The villagers celebrated among the ruins, dividing the "justice" they had seized with their own hands.
Giovanni allowed the plunder. His forgiveness, delivered at the perfect moment, instantly eased the conscience of those lambs who still carried a faint trace of kindness. At the same time, it gave them a sense of holy purpose. What they were doing no longer felt like robbery. It felt ordained.
They carried gold coins, silverware, cloth, grain, and anything else they could seize back to their homes, raising their arms and shouting, "Praise Abbot Giovanni."
Amid the noise and chaos, Bartolo's wife, Isabella, clutched her son Anton tightly in her arms. She was wrapped in Giovanni's loose monk's robe, yet the garment that symbolized "protection" brought her no warmth at all.
Her husband, the man who had been the head of their household just yesterday, now lay not far away at the door of the treasury, his skull smashed like a rotten pumpkin.
Her home was gone.
Her world had collapsed.
Giovanni's voice was gentle, like a spring breeze, as if the bloody riot moments earlier had nothing to do with him.
"My child, do not be afraid. It is all over."
Isabella slowly lifted her head. Her swollen eyes looked at him in confusion.
Afraid?
She no longer knew what fear was.
She had watched her husband beaten to death. She had felt hands tear at her clothes. She had seen her home looted and destroyed. Whatever fear she once possessed had burned itself out, leaving only numb, silent ashes behind.
"The Lord has punished the sinner," Giovanni continued calmly, "but His mercy does not end there. He does not wish to see a widow and child left without shelter."
He gestured toward Luca standing behind him.
Luca stepped forward at once and said, "Madam, please come with us. The monastery will provide safe refuge for you and your child."
The monastery.
The word struck Isabella like a blade of ice. Her body trembled sharply.
Go to that place? To the territory of this man, the one who had directed everything, the devil behind it all?
Her first instinct was to refuse, to scream, to lunge forward and tear at his calm face with her nails until the false holiness fell away.
But then she looked down at Anton.
The child did not cry, nor did he struggle. He only clutched her clothes tightly, his once-clear eyes empty, like two dry wells.
Then she looked at the villagers around them, hauling away loot while casting glances of mockery, curiosity, or thinly veiled greed in her direction.
She understood then that she had no choice.
This village no longer had a place for her and her son. If they stayed, they would be devoured alive. The only path left led straight to the man who had destroyed everything she had.
The greatest irony in the world.
Isabella closed her eyes as two fresh tears slid down her face.
"…Alright."
She tried to stand, but her legs gave way and she nearly collapsed. Luca quickly stepped forward to support her.
"I… we can walk on our own," she said, pushing his hand away.
She steadied herself against the wall, swaying slightly before finding her balance. Then she grasped Anton's hand and followed behind Giovanni.
He led them through the celebrating crowd.
When the villagers saw the abbot personally escorting Bartolo's wife and child, they stopped what they were doing and stepped aside. A path opened before them.
They looked at the widow and her son with complicated expressions. There was a trace of lingering pity, but far more judgment.
As if to say: look carefully. This is what happens when you offend the abbot. When you offend the Lord.
Giovanni had not only destroyed a man's body and wealth. He had erased his social ties, wiped away every mark of his existence, and in the end, wearing the mask of a "savior," turned the man's family into his own spoils.
It was a perfect victory.
Walking behind them, Luca gazed at the abbot's back with boundless admiration. He believed the abbot had not only saved the village, but also rescued this poor mother and child from certain doom.
Such mercy, in his eyes, shone brighter than the sun.
Only Anton was different.
The seven year old boy was led by his mother, his small figure nearly swallowed by Giovanni's shadow. He lifted his head and stared at the tall figure in front.
He had seen his father beaten to death. He had seen his mother humiliated. He had seen familiar faces turn into demons.
Then this man had appeared.
With one sentence, he made all those demons kneel. With another, he made them praise him with devotion. Now he was taking Anton and his mother back to his own domain.
Anton did not understand schemes or manipulation. He did not know what power truly was. But by instinct alone, he felt something wrong. From that dark figure ahead, he sensed a chill deeper than the smell of blood.
* * *
The monastery guest room was clean and orderly.
A wooden bed with fresh linen. A small table. Two chairs. A wooden cross hung on the wall.
Outside the window lay the quiet courtyard. During evening, hymns would drift faintly through the air, light and distant, as if falling from the heavens themselves.
This place bore no resemblance to the manor that had just endured a bloody plunder.
One was calm and sacred. The other savage and filthy.
Isabella sat on the bed with her knees drawn to her chest. The monks brought clean clothes, along with hot soup and bread. Anton curled up beside her and fell asleep quickly, though tears still clung to the corners of his eyes.
She did not touch the food. She only stared blankly out the window.
Dawn was approaching. She had not slept all night, yet felt no trace of exhaustion. Her mind replayed everything that had happened in the past twenty four hours, over and over again.
Her husband's brutal death. The mob's celebration. And Giovanni's holy face, smiling gently.
She could not understand it. How had everything turned out this way?
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound at the door made her body stiffen.
"Madam Isabella," Giovanni's calm voice came from outside, "may I come in and speak with you?"
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