saw my name struck from the list of celebrants.

“You know the photos are real,” I said.

He lowered his gaze to the marble floor.

“Don’t put it in writing. Don’t say it out loud. For now, keep denying everything. It’s best for the Church… and for you.”

I left with the letter in my hand and the cassock over my arm. I was no longer Father. No longer a shepherd. I was a thirty-eight-year-old man with a guilt the size of Sicily.

I packed in silence. Three black shirts, two pairs of pants, one pair of shoes. I left the cassock hanging in the closet, its sleeves open like an empty body that no longer needed it.

That night I slept in the guest room of the Franciscan convent. The cell smelled of bleach and loneliness. At 3:14 I woke with a start: I dreamed the twins were calling me “Daddy” from the altar and I couldn’t move my lips.

I turned on the light. The white walls gave me back only silence.

At dawn, the newscasts pierced the walls like knives.

“The Vatican suspends Chiapas’ most beloved priest.”

“The false saint.”

“The double life of Father Mateo.”

Each headline was a stone hurled at my name. I dressed in civilian clothes: jeans, gray sweatshirt, cap. I stepped into the convent courtyard and looked at the gray sky.

“Where are you, Lord?” I whispered.

I got no answer. Not even the wind dared touch me.

I walked the streets again with a cap and dark glasses. I no longer had a parish, nor a home, nor a name. Some recognized me and looked at me with contempt. Others with pity.

A child pointed at me from the sidewalk:

“Mom, that’s the priest from TV. The one who has daughters.”

I turned away, crossed the street, and took refuge in an old, nearly abandoned church. I sat in the last pew, facing a Christ darkened by time.

“What do you want from me?” I said softly. “If it was Your will that I love her, why did You take her from me? If You wanted to punish me, why did You let me live?”

My words bounced into emptiness. Not a sign. Not a light.

I decided I could no longer stay there. That I had to return to where it all began. To my mother’s land. To the land where guilt and blood carry the same weight.

I called Sebastián from a payphone.

“I need to return to Sicily.”

There was a long silence on the other end.

“I know,” he finally said. “We’re waiting for you.”

I hung up and felt, for the first time in months, that something inside me was breaking forever.

But before leaving, I found a letter in the mailbox of the closed parish. The envelope read: “Mateo Serrano.”

The handwriting was clean, too careful. I opened it. Inside, a single sheet, unsigned.

“If you want to save your family, come home. The war has begun.”

I stared at the sentence for a long time. My heart stopped. I knew my fall was only the beginning.

NARRATOR

Thousands of miles away, in Sicily, Lucía turned off the television with trembling hands.

The images showed Mateo on every screen: leaving the parish, surrounded by flashes, the cassock under his arm like a criminal trying to escape his own faith.

The twins played on the living room floor, babbling words they were only just beginning to pronounce.

“Daddy… daddy…”

The sound shattered her. She covered her face with her hands, trying to contain her tears.

Elena approached and embraced her without saying a word.

“He didn’t do it out of cruelty, Lucía,” she whispered in her ear. “He did it to protect you.”

“I don’t know…” Lucía replied, her voice breaking. “I don’t know if protecting us is worth this much pain.”

In the distance, Sebastián watched the scene in silence, fists clenched, knowing the storm had only just begun.

The explosion at the warehouse had been only the first blow. Now came the photos, the public humiliation, Mateo’s fall.

And he knew, with the certainty of someone who had lived through wars, that this would not end until blood was spilled.

He took his phone and dialed a number he hadn’t used in years. When it was answered, his voice was as cold as steel.

“I need you to find out who leaked the photos. I don’t care what it costs. I want a name.”

He hung up and looked out the window at the dark sea. The war had begun. And this time, there would be no mercy.