A/N: Almost done with this story! I'm so excited to talk to you all about the ending. So much is on the way in just a few chapters.

**Just so no one is surprised: I will post chapter 15 next week, along with a book release of the original version of this story (featuring Joan Passerini and Paloma Morello) on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. If you want to finish reading the story, you can buy the book or wait until the final chapter is posted here in April. I understand not everyone is able or willing to buy the book, and that's fine. You still get to read the ending in a few months. I will leave the final chapter posted for two weeks only. If you have extenuating circumstances and really want to read the ending as soon as it's available, send me a private message here or on Tumblr. If you have questions about why I am doing it this way, send me a message. I'm happy to explain myself.

I could not have written this story without the assistance of many people, but most of JJ, who has helped me so much with motivation and keeping the story cohesive. She deserves all the awards.

Any overlap between this chapter and canon Glee is coincidental - I planned out the whole story in March 2014 ;)

Chapter 14: Devozione

I woke some hours later, surprised to find myself alone in Santana's bed. But as I took in the bright light streaming through the curtains, I realized it was late enough for her to be downstairs tending her shop. She was still running a business, after all. The few customers she had would be displeased if she was closed too often.

I languished in bed for a moment, not wanting to leave behind the softness and excitement of what had happened between us the night before. When I knew I had to rouse myself and go downstairs to finish Alessandra's wedding dress, I dressed and splashed some water on my face and hands, taking a mouthful of bread and cheese from the refrigerator. I thought Santana might like a glass of water, so I drew one from the tap before walking downstairs. As my shoes clacked down the slatted stairs, I heard voices in the shop below.

I stopped walking for a moment, wanting to hear who it was. Santana's customers were strange and infrequent. There were few women who brought washing to her for cleaning and folding. More frequent were men who seemed too concerned with their laundry when it should have been their wives and daughters tending to their clothing.

The voice I heard was the same gruff voice of the man I'd seen during my first few days in Santana's employ: the man in the three piece suit with the rounded hat and no tie. I froze, trying to hear what he was saying. But they were speaking in Sicilian, and I only caught a few words. Their voices grew hushed, and I knew they were aware of my presence. The flat wooden soles of my shoes had been loud on the stairs before I had stopped, bringing their conversation to a halt.

Knowing it was impolite and improper to eavesdrop, I continued down the stairs, lifting the tapestry that obscured the stairs to be met by Santana and the man's eyes. She looked nervous while the man looked impatient. There was a crate of laundry on the counter.

The man squinted at me, then turned to Santana and said something gruff, jabbing a finger in my direction. I heard the word Irish before Santana shook her head.

"Brittany is Neopolitan," she said. She seemed too eager to reassure him.

"Does she speak?" the man said, spitting out the last word.

Santana looked at me, curious.

Not knowing why, I gave a subtle shake of my head. Santana's brow furrowed for a second before she turned back to the man. "She's mute," she said.

"Crippled and mute, eh?" he said, a sinister chortle escaping his lips. "Are you running a charity or a business, Signorina Morello?"

Her hand tightened on the edge of the counter. "A business. She's the finest seamstress in the Bowery."

"That so?" the man said.

She gave a shaky nod, glancing at me.

"Huh," the man grunted. "Have her make me a smoking jacket, then. Burgundy." He collected the crate of laundry and slung it onto his shoulder. "See you next week," he said. As he did, he shot Santana a threatening glare.

He turned toward the door, giving me a baleful glance up and down before exiting with as much bluster as he'd caused in the shop.

Santana visibly deflated once he left. She bent forward as though she wanted to crouch behind the counter.

Holding the glass of water I'd brought downstairs for her, I took a hesitant step toward her. "Who was that?" I asked.

She shook her head, not answering as she took the glass of water from me.

"Does he also not pay for his laundry?" I asked.

She shook her head again.

"Why not?"

Her eyes grew sad and fearful. "Please don't ask me," she whispered.

She seemed so shaken and afraid, I felt guilty for wanting to know.

"Okay." I stepped forward, lifting my arms to offer her an embrace. I hoped my arms weren't as cold or trembling as they felt. I didn't know why she seemed so afraid of him. I only knew I wanted her to find peace.

She leaned into my arms with gratitude, exhaling. "Did you sleep well?" she asked.

"I did," I said, remembering the warmth of her bed and the happiness and peace laying with her brought me. "I wish you'd been with me when I woke up."

She drew back to look at me. "I wish I didn't have to run the shop so I could rest with you all day," she murmured.

I warmed, happy to know she treasured our kisses and embraces as much as I did.

"I love kissing you so," she said, bringing her hand to my cheek. She looked longing and wistful, as though the hours that had passed since our lips last touched had been torturous. Standing in front of the large window of the front of the shop, we knew we couldn't kiss as we wished. But the laundry full of tapestries and secret nooks provided ample opportunity.

"I should like to lay with you like that every day," Santana continued.

I looked deep into her eyes and nodded, bringing my hand to cover hers so she could never remove it from my cheek.

But alas, work awaited, and seeing as we'd almost finished the wedding gown and the remainder of the work had to be done by hand, I had no tasks for Santana other than to keep me company. She busied herself at the front of the shop with a large book that seemed to be some sort of haphazard record of the shop's finances. After an hour, she journeyed out for a few minutes. She didn't tell me where she was going, but she brought back a jar of pickles and some chicken for our midday meal.

I sewed by hand, until at last I had a complete garment. I looked at it on the dress form, knowing it was my crowning achievement as a seamstress. I wanted to bring Mamma and Luca to the laundry to see it, in hopes that Mamma would again tell me that my work was perfect.

But what mattered more to me was what Santana thought. If she thought the dress was beautiful enough to be worn on the most holy of days in a woman's life, no one else in the world needed to see the dress for me to feel good about it.

Hesitantly, I walked toward the front of the laundry. Santana looked up from where she was frowning into her book.

"It's done," I said.

She closed her book immediately. "Can I see?" she asked excitedly.

I nodded, nervous for her critique.

She followed me back to the sewing nook. When her eyes fell on the dress where it stood on the dress form, she stopped in her tracks. Something overtook her, her face went blank, and my heart beat fast. Was she already disappointed, without even examining the stitching? Had I made an error like sewing the back of the dress to the front of the bodice? Was I going to cause her trouble with Alessandra?

"Oh..." she said, like a breath floating out of her body toward Heaven. "Che bello."

I exhaled, relieved.

She stepped forward, hard reaching out before shrinking back, as though the dress would come apart or stain under her touch.

"I wish I had a reason to wear something this beautiful," she sighed.

Her eyes smoothed over the bodice of the dress, admiring the stitching I'd done so painstakingly. Yet every stitch, every eyestrain, and every precaution I'd taken in handling the fabric carefully was worth it with that motion of her hand.

Seeing the yearning in her face made me wonder again why she didn't think she was fit to be married.

"It's your size," I said. "I didn't have to adjust the dress form at all from making your dress."

She looked at me with a sad smile that told me she didn't think she was deserving of such a piece of refinery.

I stepped toward the dressform and began unfastening the buttons up the back.

"Try it on," I said, trying to let her know I wasn't going to let her refuse. "I need to make sure it sits right on a person before Alessandra comes back."

At my lie that it was part of my usual dressmaking process, she seemed to warm to the idea. As I unfastened the dozens of tiny buttons up the back, she stepped out of her shoes and unfastened her skirt, unbuttoning her shirtwaist.

I slid the wedding dress off the dress form, holding it carefully out for her to step into. She pulled it up, sliding her arms into the sleeves, being as gentle as possible with the delicate fabric. Yet the fabric seemed sturdy in comparison to the softness of her skin and the motion of her hands as she helped hold it in place as I refastened all the buttons in the back. She stood still, breathing lightly, staring into the corner of the room in a sad, reverent way.

I took in how she looked from behind as I finished the final buttons. The fabric flowed down her like water, save for where it was gathered gently at the waist. The buttons were perfectly aligned, and her breathing didn't disturb the composition of the dress. Having looked at the still, lifeless drawing of the gown Alessandra wanted so many times, it was hard to believe the garment would come to life once I had fastened the final thread. Santana made all my work come to life as the vision I intended stood before me.

And yet, as she turned around to face me, I couldn't look anywhere but her eyes. I should have been examining the dress for areas where the fabric pulled awkwardly or where stray threads were hanging, but all I could see was the deep, sad beauty in Santana's eyes and the way she was looking at me, as though she owed me a lifetime of gratitude for something I hadn't done.

It was I who owed my life to her. She, who had been so generous and kind to a poor, ignorant immigrant who had the audacity to walk into her shop and ask for work. She had given me food and clothing and money to care for Mamma and Luca and Mamma's baby. Those things would have been debt enough alone, but beyond anything else, I treasured the time I spent with her, the hours she filled up, both with her company and with thoughts of days to come and the wonders she would undoubtedly show me. I would have gladly indentured myself to her for a lifetime, in hopes I might be able to someday express to her what a beautiful, good person she was.

"Santana," I whispered. "Sei bellissima."

She looked down, bashful as she ran her hands over the waistline of the dress, feeling where I'd stitched tiny rosettes into the gown.

"You truly are a gifted seamstress," she said.

"We made it together," I objected.

She objected. "You made it while I watched. I don't even deserve to wear it."

"Hush," I said. It was difficult for me to hear her speak poorly of herself.

She remained quiet with her head bent.

"Consider the lilies of the field," I said. "They toil not, neither do they spin: and yet even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these."

She looked up and smiled at the familiar bible passage. She understood I was reminding her that all God's people deserved to be clad in threads that made them feel beautiful. Perhaps that was why I loved sewing so much: clothing had the power to make a person feel blessed.

"It's a beautiful dress," she said softly.

"And you're the most beautiful bride in the world."

Her smile turned sad and she said, "It's a shame I'll never be a bride, then."

"It is a shame," I said, confused for the hundredth time as to why she didn't think she was fit to be married. "I can't imagine why anyone wouldn't want to marry you."

She reached out for me, as though she wanted to touch my hand to the material my hands had already passed over hundreds of times. But rather than smoothing it over her garment, she held my hands between her own and said, "Perhaps because I could never regard anyone as highly as I regard you."

It was my turn to blush and look away, unsure how to respond to her kindness.

"If I were a man, I would have inquired about your marriageability the second I laid eyes on you."

Her words were bolder than I'd ever heard them. There was no trace of shame or uncertainty. She was more certain that she thought I was good and worthy than she was of how much to charge her customers or how much she loved her nonna.

"As would I about you," I said, finally able to meet her eyes.

I looked down at her dress, noticing that it made her look like a saint or angel.

"When I first saw you, you were so beautiful I forgot how to breathe. Now you really do look like an angel."

I stood there, recalling the moment our eyes had first rested on each other and how, even in that brief, breathless moment, I had wanted to possess some part of her, to know her heart and mind and soul. I had thought it was friendship I desired at the time, but I knew the nature of my feelings now. I wanted to proclaim my love for her to God and all His angels.

My love for her unearthed a reserve of honesty and courage I hadn't known I possessed. Seeing her standing before me in a wedding dress made my desires as clear as the bells of the cathedral.

"I wish we could marry each other," I said.

"Marry each other…," she echoed.

It wasn't a question or a scoff or a wistful musing. It was full of wonder and certainty, as though the idea were as natural as the flow of the fabric down her body.

Her eyes fluttered down to where she held my hand in her own. Her voice was so low, I barely heard her as she murmured, "I should like that very much."

She looked up at me, her eyelashes heavy and her gaze certain.

"It's a shame no church would perform such a marriage," I said.

She contemplated our hands for a moment before she said, "I've found that God will listen and bless no matter where the prayer occurs. Perhaps marriage vows could be the same."

I thought of how Santana hadn't set foot in a church in a long time, and yet her prayers were still earnest and true and full of devotion. Her love for God did not depend on priests and Communions and Reconciliations. Her love for God existed within her soul. The prayers we'd said together had been as healing and powerful as any I'd ever said in a cathedral. The times I'd prayed in the tiny bedroom Mamma and Luca and I shared had been no less potent or important than the times I'd prayed in church. If that was the case, there was no reason Santana and I couldn't be married right there, in front of the only people who mattered: herself, and myself, and the saints who had blessed us, and God.

I knew, in my heart, that vowing to enter the Sacrament of Marriage with Santana was what I wanted more than anything. If our ceremony had to be secret, so be it.

"Are you asking for my hand in marriage?" I asked, too delighted to contain the smile that bloomed across my face at the thought at being married to such a kind, generous, and beautiful woman as Santana.

"I am," she said. "If you will have me."

I brought my free hand to where she held mine between hers. "Only if you will have me."

Her serious expression softened and a gentle smile graced her face, rounding the apples of her cheeks. "Yes," she whispered. "It would be an honor."

When she spotted the veil I had made for Alessandra draped over the back of my chair, she plucked it up and placed it on my head, securing it before taking my hands between her own. She didn't draw the veil over my face as brides usually did. I was glad for it; I wanted only to see her face, with no layer of fabric or sadness or doubt between us. I simply wanted to stand before her, in all my simpleness and devotion, and promise God I would love her forever.

As my feet planted firmly on the floor, I thought about my funny legs and how they'd cost me so much in life, how they'd convinced me I'd remain a perpetual child who depended on my brother through all my days. As I stood there on those very legs, I felt all the sadness to which I'd confined myself fall away. Santana wanted to marry me, not because she pitied me or found me interesting as one would find a three-legged dog. She held me in highest esteem. Higher even than all the wealthy people she knew, the shopkeepers and businessmen and ladies of society. She wanted to marry me for what was in my heart.

We stood there beaming for what must have been three or four minutes, not speaking, not moving, simply reveling in the joy of having found a home and a love in such unlikely circumstances.

When I had woken this morning, I had hoped only to spend time with Santana, to show her of the love I had for her. But I had so much love for her, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to declare before God that I intended to cherish and care for her until He took me back into His graces. Even then, I was certain my spirit would continue to love Santana in Heaven.

And without thinking, I began to speak my vows.

"Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God."

Speaking the words I knew so well from my years of scripture study, I felt something in my ribcage lift and soar. It was as though the words were new to me, though I could quote them in my sleep. It was a commitment, a promise, a declaration as powerful as those between a husband and wife or a nun as she took the veil. Though we wouldn't be able to enter the Sacrament of Marriage through the Church, I knew from the earnest, deep look in Santana's eyes, that her commitment to me was one of marital gravity, and her affection for me akin to that of Naomi for Ruth.

She began to speak too, speaking from her heart rather than the hours of studying worn pages, "Where you die, I will die—there will I be buried. May the Lord do thus and so to me, and more as well, if even death parts me from you."

Once the scripture passage ended, she continued to speak, as though the voice of a priest were coming through her.

"Joined together from this day forward, 'til death do us part."

I stared into the depths of her eyes, never more sure that God loved me.

I knew God loved me because Santana loved me.

"Amen."

The word, in unison, cemented our vows and left nothing but Holy Spirit in my heart. We remained motionless for a moment as joy washed over us.

We simply stood, happy, looking at each other in the dim light of the laundry, hands fastened, not wanting the moment to end. It ended only when Santana took a small step forward, eyes flickering to my lips before looking back in my eyes. I leaned forward, knowing that we were to seal our vows with the Holy Sacrament of pressing our lips together.

And so we did.

We stood kissing between the tapestries. Somewhere between the time Santana had hung them and the first time our lips touched, it had become the enclave for all our secrets.

And now it held our devotion, strong as that of Ruth and Naomi. I was forever tied to Santana, for as long as the earth would have me.

I knew that someday God would take me back into his graces. But in that moment, I was in her arms, her strong hands on my waist, my graceful yet timid fingers feeling the fabric against her, wanting so much for it to dissolve. As though she read my mind, she pulled back.

She looked down at her dress.

"I suppose I shouldn't wear this for too long," she said.

She turned around, and I helped unfasten all the buttons before she slipped it off her shoulder and arms, taking care not to catch the train on anything in the sewing nook as she fitted the gown back onto the dress form. She stood there in her undergarments, which were still white and soft and made her look angelic. She turned to me, kissing me once more for good measure before removing the veil and placing it over the dress.

But instead of putting her dress back on, she took my hand and led me toward the front of the shop. I followed without question, though I was surprised she was so bold as to venture near the window in a state of undress. She pulled the curtain aside, letting go of my hand so she could quickly dart to the door, locking it before she scurried behind the tapestry that concealed the staircase. I knew she meant me to follow, but before I did, I turned the sign in the front of the shop to say CLOSED. It seemed only proper for us to have an afternoon in peace, with no customers to bother us, to properly celebrate our marriage.

I followed her up the stairs, delighting in the way she looked without her shirtwaist. She looked younger and more carefree.

When we reached the landing and entered her apartment, she took my hand once more, leading me to the bed. This time, I took off my garments without hesitation, eager to feel her flesh pressed to mine.

This time I felt no shame or doubt. Her lips upon my skin still felt new and good, but there was no trembling out of fear; our trembling was only of pleasure and joy for each other. When our eyes met, I saw she was often smiling, as though each touch of my hand had wicked sorrow from her core. With the touch of skin upon skin and lips upon lips, we floated closer to God.

Once we had finished, we languished in our newfound bliss. Santana hooked a wispy tendril of my hair over my ear, smiling.

It was quiet for a long moment, save for the distant noise of the carts in the street. Secluded in her bedroom, it was almost possible to forget I was in New York.

"Now that we're married," she said, "I see no reason for you to live separately."

Surprised, I lifted my eyes from where they had been resting on the skin of her shoulder.

"I've plenty of room here," she said. "Your mother would get her own room upstairs to share with Luca. No one would think it strange for us to share a bed."

I warmed at the thought of sharing a bed with Santana every night.

"What do you think, my darling wife?" she asked, giving me a playful smile.

Humbled by her generosity for the hundredth time, I said, "I'll have to ask Mamma. She'll want to pay you for it."

"I'll not have any of that," Santana said. "But you can tell her that I'm taking rent out of your pay if it would make her more comfortable. Since I suppose we share finances now, she wouldn't have to know."

I thought about deceiving Mamma like that and felt a hesitant resistance to the idea. But I glowed at how easily Santana had stitched our lives together.

Though it pained me to leave Santana's side, I knew I had to return home to Mamma and Luca that night. Santana placed a kiss on my cheek as I left. We'd shared so many kisses that day, yet I couldn't help but want more. Now that I knew we had a lifetime of kisses to share, I only felt more insatiable. But I let the lone kiss tingle on my cheek, making me grin as I returned the gesture.

I set straight home to ask Mamma if she might like a more luxurious place to call home as she prepared for the birth of my little brother or sister, and for Luca to have a proper bed to rest on after a grueling twelve hours at the tannery. My steps were light, the hollow slap of my makeshift sole barely registering as I made my way through the throngs of scowls and jostles.

I seemed to fly up the stairs, my mind racing quicker than my feet as I smiled, thinking of Mamma taking tea on the velvet settee in Santana's apartment or listening to music on the gramophone. It made my heart sing to think of the wrinkles between her eyes smoothing, the apple of her cheek losing its chalk as she was able to afford finer fare for our table every night. And Luca - he would be proud to call such a place home, to be man of the house with three such hardworking and loyal women around him as he sat in place of my father.

I clopped up the stairs of the tenement, anticipating the relief of Mamma's smile and a cool drink of water. I was almost able to block out the putrid smell coming from the toilets and the yelling from the apartment above ours and the unsightly peeling of the wallpaper. When I reached the first landing, I saw Teresa's door open. She poked her head out and greeted me with a smile. It was a strange occurence; since her husband had disappeared, I'd only seen fear and anger on her face. She couldn't have been much older than me, and until now she had looked as though she'd spent a lifetime on the Giuseppe Verdi without fresh air.

"Buonasera," she said with grin.

"Buonasera," I returned, dipping my head in greeting. "How are you?"

"Blessed," Teresa said. "An angel has been watching over me."

"Is that so?" I asked, trying not to smile too knowingly.

Santana may not have been an angel in the sense Teresa spoke of, but she watched over the Bowery as well as an angel could.

"Si," Teresa said. "For some time I've been receiving baskets of food and clothing and supplies. I've no idea from where. Yesterday, tucked between a loaf of bread and a sack of beans, I found return fare to Italy for myself and my children."

I was stunned. Santana hadn't said anything to me of giving Teresa money to return to Italy. And yet as I saw the smile on Teresa's face, I knew that was what Teresa had wanted.

"My mother and father will care for us there," Teresa said. "I won't have to rely on angels anymore."

I bit my lip and nodded. I was truly glad for Teresa, that she had a home to return to where her children would have a place to sleep every night and food in their bellies. And yet the wicked, selfish part of me was jealous that Teresa could return to Italy at all.

I stepped forward, pushing my selfish thoughts aside as I offered my arms to Teresa.

"What good fortune," I said softly. "I miss Napoli every day."

Teresa nodded, and I saw joyful tears pooling in the eyes, sparkling in the dim light of the hall.

"I'll miss you, Brittany," she said.

"I'll miss you, too," I said, surprised to hear that Teresa harbored any affection for me.

We spoke so seldom, I hadn't even considered that we might be friends. And yet I realized that was no fault of mine; with such small children to care for, Teresa had fewer friends than I did.

"I'm certain whatever angel was watching over you will find other people to help," I said as I drew back.

"I hope so," Teresa said.

A shrill wail sounded from inside her apartment and she turned back, but not before giving me one last smile. "Buona sera," she said hurriedly.

"Buonasera," I said.

And I trudged up the the rest of the stairs, feeling warm in my chest at the boundlessness of Santana's generosity.

I reached for the handle of our apartment, grinning already, happy to bring home such joyous news. I pulled it open, opening my mouth to greet Mamma and Luca when -

A man stood in the middle of the kitchen, wearing a faded suit that hung loose on his small, weary frame. He supporting Mamma as she wept into his collar, clutching at his lapel. Luca stood beside them, hand on the man's back. Despite Mamma's desperate tears, Luca was smiling as though the sun had shown its face after a long shower.

The man looked up and caught my eye, a tearful smile worn into his face as though it would never fade.

Papà had found us.