AT THE SPA, RAPHANIÈ CHANGED out of his Armani suit and into a robe, waiting for the massage therapist while seated on a comfortable bed, feeling profoundly uneasy about the situation. Since reaching adulthood, he had never exposed his body to anyone other than a physician—and even then, they had always been priests, men trusted by the Church.
There, in that environment saturated with sweet and unfamiliar aromas, he felt vulnerable, almost profane. He drew a deep breath. The air was dense, filled with notes of lavender, sandalwood, and something citrusy that reminded him of the monastery gardens in Assisi. The background music—an oriental arrangement of strings and flutes—seemed synchronized with his breathing, as though attempting to hypnotize him.
He raised his gaze. The indirect lighting cast soft shadows that drifted across walls painted in shades of gold and rose. Flickering flames from dozens of candles reflected in strategically placed mirrors, multiplying the illusion of a pagan sanctuary.
For the first time since arriving in London, he felt the weight of guilt and intrigue dissolving, as though the outside world had been barred by those walls.
A woman approached. She wore a fitted black sheath dress that reached her knees, the fabric outlining her figure with almost surgical precision. Her hair was short and ebony-colored; her eyes a luminous green, as if they contained sparks of liquid emerald. Her face, perfectly balanced between sweetness and mystery, radiated a silent power.
She is extraordinarily beautiful... he thought, feeling his heart accelerate into an uneven rhythm.
— It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mannieri — she said in a velvety voice with a flawless British accent. — My name is Sabrina. Would you mind removing your robe and lying face down? We'll begin with a traditional massage.
— What? — he murmured, surprised, his voice wavering between embarrassment and curiosity.
— Is this your first time, Mr. Mannieri? — she asked while arranging oils on a small jade table.
— Yes, it is... — he replied, trying to regain control of his voice.
— Don't worry. You'll leave this room with both body and spirit renewed — she promised, smiling with disarming ease.
It was impossible to refuse that invitation. Though his mind screamed caution, his body longed to surrender.
She's a professional. I must not judge her... I won't think foolish thoughts. Lord, help me... he prayed silently, obeying the therapist's instructions.
WITH HIS HEAD RESTING on a carefully folded towel, Raphaniè watched the Englishwoman coat her hands with a thick golden liquid.
It must be oil... he concluded, catching the sweet scent of almonds and wildflowers.
— Close your eyes and relax, Mr. Mannieri — Sabrina suggested in a gently commanding tone.
— All right — he replied, adding silently:
May God grant me serenity...
The first touch felt like an electric shock. Her hands were warm, alive, and firm, gliding with precision, alternating between long circular motions—sometimes delicate, sometimes painfully deep. The tension accumulated in his back slowly gave way, as though each pressure removed a fragment of anguish.
Raphaniè shuddered with both pleasure and surprise.
— Is something wrong, Mr. Mannieri? — she asked without interrupting her movements.
— I was just startled. My apologies... please continue.
Within minutes, his body surrendered completely. The music, the candles, the fragrance—everything conspired to dissolve the boundaries between the sacred and the profane. Then, without realizing it, his thoughts carried him into the past. He was a child again, standing beside an improvised field in the countryside outside Turin.
THE SILENCE WAS BROKEN by the echo of children's laughter as six ten-year-old boys ran excitedly across the plain. One of them carried an old leather football so worn that it looked ready to fall apart with the first kick. Young Raphaniè—then only a thin, observant boy—watched as teams were being chosen while the sun sank behind the hills.
"Watch out! Watch out!" he shouted, driven by instinctive foreboding.
The owner of the ball tripped into a hidden ditch, struck his head against a jagged stone, and lay motionless. The laughter ceased immediately. Blood slowly trickled down the child's forehead, staining the earth. The other boys gathered around him in panic, shaking their friend's body without knowing what to do.
Little Raphaniè knelt beside him, his trembling hands touching his own forehead, as though the gesture could somehow transfer the pain.
The scene dissolved into white.
HE AWOKE IN HIS ROOM three hours later. The late-afternoon light filtered through the linen curtains.
— What happened, Mother? — he asked weakly.
— Everything is fine, my son — she replied, gently stroking his hair.
He smiled serenely.
— It couldn't be better, Mother...
That sentence would become the first sign of his calling.
RAPHANIÈ SMILED at the memory, his forehead still resting on the towel. Sabrina's hands now moved along his legs with confidence and precision. Warmth rose through his thighs, dissolving the last traces of self-control. A rush coursed through him, and he felt his blood quicken—a deeply human, instinctive reaction.
Sins begin in the mind... he murmured to himself, struggling to steady his breathing, but the therapist did not stop.
In a slow, deliberate gesture, she slid her right hand beneath his thigh. Raphaniè opened his eyes abruptly.
— What are you doing? — he asked, his voice hoarse.
— Finding other ways to help you relax — she replied with a faint smile.
— What do you mean? — he insisted, uncertain whether to flee or remain.
— Turn over... — Sabrina said as she lowered the zipper of her dress. — I'm going to massage you using my body.
The dress slipped to the floor, and she wore nothing underneath. Her fair, satin-like skin reflected the candlelight. Her firm breasts seemed to challenge him, and for a brief moment he forgot his own name.
— Don't you find me attractive? — she asked, a slight tremor in her voice, as though sadness lingered beneath the question.
— That's not it... — he stammered, still stunned. — You are... spectacularly beautiful.
— Then let me finish my work, please. I'm sure you won't regret it.
He was already regretting it, but at that moment regret was a sweet poison—and it would take a very long time for its effects to be felt.