Chapter 43

Chapter 43
NARRATOR

The Parish of Saint Michael the Archangel awoke packed, a sea of faces crammed into every wooden pew, the air thick with the scent of incense and the restrained murmur of anticipation. The scandal had achieved what no inspired sermon ever had: filling the church to capacity, with journalists disguised among the faithful, curiosity-seekers drawn by morbid fascination, and genuine devotees clinging to the hope of seeing the “Saint of Chiapas” either redeemed or plummet in disgrace.
Sunlight filtered through the ancient stained-glass windows, casting fragments of multicolored light across the altar, yet even that ethereal beauty seemed tinged with judgment.
Mateo took a deep breath in the sacristy, his chest tight beneath the black cassock that weighed heavier than ever, as if it were woven with chains of guilt. The bishop had dictated the script word for word in a tense meeting the night before: “Do not stray by a single comma, son. It is for the good of all: the diocese, the faith of thousands, your own survival.” And he, his soul lacerated, had obeyed, though every syllable he was about to utter hurt like an open wound.
He looked at himself in the fogged mirror: deep dark circles, a gaunt face worn down by sleepless nights. Was this divine will, or merely the ecclesiastical machine protecting its façade?
He walked down the central aisle with measured steps, the echo of his shoes resounding like heartbeats in the charged silence. Camera flashes blinded him for a moment as murmurs multiplied: “There he is… will he deny everything? Will he confess?”
He ascended the altar, the cold marble beneath his palms, and set the Bible on the lectern with a dull thud that cut through the air. The organ fell silent at once, leaving an absolute void.
“Dear brothers and sisters,” he began with feigned firmness, his voice amplified by the microphone reverberating through the high vaults, “I know many of you have heard the malicious lies circulating on social media and in tabloids, distorting the truth.”
The silence was absolute, an oppressive weight where no one dared to breathe.
“We live in difficult times,” he continued, swallowing hard, the script burning in his mind like acid, “when faith is tested and truth is easily distorted. There are those, driven by hatred, envy, or dark interests, who seek to destroy what we have built in the name of God: this community, this reborn parish.”
He paused, his heart hammering against his chest, wanting to stop, to shout the truth blazing in his throat. But the bishop, seated to the side, watched him with a gaze that allowed no deviation.
“I, Mateo Serrano, priest of this community and servant of Christ,” he finally declared, each word a self-inflicted dagger, “assure you that the accusations are false, a cruel defamation orchestrated to stain my vocation. I have no children. I have never had a romantic relationship with any woman. My life has been, is, and will be given entirely to the Lord and to you, my brothers.”
The echo of those words pierced him like lightning, a direct stab to his conscience. He knew he was lying, that with those sentences he was denying Lucía—the woman he had loved in the darkness of a forbidden night—denying his twin daughters, whose innocent faces danced in his mind like accusing ghosts.
It was a betrayal not only of them, but of himself, of the truth he had preached from the pulpit for years.
Some parishioners wept silently, tears of relief; others applauded fervently; but many watched him with skepticism, furrowed brows and looks that said, “something doesn’t add up.” The bishop nodded, satisfied: it was a perfect staging, a theater of public salvation where hypocrisy disguised itself as piety.
When the homily ended, Mateo stepped down from the altar with trembling legs and knelt before the tabernacle, the cold floor seeping into his knees. The Mass continued, but his mind was elsewhere, in Sicily, with Lucía and the girls.
As the faithful received communion, he bowed his head, closed his eyes, and whispered without moving his lips:
“Forgive me, Lord. I am lying in Your house, profaning Your altar with falsehoods. Is this what You want from me?”
Tears slipped free then, hot and silent, rolling down his cheeks. Not from fear of public scrutiny, but from deep shame, an abyss opening in his soul and devouring him.

That very afternoon, the video of his statement went viral, spreading like wildfire across social media and news channels. The headlines shifted tone with calculated speed: “Father Mateo Firmly Denies Paternity Accusations.” “The Saint of Chiapas Claims to Be Victim of Defamation.” “Diocese Defends Its Priest: ‘Faith Intact Amid the Attack.’”
The machinery of the Church had functioned flawlessly, with official statements, ecclesiastical lawyers, and even declarations of support from Rome. But for Mateo, it was just another layer of varnish over a crack that was widening.

In Sicily, at the De Luca mansion, Lucía stared at the television screen with eyes swollen from unceasing tears. The main hall, with its ancient tapestries and the scent of salt air seeping through the cracks, felt more oppressive than ever.
Elena sat beside her on the velvet sofa, gripping her hand tightly.
“He’s doing it to protect you, to protect the girls,” Elena said softly, trying to instill calm. “The press would tear you apart if he confirmed it. It’s the price of his position.”
Lucía shook her head, her loose hair falling in disordered strands over her pale face.
“No, Elena… he’s doing it because he’s a coward. Look at how he speaks, with that feigned serenity. ‘I have no children.’ Did you hear that? He denied our daughters as if they were a stain. I gave him everything—my freedom, my heart. And he… he chooses the Church over us, again.”
On the television, the replay of Mateo at the altar looped, his calm voice denying the twins with a conviction that hurt more than any shout. Each word was a blow to Lucía’s chest.
Elena turned off the television with the remote, the click echoing in the sudden silence.
“Don’t make decisions now, in the heat of pain,” she whispered. “Wait. Sometimes love needs time to heal—or to break completely.”
Minutes later, the sound of powerful engines shattered the calm. Two black armored cars stopped in front of the wrought-iron gate. Sebastián, Santiago, and Diego stepped out quickly; the butler let them in without a word.
Lucía was already waiting in the sitting room, standing beside the unlit fireplace, her face swollen from crying, her eyes red.
Sebastián spoke first, his voice deep and authoritative.
“We’ve seen everything, Lucía. The video, the news… Don’t worry, no one is going to find you here. I’ve doubled the security and erased any digital trace of the girls’ existence.”
Lucía looked at him, fresh tears spilling freely.
“How did they find out, Sebastián? No one knew… no one outside the family. Was it Damián?”
“I’m investigating that,” Sebastián replied, his expression hardening. “We believe it was a journalist tracking old photographs, maybe hacking databases. But I swear we’ll find out who leaked it and make them pay.”
Santiago, quieter, watched from the doorway, his dark eyes reflecting the weight of similar secrets.
“In the meantime,” Sebastián added, “we’ll keep security at maximum. No one will link you to the scandal. The girls still carry your maternal surname on the documents. Officially, there’s no proof.”
Lucía nodded mechanically, though her gaze remained lost.
“He denied them, Sebastián. He said he had no daughters, as if Isabella and Sofía didn’t exist. How can a father do that?”
Elena intervened before the atmosphere grew more tense.
“Why don’t you take Diego and the girls to the garden? Lucía needs to rest.”
Santiago understood at once and nodded. He called little Diego, who was playing with the twins in the adjoining room.
“Come on, champ,” he said, crouching to his height. “Let’s teach the princesses how to kick a real ball.”
The boy laughed enthusiastically and followed them into the sunny garden.
When they were alone, Lucía broke down, her body trembling. Elena embraced her without speaking at first, simply stroking her hair.
“Have faith, darling,” Elena finally whispered. “Maybe Mateo is forced to say that. The Church pressures him—the bishop, the Vatican… it’s a machine that crushes the weak.”
“No,” Lucía replied between sobs, pulling slightly away. “He could have stayed silent, like at first. But he chose to deny them, Elena. ‘I have no children.’ Do you know what that means? That he prefers his saintly image over us.”
Elena looked at her with deep sadness.
“You don’t know how much I understand you. Sometimes the men in this family believe that sacrificing themselves is the right way to love, that silence protects. But it hurts, God, how it hurts.”
“And you?” Lucía asked, wiping her tears. “Could you live knowing your husband denies you before everyone?”
Elena lowered her gaze.
“No. It would be like dying while still alive. But maybe I would love him just the same, in the shadows, because love in this family is never clean.”
Lucía wiped her tears angrily, the pain transforming into resolve.
“I don’t know if I can keep loving him. He’s broken me too much. First he left me for God, now he denies us for the Church. How much more?”
Elena sighed, taking her hands.
“Don’t decide now. Wait.”
Lucía did not answer, her gaze returning to the window, where the girls were playing with Diego under Santiago’s supervision. It was a peaceful, almost perfect image, but inside Lucía was shattered, fragmented like the stained glass of the distant parish.

In Chiapas, Mateo’s life became a siege of forced routine. He could not go out without being followed by journalists, microphones extended and shouted questions. The diocese had ordered his public appearances restricted; he celebrated Mass only on Sundays, with cameras controlled by the Church itself.
At night, he locked himself in his austere room—a hard bed, a wooden crucifix on the wall—and knelt before the cross, his knees bruised from hours of supplication.
“I have failed, Lord,” he whispered, his voice breaking in the darkness. “I have lied to them, to You, and to them. Is this the price of obedience?”
The echo of his voice resounded in the empty room, without divine answer.
One afternoon, after a tense Mass, an elderly woman approached the altar, her hands trembling as she took his.
“Father, don’t listen to those devils in the press. We know you’re a good man, a saint.”
Mateo smiled weakly, forcing warmth.
“Thank you, my daughter. May God bless you.”
But when the woman walked away, his smile crumbled like a broken mask. He could not bear the weight of the lie; each time he said, “brothers, trust in Christ,” he felt a part of himself die a little more.

In Sicily, the storm continued to grow within Lucía. The days passed and the news did not fade. Although her name was never mentioned directly—thanks to Sebastián’s firewalls—she knew that at any moment someone could piece it together.
One night, after putting the twins to bed, she sat before the stone fountain in the garden. She looked at the starry sky and murmured in a broken voice:
“What more do I have to endure, God? How many times must I pay for loving someone like him?”
She knew Mateo had not lied out of pure cowardice; he had done it to protect them. But that justification was no longer enough. What was the use of a love that always had to hide? What was the use of a father who denied his daughters to keep his cassock clean?
She rose with sudden determination. She went to the study in the mansion, opened a hidden drawer, and took out documents Sebastián had given her months earlier “just in case”—passports under alternate names, anonymous bank accounts.
She was not decided yet; her love for Mateo still throbbed like an open wound. But for the first time in a long while, she felt a glimmer of freedom, a path of her own far from the chains.

In Chiapas, Mateo closed his Bible with an exhausted sigh and looked at himself in the fogged mirror, the reflection returning the image of a tired man with dark circles and an empty gaze. The Saint of Chiapas no longer existed; only a broken priest remained, trapped between his faith and his truth.
He knelt once more before the crucifix.
“Give me a sign, Lord. Just one, to know whether this silence is redemption or condemnation.”
But the only answer was the distant murmur of journalists outside, shouting his name.
And he finally understood, with a pain that pierced his chest like a spear, that divine signs do not always come from heaven. Sometimes they arrive when love walks away, leaving behind a void no vow can ever fill.