Chapter 42

Chapter 42
NARRATOR

The bells of the Parish of Saint Michael the Archangel rang with their usual solemnity, a deep metallic toll that reverberated through the cobblestone streets of Chiapas, marking the beginning of the morning Mass. But that morning, the sound seemed laden with an omen, an echo that filtered through the stained-glass windows and tangled in the cool Mexican dawn air. Mateo, now a father with greater responsibilities, felt that tension in his chest like an invisible weight, a knot that would not loosen with prayers or routines.
The day had begun like any other since his return from Sicily: rising at dawn with the first ray of light filtering through the shutters, kneeling to pray the rosary with wooden beads worn smooth by years of devotion, and having breakfast alone in the sacristy, a bitter coffee that failed to dispel the inner cold. His life was a precise mechanism: Mass at sunrise, confessions where he listened to others’ sins that paled beside his own, catechism classes with children who looked at him as if he were a saint, hospital visits to anoint the dying, and nights of solitary prayer.
Nothing out of the ordinary, and yet that morning the silence within his chest weighed heavier than ever.
Lucía and the twins—Isabella and Sofía—were constant ghosts in his mind, shadows that materialized in every quiet moment. Every letter he sent to Sicily, sealed with trembling hands, went unanswered, a void that devoured him. He imagined his daughters learning to walk, babbling their first words, saying a “papa” that would echo in the emptiness of his absence.
That was his punishment, his personal cross, carved in the fire of forbidden desire.
He was about to review the preparations for the midday Mass—the candles aligned on the altar, the incense ready—when Father Agustín, his superior, burst into the office with a face as pale as wax, his eyes wide with panic.
“Father Mateo… you have to see this,” he stammered, holding out a phone with trembling hands, as if the device were burning him.
Mateo looked at him, confused, frowning under the dim desk lamp. Father Agustín activated the screen and showed him a news page that screamed in large red letters:
“THE SAINT OF CHIAPAS HAS A HIDDEN SIN: FATHER MATEO IS THE FATHER OF TWO CHILDREN OUT OF WEDLOCK.”
Beneath the sensational headline were several stolen photographs: one of him in solitary prayer; another of Lucía in a bakery in Sicily, her face tired but beautiful; and two blurry images of the twins, taken from a distance, their innocent little faces sleeping in a crib.
The article continued with journalistic venom:
“Anonymous sources claim that Chiapas’s most beloved priest is not as holy as he appears. According to exclusive reports, he maintained a forbidden relationship with a young woman while serving in pastoral ministry, and from that union twin daughters were born. The mother now resides in Italy, under the protection of a family linked to the Sicilian mafia. Ecclesiastical cover-up or divine hypocrisy?”
Mateo felt the blood freeze in his veins, an icy chill spreading from his stomach to his limbs. The air vanished from his lungs, replaced by a suffocating emptiness. For a moment, he thought it was a nightmare, but the screen did not lie.
“Who published this?” he asked in a low, hoarse voice, barely a whisper.
“A local news site… but it’s everywhere now,” Father Agustín explained, swallowing hard. “Social media is exploding. There are hashtags like #SinfulSaint. They’re even demanding your resignation.”
Mateo set the phone down on the desk with a dull thud. He ran a hand over his face and closed his eyes to steady the dizziness. He knew the past would return sooner or later. But not like this, not with such public cruelty, not exposing Lucía and the girls like trophies of his fall.
Who could have leaked this? Damián, seeking revenge from the shadows? Someone from the De Luca family? Or worse, a traitor within the Church itself?
“Father Agustín,” he finally said, his voice regaining some firmness. “Call the bishop. Tell him I will see him immediately. And cancel the midday Mass.”

An hour later, Mateo climbed the stairs of the diocesan building in Mexico City, each step echoing like a hammer in his head. The corridors, usually bustling, were quieter than usual, a veil of tension covering everything. Every nun or priest who passed him lowered their gaze, a gesture of either compassion or judgment.
The bishop was waiting in his office, standing by the window overlooking the garden. He was a robust man, with hair white as snow and a stern gaze hardened by decades of navigating ecclesiastical scandals. He had supported Mateo since his arrival in Chiapas, had protected him when the media turned him into a symbol of hope. But that morning, his voice was different.
“Sit down, Father Mateo,” he said without turning around.
Mateo obeyed, sitting in the carved wooden chair, his hands clenched on his knees to conceal the trembling.
The bishop turned slowly, his scrutinizing eyes fixing on him.
“I assume you’ve seen what’s circulating online. It’s a fire spreading faster than we can control.”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Mateo replied, his voice steady but with a subtle break. “I saw it. And I will not deny it.”
The bishop watched him in silence for a few seconds that felt eternal. Then he walked to the desk, poured himself a glass of water, and spoke with calculated calm.
“I need you to understand the gravity of this, son. The press is tearing you apart. Journalists are already camped outside the parish, microphones in hand, demanding answers. There are calls from Rome, uncomfortable questions. This splashes onto the entire diocese, the whole Church.”
Mateo took a deep breath, the air entering his lungs like fire. He could lie, weave a web of excuses. But the truth compelled him to speak.
“Yes, it’s true, Your Excellency. I have twin daughters. Their mother… Lucía… was a moment of weakness I cannot erase. But I love them, and I will not deny them.”
The bishop sighed, a heavy sound. He sat across from him, intertwining his fingers on the desk.
“If you must resign, you will. But not now.”
Mateo frowned, his heart pounding.
“Excuse me? You won’t expel me?”
“Not now,” the bishop repeated, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Listen carefully, son. The Church is hanging by a thread. Recent scandals have us against the ropes. If one of our most beloved priests falls over something like this, it will be a mortal blow to the diocese. The faith of thousands will falter.”
Mateo looked at him in disbelief, his stomach churning.
“You want me to lie? To deny my daughters?”
“I want you to survive,” the bishop said, leaning forward. “And with your silence, save the Church from another scandal. Confirm nothing. Do not respond to the press. Let me handle it: I will say it’s all defamation, a smear campaign.”
Silence filled the room like a heavy cloak. Mateo felt a stab in his chest, his conscience crying out in rebellion.
“That’s hypocrisy, Your Excellency. I have preached the truth all my life. Now I must bury it?”
“No,” the bishop replied, his voice hardening. “It is strategy. The truth does not always help, son. Sometimes it destroys more than it redeems. Think of your parishioners, of the poor who depend on you.”
Mateo lowered his gaze, his hands trembling. The inner battle tore at him: his love for Lucía and the girls against his vocation.

That night, the church was empty, a vast silence broken only by the distant echo of traffic. Only he remained, seated in the last pew, facing the altar lit by flickering candles.
“Why, Lord?” he murmured, his voice a broken echo. “Why must I always choose between truth and faith? Between my daughters and Your calling?”
No one answered. The silence was almost unbearable.
He thought of Lucía, of how the scandal would reach her like a destructive wave. Of the girls, innocent victims of his sin. Of his parishioners, the people who had believed in him.
Suddenly, the sound of his phone shattered the silence. It was an unknown number.
“Father Mateo,” said a female voice, “I’m a journalist from the national newspaper. I need your version. Is it true you have two daughters?”
Mateo hung up without answering. The phone vibrated again: a photograph of the twins asleep in Lucía’s arms. The message read: “Father, the world deserves to know the truth. Or would you prefer we publish more?”
He stared at the image for several minutes, tears burning his eyes. His daughters. His entire life summed up in a stolen photograph.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had to protect them, even if it meant betraying his vocation, burying the truth beneath layers of silence.
The next morning, the parish awoke surrounded by journalists, a chaos of cameras and microphones. “Is it true you have daughters?” “Did the Church protect you?” The questions flew like arrows.
Mateo exited through the side door, escorted by two volunteers. He answered no one, walking with his head down until he reached the car waiting for him.
Inside, Father Agustín looked at him with concern.
“The press isn’t going to leave, Father.”
“I know,” Mateo replied, staring out the window. “But I will do what the bishop asked. Silence. For now.”
“And Lucía? The girls?”
“They must stay away,” Mateo interrupted, his voice breaking. “If the press finds out where they are, they’ll destroy them. Call Sebastián. Tell him to protect them with everything he has.”
The car started, weaving through traffic. On the radio: “The most beloved priest of Chiapas, embroiled in a scandal shaking the Church.”
Every word was a blow. Mateo closed his eyes, praying for strength.
And above, the cross seemed to watch it all, silent and impassive, as if even God did not know which side the truth was on.