Isabella was completely stunned.
She looked at Giovanni, at that face that appeared holy in the morning light. She listened to words that sounded noble and right, words filled with salvation and hope, and yet her mind could no longer think.
Fear.
Grief.
Despair.
What could she still say?
Could she say no?
If she refused, she and her son would be thrown out of the monastery immediately. Outside, those fanatical villagers would tear them apart. Their souls would carry the curse forever and fall into hell. Her dead husband would also be trapped in hell, never to find rest.
And if she agreed…
She and her son could live. They could shed the label of "sinners." They could gain "salvation." Her husband's soul could rise to heaven.
This was not a choice at all. It was a trap, flawless and airtight, wrapped in holiness, mercy, and redemption.
"I… I am willing…"
Her lips moved mechanically as the words left her mouth. Tears spilled down her face again.
A satisfied and holy smile appeared on Giovanni's face.
"Luca," he called softly toward the door.
Luca entered at once, holding a wooden tray. On it lay parchment, ink, a quill, and a seal box.
Giovanni spread the parchment on the table. It was a deed of donation, the terms written clearly and without ambiguity. All lands, houses, and debts under Bartolo's name were to be donated freely to the St. Lucia Monastery.
He dipped the quill in ink and placed it into Isabella's hand.
Her hand shook so badly she could not hold the pen.
So he held her hand himself and guided it, signing her name at the end of the document in crooked, broken strokes. Then he took her finger, pressed it into the seal ink, and stamped it firmly over the name.
The contract was complete.
From this moment on, the wealth accumulated by Bartolo's family over generations passed lawfully into the hands of the monastery.
"The Lord will remember your good deed, my child."
Giovanni carefully rolled up the priceless parchment and smiled at her like a kind father.
"From today on, you and Anton may stay here in peace. The Lord and His servants will protect you forever."
With that, he left the room together with Luca, whose face was filled with devotion. The door closed softly behind them.
The room returned to silence.
Isabella remained seated at the table, still frozen in the posture of signing. A long time passed before she slowly turned her head and looked at her sleeping son on the bed.
The numb and hopeless look on her face began to fade.
Hatred rose in its place.
Pushed to its limit. Deceived to its limit. Stripped of everything. From her bones and from the depths of her soul, pure hatred began to grow, climbing onto her still graceful face.
She walked to the bed and bent down, looking at her son's face. She reached out and touched his soft hair.
"Anton… my child… you are awake, aren't you?"
The boy trembled slightly and slowly opened his eyes. This time, those empty eyes were filled with tears.
"Mother…" he choked.
"Don't cry." Isabella's voice was frighteningly calm. "Swallow the tears. From today on, we cannot cry anymore."
She helped him sit up so they faced each other.
"Anton, remember today. Remember how your father died. Remember how our home was destroyed. Remember how we lost everything."
"Remember those faces. The people who bowed to us yesterday and rushed into our home today with axes and pitchforks."
"But the one you must remember most is not them."
She held his face and forced him to look into her eyes.
"It is the man from earlier. The one in the black robe, full of mercy, who said he came to save us."
"He is the one who took everything from us. He is the one who killed your father. He is the one who forced us into this."
"He is Abbot Giovanni da Fiesole."
"You must live, Anton. No matter what it takes, you must live. Learn to endure. Learn to pretend. Be more devout than anyone. Pray better than anyone. Make him like you, trust you, treat you as his most loyal dog."
"Then you wait. Wait until you grow up. Wait until you gain power."
"One day, you must take back everything we lost today. Take it back with interest. Take it from him."
The young Anton listened, his whole body shaking. He did not fully understand what endurance or pretense meant, but he understood the last words.
Take it back.
He looked into his mother's eyes, burning with a hatred he had never seen before. Then, with all his strength, he nodded.
* * *
Outside the guest room, in the corridor, Giovanni held the signed donation document and gently patted Luca on the shoulder.
"See, Luca," he said softly. "The Lord has finally given this poor mother and child true peace."
* * *
Life in the monastery flowed like the waters of the Arno River: quiet, slow, without ripples.
For Isabella and Anton, it was a strange kind of quiet, a stillness like a grave.
The next morning, everyone in the monastery saw the mother and son. Isabella had changed into the rough linen robe provided by the monastery. Her hair was neatly combed and tied back with a gray cloth strip. She was no longer the pampered lady of a grand estate. She looked like a devout widow seeking shelter.
She led Anton to every prayer with the monks. From morning prayers to evening prayers, she missed none.
In the church, she knelt in the farthest corner, head lowered, lips moving softly. She looked more devout than any monk. Anton knelt beside her, copying her posture, his small body straight and still.
The monks nodded quietly when they saw this. They believed the abbot's mercy had truly moved these souls stained by sin. They were confessing to God in the most humble way.
Luca was especially touched.
More than once, he saw Isabella's shoulders tremble during prayer, as if she were crying without sound. He believed she was mourning her husband's sins and thanking the Lord for granting her forgiveness.
He reported all of this to Giovanni.
Giovanni listened, smiled, and nodded. "The Lord's light can always reach the darkest corners."
But Isabella knew the truth.
Every time she bowed her head, she was not praying. She was enduring.
Every time her shoulders trembled, she was not crying. She was suppressing the hatred that nearly burst from her chest.
Anton was the same. He knelt there with aching knees, yet made no sound. He only stole glances at the man on the altar who seemed like a god, carving every movement and every smile into his memory.
His mother told him to remember, so he remembered.
Only after returning to their small guest room and closing the door would Isabella show brief moments of exhaustion and ugliness. She would hold her son tightly and whisper the same words into his ear again and again.
"Remember, Anton. Everything we do now is to survive."
"Survive. Then take it back."
The child nodded hard in her arms.
They were like two wounded wolves hiding among sheep, licking their wounds while waiting for revenge.
They believed they could wait.
But they did not know that Giovanni never left anyone time to wait.
**
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