Chapter 55

Chapter 55

NARRATOR
Night had fallen over the hills. The refuge—an old stone house embedded in the slope, overlooking a valley of olive trees—was silent for the first time in days. Sebastián’s men patrolled the perimeter. Santiago checked the monitors in the operations room. Elena slept in the bunker with the children.
Mateo and Lucía were alone in the attic bedroom, a small space with a wrought-iron bed, an improvised crib for the twins, and a window that let in the scent of rosemary. The girls slept deeply, Isabella with her thumb in her mouth, Sofía curled against her sister.
Lucía closed the door carefully. She wore one of Mateo’s old gray T-shirts that reached mid-thigh—and nothing else. Her hair fell over her shoulders, her eyes shining with exhaustion and something deeper.
Mateo sat on the edge of the bed, his cassock folded over a chair like a memory that no longer belonged to him. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt, his arms marked with cuts from the battle. In his right hand he held a crumpled letter, the Vatican seal broken.
They looked at each other in silence.
She approached barefoot and sat beside him, so close their thighs brushed.
“The girls are asleep,” she whispered.
“Like angels,” he replied, voice rough.
Lucía took the letter from his fingers. She read it softly, though she already knew what it said.
“Dispensation from the obligations of the clerical state… granted with immediate effect… for reasons of conscience and paternity.”
She placed the paper on the bedside table.
“You did it?”
Mateo nodded.
“Three days ago. Before the attack.”
Lucía looked at him. There was no surprise in her eyes, only an old sadness.
“And now what are you, Mateo?”
He drew a slow breath.
“A man. Just a man. With two daughters. And with a woman who…”
He didn’t finish. She cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing the dark circles, the scars, the stubble.
“Say it.”
“I love you,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’ve loved you since the first day. I love you even if they condemn me. Even if they burn me.”
Lucía closed her eyes. A tear slid down her cheek.
“You’re not condemned. You’re here. Alive.”
She leaned in and kissed him.
It was a slow, deep kiss, as if they wanted to drink each other’s soul. Their lips met with tenderness, unhurried, exploring, remembering. Mateo’s hands slid up her back, beneath the T-shirt, caressing warm skin.
Lucía climbed onto his lap, her knees sinking into the mattress. The shirt lifted, revealing the curve of her hips. Mateo looked at her as if witnessing a miracle.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered against her neck.
She smiled, fingers tangling in his hair.
“And you’re mine.”
She kissed him again, this time with hunger. Mateo eased her back onto the bed, hovering over her, braced on his forearms.
“Slowly,” she whispered.
He obeyed.
He removed her shirt gently, kissing every inch of skin. Lucía arched her back, fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Mateo…”
They gave themselves to each other with an urgency born of months of separation, of pain, of loss. Their bodies met with tender desperation, each touch a promise, each kiss a healing.
Lucía guided him to her, their bodies fitting as though they had always been meant to. They moved together—slow at first, then with rising intensity, the rhythm quickening until they lost themselves in each other.
When it was over, they lay entwined, their breathing slowly synchronizing. Lucía wept softly against his chest, silent tears speaking of all they had lost and all they had finally found.
“I don’t need you perfect,” she whispered. “Just alive.”
Mateo held her tighter, kissing her tears.
“Alive. Yours. Forever.”
The twins slept on, unaware of the adult world.
Outside, the moon kept watch.
And in the silence, the broken vow no longer weighed anything. Only love remained—raw and real, born from the ashes of everything they had lost.

At dawn, Mateo woke first. Lucía slept curled against him, her hair spread across his chest. The twins began to stir in the crib, babbling softly.
He rose carefully, dressed, and went to the window. The sun was rising over the mountains, painting the sky red and orange.
Sebastián appeared at the door, shoulder bandaged, face pale.
“We have news,” he said. “Valentina’s Jeep was found abandoned near Messina. She’s trying to flee the island.”
Mateo turned.
“And Damián?”
“With her. But they won’t get far. I have people at every port.”
Mateo nodded slowly.
“Then this ends soon.”
Sebastián studied him for a long moment.
“Are you sure about what you’re doing? You’re not a priest anymore. But you’re not like us either.”
“No,” Mateo replied. “But I’m a father. And I’ll do whatever is necessary to protect my family.”
Sebastián gave a faint smile.
“Then you’re more De Luca than you think.”
They stood there in silence. Two brothers bound by blood, shaped by different paths, now fighting for the same thing: protecting those they loved.
The sun continued to rise.
And with it, the certainty that the war was nearing its end.
One way or another.