I were not allowed to dress. Instead, we were dragged naked across the campus in full view of our classmates to the chapel, where we were told we would confess our sins and have our bodies purged of Satan’s influence.”
Luca had been focused on the floor as he spoke, but Selene’s soft intake of breath, the horror behind it, had him lifting his eyes to hers.
“Luca,” she whispered.
He gave her a sad smile he hoped would comfort her. “It was a very long time ago, tesoro.”
“How bad was it?” Oscar asked.
Luca glanced in his direction. “It was bad. We were placed in cells beneath the chapel across from each other. They said mortificazione would cleanse us.” He had to think about it for a minute to translate a word, a term that for him held such horror and fear, it seemed impossible to translate. “The mortification of the flesh.”
“A fucked-up term for beating a kid,” Oscar growled.
“They ordered us to cleanse ourselves—beat ourselves.” Luca nodded toward Oscar in acknowledgement of the term. “When we would not, I was forced to watch as they beat Roberto with a flail. He was forced to do the same when they used the whip on me. Through it all, we were made to repeat the rosary. All seasons. Over and over. Every few hours, a numerary would come down to our cells and ask if we were ready to make amends with God. The numerary assistants—women—would come and beg us, plead with us, because they feared for our souls. They cared for our wounds, which was not the mercy we thought at first. They took away the pain so that it was fresh again the next day.
“Roberto repented on the third day. He picked up the whip they offered and used it on himself. Before he passed out, from pain or blood loss, he forsook me, and swore before God that he would never look at another man with lust in his heart.”
“Did you do the same?” Selene asked gently.
Luca’s lips tipped up in a grin. “Lust is not my greatest sin. Pride is. I remained in that cell for another week, beaten each day, forced to repeat the rosary on my knees for hours. They came every day to offer me the flail. Demanding my repentance. I would not give it, and would not beat myself, so they did it for me.”
Oscar’s expression was half horror, half respect when he asked, “How did you get out?”
“In the end, it was my sister, Joli. She’d pleaded, begged, cried to our adopted parents, until at last they intervened—I would like to say they did so on my behalf, but the truth was my actions reflected poorly on them. Something they would not stand for. So, they assured the Prelate that our family would devote itself to prayer and mortification of the flesh.”
“And did they?” Selene asked.
“They did. I was sent home from school, where Signore Campisi continued the beatings and they slowly starved me. That lasted another week. Until…it was Signora Campisi who figured out what my Achilles’ heel was. She was the one who discovered how to break me.”
Oscar stood up and walked to the front window, tension in every step. “Your sister. They threatened Joli, didn’t they?”
Luca nodded. “She was twelve at the time. Joli was—is—truly brilliant. I believe your word is genius. The Bellator Dei had taken notice of this and hired tutors for her, claiming her calling was different from that of the other young girls in our congregation, who were expected to marry and have lots of children who would be raised in the faith.”
“They planned to use her for something else?” Selene asked.
“A mind like hers, well…the Bellator Dei believed she was a gift from God, sent to help them in their battle against the Masters’ Admiralty. She reminds me a great deal of you,” he added, looking at Selene. “Signore and Signora Campisi threatened to end her schooling, to wed her to a ‘good and faithful’ man. Signore Esposito. He was nearly fifty at the time and everyone knew of his predilections, his preference for young girls.”
Oscar slammed the side of his fist against the wall. “Jesus.”
“I turned the whip on myself, confessed my sin, and repented. The beatings stopped after that. Eventually, I was sent back to the institute.”
Luca bowed his head as shame washed through him. He’d put that time away, locked it tightly in a box he never opened.