The Mosaic

Finale | And be a Villain

This is the last chapter! It is a little longer, but I did not want to split it into two chapters and keep you waiting even longer. I hope this is alright with you. So grab your favourite drink (are you team tea or hot chocolate?) and cozy up for a not quite relaxing last ride!

Any last bets on what will happen?

That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain. – Hamlet, Shakespeare.

The fog reached for her with his clammy, ghost-grey fingers, tracing the fear up her spine with slow delight.

But the devil was by her side, Laelia's hand tucked into the crook of his arm. It was the only point of warmth in the shivering twilight. The palaces they wandered past were still asleep, their looming marble ashen like a corpse behind the fog.

Despite Antonio's promise to help Giacinto and Alessandro, Laelia was on edge. The hollow echo of their steps followed behind them on the cobble stone, always a second out of rhythm with their strides. It's just us, Laelia told herself. No death, no monsters, no nights with bloody teeth. 

Still, the sound of steps drifting through the cold fog chased her heart with every beat. Soon, soon it would be over. Antonio would dig a secret out of its grave to buy her boys' lives, the sun would dissolve the fog and leave all the horrors in the night.

If Antonio noticed her unease, he did not show it, walking briskly through the side streets behind the palace. The pheasant feather on his hat bobbed with every step and the corner of his lips tugged down in a frown – everything as usual.

Lorenzo had once fooled her for an entire year, starting the rumour that the feathers on Antonio's hats were all quills – so he could start writing at the drop of a hat. Laelia wasn't sure if he was prouder of that horrible joke, or that Laelia had believed him until her father had taken pity on her.

"What are you smiling about?"

She hadn't noticed. But now the smile turned leaden, sinking with every second she fought to keep it up. "I was," she wet her lips, searching for a lie, "Thinking about the biscuits I had for breakfast. They had strawberries."

It seemed to be enough to fool him, or maybe he just didn't care.

But the mention of breakfast with her parents turned her mind to another mystery. If it all had started with her grandfather, if his illness had a puppeteer, there was another monster roaming these streets.

A monster Alessandro had not found in his puzzle.

A monster that would walk away free – or fall into their backs when they thought themselves victorious.

Because the Reaper was many things, he was death swift and cruel, but he did not command the slow death. He could carve out a heart, but he could not make it beat itself to death.

The Reaper was no poisoner.

A poison posing as illness so perfectly it fooled Laelia's mother? Her fingers dug into Antonio's arm. She knew only two people who could even dream of such a feat. Herself. And the Lady Medici.

No. Laelia forced her hand to relax before she would tear through Antonio's jacket. No, there were many poisoners in the shadows, she could not know them all.

And yet ... all'oro, from gold, written in cooling blood in the cell of that wrong witch. Golden, like the Lady Medici's dress that day, when the witch had been dragged away screaming about a traitor among them.

But the devil was by her side, silent but all-seeing. No story escaped Antonio.

If he could tell her what he had heard about her grandfather's death, perhaps she could match the symptoms to a poison.

Before Laelia could follow that thought, a hooded figure slipped out of an alleyway. Her hand jumped to the pouches at her belt, but Antonio nodded, and the figure stepped closer, the tip of a polished boot sliding out of the cloak. In Arabian fashion, it was curled upward at the tip. Their head was bowed, hiding their face in the shadows of the hood.

"I was right?" Antonio asked, in Arabic.

She had learned Arabic when Antonio had no longer been there to translate the anatomical encyclopaedias for her. But from deep down a suspicious voice told her to keep her face blank, pretend she did not understand.

"You were right."  Laelia was shocked to hear a woman's voice from beneath the hood, smoky and rich, like the whisper of a secret, but unmistakably female. She was so tall, taller than Antonio, Laelia had mistaken her for a man. The hint of an accent curled around her words, but Laelia could not place it. "Marinos arrested, Steno a free man."

This time, Laelia could not hide her shock, quickly turning away to hide her face, pretending to watch a seagull hop around a moored gondola. Giacinto had been arrested? How? How had they known he was back in the city? And Alessandro ... hadn't?

That made no sense. Alessandro and Giacinto had been accused of treason together, that was the whole reason why they had to flee to Florence!

And why had Antonio asked if he was right? How had he known? Had he ... did he have a hand in this?

A breeze made the fog swirl, its grey fingers suddenly reaching for her, drawing closer around them. Laelia hugged her arms to herself. If Antonio had known Giacinto would be arrested – what should he keep his deal and save him?

No, Antonio's deals were holy. He was a faithful liar.

"Laelia." Antonio's voice made her turn back. The hooded figure stood silently behind him. "I apologize for the interruption. We have a change of plans."

"Do we now?" Laelia couldn't hide her confusion anymore.

"Yes, we do. Otherwise I would not have said it." Antonio sighed, as if the world was one giant inconvenience that kept him from reading.

"I can see why you don't have a great many friends. You're not very funny."

"I don't have any friends, beside my brother." For a split second, his face twisted into something like ... grief.

He knew.

But he continued as if it were nothing. "The Reaper is here. You're not safe at the council hall. My agent will take you home."

"No."

Antonio took a step closer, threw his hands up in frustration and stepped back. "Laelia." He rubbed a hand over his beard as if to calm himself. "You are no help to your friends if you are dead."

Laelia wanted to punch him. The devil always knew what to say.

... but maybe she could get some information out of his spy. "Fine."

"That ... was surprisingly easy. But far be it from me to doubt you." He sounded like he was very much doubting her. But he just bowed his head. "Have a good morning."

Before he could turn away, Laelia rushed to catch his sleeve. His eyes were cold but curious. "I ..." She didn't know what she had wanted to say. Please save Giacinto? Be careful? What are you hiding? She let go. "Nothing."

He strode away without a glance back. When the grey swallowed his silhouette, Laelia's hand fell down, fingertips tingling with fading warmth.

"He thinks he's very funny," the smoky voice said right behind her ear.

She whirled around so fast she nearly fell, her heart kicking in her chest like a scared rabbit. The woman smiled at her, sharp white teeth glinting against midnight skin. Laelia's mouth fell open. Behind her stood a goddess.

Gone was the wide cloak, a burning red dress clinging to long limbs in its stead. The silk shimmered even in the pale morning light, the high collar accentuating a long neck and fine jaw. Even her skin seemed to burn, a rich shade of mahogany that made the fog fade around them. 

Laelia didn't know where to look first – the fine curl of her lips, the high cut of her cheekbones, the gold glittering in the tight braids spilling down her back.

At a closer look, Laelia realized its beads were shaped like snake scales. When the woman tilted her head, her braids moved with her, the golden scales turning her into the mythical Medusa.

Laelia settled on staring into eyes as dark as the night. Somehow, she had almost expected them to glow yellow, like a snake. They crinkled with amusement. "Close your mouth, a fly might find its way in."

Laelia snapped her mouth shut. "Um –"

"I knew you spoke Arabic."

Laelia realized her mistake too late. The woman had spoken in Arabic and she had closed her mouth automatically, betraying her earlier act. 

Laelia pouted. The woman laughed. Even her laugh was beautiful, rich like molten gold. "You're not a very good actor, little one. Your fiancé is just even worse at noticing."

Annoyance dispelled Laelia's fear. Excuse her for being a bad liar, she did not want to lie. "And you're not a very good spy if you did not tell him I could understand you."

"You are as difficult as he says."

"Or you are all simply inept at handling me."

"Perhaps. But you must come with me."

When Laelia stepped back slowly, the woman followed, smooth like a serpent after its prey. "Don't try that, little one," she said as Laelia's hand snuck towards her pouches.

"I'm not supposed to follow strangers."

The woman raised a slender eyebrow. Laelia crossed her arms, sticking out her chin. "What's your name?"

"I have no name."

"Everyone has a name."

"And I am no one."

"That makes no sense. My name is Laelia." Laelia stood a little taller, even though she barely reached the woman's chin. "And I will only go with you if you tell me your name. See if Antonio will be happy to hear you did not bring me home –"

"Ankaa," the woman said. "You may call me Ankaa."

"See, you have a name!"

"That is not my name."

Only Antonio would have a nameless spy that had a name.

"Please follow me, little one."

Laelia did not particularly like the idea of following her into the rolling fog, no matter how beautiful she was. Most deadly things were very pretty. "That's not the way home."

Ankaa turned back, eyes narrowing. Again, Laelia felt like a serpent was watching her, moments before she would strike.

"Antonio said you would bring me home!" She sounded like a petulant child, but she was too confused to pretend anymore. No one told her anything!

Ankaa stopped only inches before her, bending down until they were face to face. "Do you remember the witch they killed in Florence?"

Laelia reared back. Ankaa's eyes burned with something Laelia knew from looking into the mirror this morning. She had thought about hunting the men that had taken her Zo.

"Just a pawn in Antonio's game, his to sacrifice," her voice was a low hiss, "mine to mourn. He took my best friend."

I will take his bride.

Laelia forgot to breathe, her throat too tight.

But Ankaa stepped back. "I did not tell Antonio, but when they arrested your friend, a boy brought a message. A butterfly earring."

Ankaa was still talking, but it faded to a high ringing in Laelia's ears. Her mind emptied, draining like the blood from her face.

Lorenzo. They had Lorenzo.

Lorenzo was alive.

"How about another deal? I get the Reaper, you get your friend."

"Where," she breathed. The fog seemed to spin around her – it was her, she realized, when her knees buckled. Before the world could go back, Ankaa slipped an arm around her waist, keeping her steady.

"San Zaccharia."

---

Giacinto really regretted not having had that drink earlier.

The hall housing the Council of Ten was gigantic – and terribly pompous. He had never understood the Venetians' absurd need for decorum. Their ornaments had ornaments.

At two stories high, the ceiling loomed over them like a painted heaven, writhing with twisted bodies and beating wings. Giacinto had counted the rose petals raining in the fresco above him twice -- it was exactly 84 -- yet the old men still hadn't decided whether they wanted to hang him.

It was a yes-or-no question, this shouldn't take so long.

They should just send him before a judge, he would bribe that judge, and all would be well. But the Council of Ten had been created as a special tribunal to avert plots and crimes against the state and allegedly, Giacinto had committed such a plot or crime against the state.

He wasn't quite sure on the details, since he – for once – had not done whatever he was accused of.

He didn't notice he was bouncing his leg until Carlo's hand settled on it. Too heavy, too close – Giacinto jerked away. He could feel his scar burn through his trousers.

"Don't," Carlo said, voice unchanged from when he barked orders at his soldiers.

Just to spite him, Giacinto started bouncing his leg again.

"It makes you look nervous. Only guilty men are nervous."

"Correction, only dumb men aren't nervous when faced with a death penalty," Michele joined.

The two of them had decided to sit with Giacinto, instead of with the rest of the council – a bold move, and not unnoticed by their peers.

"You'd know what that feels like," Carlo bit back. The General wasn't known for his patience, but Alessandro's father seemed to have a special effect on him.

"I was just trying to make a good impression on the man that saved my son's life and you have to make me sound like a criminal."

"You – "

Michele turned to Giacinto with an easy grin. He seemed like the only one utterly unbothered by everything around him. "When I was your age, I got arrested for playing a prank on the Duchess. And writing on the wall of this hall."

"You were in jail for a month."

"It was hilarious and absolutely worth it."

Giacinto blinked. How did Alessandro turn out so dreadfully boring with a father like that?

Alessandro ... his leg jumped faster, a nervous itch beneath his skin making him glance out the arched window every few minutes – the sun had broken through the fog, a golden mist floating above San Marco's square. An hour? More, probably.

Giacinto did not have another hour. Alessandro must have reached San Zaccaria by now, walking right into that trap.

The other councilmen were talking louder now, the Duke was pacing. They were impatient, too.

They had heard Giacinto's story three times. They had sent for Lucio Borroni, Alessandro's superior and the hero who had uncovered Giacinto's plot – the man who had lied through his teeth and who Giacinto would pay a little visit. Once he was out of here.

But Lucio hadn't arrived.

And neither had Antonio Morosini.

The Council could not vote until their last member joined them.

This was precisely why Giacinto preferred his monarchy. A whole lot more effective.

The whole waiting gnawed on the last strings of his patience. Was Antonio stalling? Was he involved in his father's plot after all, keeping Giacinto trapped in this gilded cage until it would be too late to follow Alessandro?

Someone snapped they should simply vote now. At his side, Carlo tensed. He had threatened to withdraw his own ships from the Venetian fleet should they vote to convict Giacinto – a promise with dire consequences, Carlo not only had a private armada but also deals with the pirates roaming the Mediterranean.

Michele had charmed the entire council, Laelia's father had somehow managed to lie Giacinto was a man of excellent moral qualities while keeping a straight face and yet only an old friend of Michele had broken ranks and promised to support them.

Four to five. If they voted now, Giacinto would hang

And the Duke would certainly see Giacinto dead – Antonio's uncle was a paranoid man, seeing a traitor in his own shadow.

Not that Giacinto planned on dying. He had his ways to weasel out of prisons and gallows, but it would at least force him to leave the city. And he couldn't do that, not now that it had finally gotten interesting...

Giacinto considered making a run for it and just jumping out of the window – which of these peacocks of men would really be able to catch him – when the wings of the door boomed open and a herald strode in.

"Councilman and Chronicler of Venice –" He bowed so low Giacinto was beyond tempted to poke his arse and watch him faceplant into the marble. He was pretty sure he could get Alessandro's father in on the fun.

" – the Signor Morosini."

The hall held its breath. And in strode Antonio, looking horribly displeased, like he would much rather be reading than sentence Giacinto to death.

Giacinto would also much rather not be sentenced to death, but they couldn't all get what they wanted.

Some of the councilmen turned up their noses when Antonio joined them. But he was the Duke's nephew, so the fault of his bronze skin and hawk's nose had to go unpunished.

When everyone was silent, watching him, Antonio lounged in his seat, sighing. "I got held up. Some drunkard," he trailed off and the councilmen grumbled in agreement, like yes, poor men are such a hassle when you're on your way to frame someone for high treason.

Bloody hypocrites.

Giacinto had to tell his story, again, even though he was very certain Antonio was not even listening. They asked for Lucio Borroni, their lying witness, again. Again, no one appeared. Instead, Antonio rose from his seat.

Despite his best efforts to remain unaffected, Giacinto leaned forward when he caught the glint of teeth in Antonio's smile. The councilmen could feel it, too, all eyes clinging to Antonio.

"Dramatic bastard," Carlo muttered under his breath.

Antonio did not even turn to look at him. "Certainly not more dramatic than the man who threatened to leave Venice without an armada if we took away his little friend."

Laughter rumbled through the hall, Carlo fumed, and no one questioned why Antonio knew what Carlo had said an hour before the Arab had arrived.

But rage and laughter died when the guards open the door and –

"Cardinal Francesco Pisani." Antonio bowed his head. "How kind of you to gift us your time so we may find the truth in this egregious plot."

Cardinal Pisani looked like he was not feeling very kind. His father, a notorious banker and advisor to the Duke, was a councilman himself – now frozen in his seat.

Giacinto pursed his lips. How interesting.

The Cardinal's red robes stood out like a splatter of blood against the marble floor as he folded his hands and began to tell the most outrageous lie Giacinto had heard in his entire life.

And Giacinto lied a lot.

"Signori, I am deeply grateful for this audience, yet troubled by what it implies." He had a soft voice, deep and melodic. "Treason against our most holy Republic."

The councilmen murmured in agreement. Next to him, Giacinto could hear Carlo's teeth grind.

"For what other name is there for a lie before this council, a plot to make fools of our most noble men!"

The councilmen shift in their seats, whispering among each other in hushed voices. Giacinto's mind raced to get ahead of Antonio's plan. That ... was not going as expected.

But Antonio was just lounging in his seat as if he were watching a particularly captivating opera. What was he playing at...

The priest spread his arms, turning in a circle to address the Duke. "A plot to make our Duke the servant of fear!"

A nervous thrum started in Giacinto's chest. The Cardinal thrust a hand toward him. "A plot to frame Signor Marinos, a gifted banker, to seize his money when he would be found guilty!"

What?

The room was silent, for two heartbeats that Giacinto felt echo through his chest, and then exploded.

"Cardinale, how would you know of such a plot?" "—he has no proof –" "—different from what we were told –" "—dare you lie to the council!"

The voices blurred together into a tangle of shouts. As if someone had pulled the ground from beneath his feet, Giacinto felt the room spin as his mind tried to catch up.

Only Antonio Morosini sat calm as ever, watching the chaos with an amused smile. Giacinto narrowed his eyes.

Silk rustled as Michele rose to stand beside Giacinto. He only smiled, but the hall fell silent. "Signori, would you not find all your questions answered if you simply let the Cardinal speak?"

The smiling man among the wolves – either insane or so much more dangerous.

Interesting.

The Cardinal continued and Giacinto almost believed he had gotten drunk out of his mind and forgotten an entire night – it wouldn't be the first time, except he knew he had been in Florence and he most certainly had not seen this Cardinal for confession in Venice.

He had not went to confession for over a decade, when he had hidden in the confessional and killed a bishop.

There was no forgiveness for his sins.

As if he were preaching to a crowd of non-believers, the Cardinal's speech was fiery, rousing, pulling them to the edge of their seats to cling to his words. One fateful night, Giacinto had sought out the Cardinal's wisdom – he wished to donate his money to the church of San Marco, to feed the poor.

Giacinto struggled to suppress laughter – he did not trust God with money.

But the councilmen bought it, nodding their heads and humming their approval. And the Cardinal continued, casting a web of lies so tight even Giacinto could not find its flaw. When Giacinto had left the church, the Cardinal had noticed a few men lingering in the pews near the confessional. The long shadows had carried their whispers to him, how they had overheard Giacinto talk of his wealth, how they longed to take it for themselves. No one would believe a moor.

How the Duke was weak, clinging to power, how easy it would be to convince him someone sought to pry it from his dead hands.

The Duke bristled at that, already swayed to condemn whoever spoke so ill of him.

Giacinto glanced towards the windows again. The seagulls dove through golden waves glittering beyond the palace. This was brilliant, but it was too late.

He prayed for riddles, to slow Alessandro's path into the trap.

He doubted there were any. The Reaper wanted Alessandro to find him.

"Do you have proof, Cardinal?" That snapped Giacinto's attention back to the council. Unease tingled at his fingertips, longing to play with his daggers – but no one was allowed arms in this hall, so all he had left was a single, ornamental knife strapped to his hip.

He wouldn't have needed to worry. "Are you calling my son, the Cardinal of our holy Roman Church, a liar?" Councilman Pisani was old, his beard thin and white, but the finger he pointed at the speaker shook with fury.

A Cardinal and a son of one of them. His word was golden.

Giacinto had the urge to applaud. Antonio smiled as if he knew.

"Of course, Signori, I would never waste your time with empty words." The Cardinal gestured at the door.

But when its wings groaned open, no saviour appeared. Instead, Daniele lead Giacinto's accuser into the hall. For a second, their eyes met. His smile was as sharp as Giacinto's daggers, cutting through the thin thread of hope.

---

In the light of the rising sun, the rain glittered like strings of golden pearls. The fine spray was cold on Alessandro's face, like the night still clinging to the last long shadows that stretched across the piazza.

Beyond a stretch of mirror-black puddles rose a wall of marble, three arches reaching towards the heavens, the cross atop the highest casting its inverted shadow at the tip of Alessandro's boots like a silent omen.

San Zaccaria.

Two hours, what should have been less than one – a collapsed bridge had forced his gondola to turn back, and suddenly the straight, endless canals worked against him.

Alessandro had forced himself to sit still. The canal was safe, the silent waters keeping him out of reach for the shadowed blades of the streets. Venice's streets were a labyrinth of dead ends, turning and twisting back on themselves until your head spun. In this part of the city, the streets were alive, tricking hopeless wanderers with ancient mischief. So he had sat in the gondola, no matter how much he had wanted to jump out and run here.

Alessandro had no illusions as to the end of this game. He would walk back out of this church with Lorenzo or he would bleed out on its hallowed ground.

The Greek had wanted to send Carlo's men with him. But the Reaper had known exactly where to send the boy to deliver the earring. He was watching, and if Alessandro brought an army, the Reaper would make sure he would not find Lorenzo in that church.

If Lorenzo even were here.

He hoped, against hope, but the voice at the back of his mind could not be silenced. Lorenzo had not brought that earring with him when they had fled Florence, Giacinto's gift was far too precious – the mercenaries at the cliff could not have taken it from him. Someone had taken it from his villa in Florence.

Lorenzo was most likely dead.

Still, he hoped. He hoped the hail of arrows missed his heart, hoped mercenaries recognized his value, hoped the Reaper was here to trade.

One life, for all those on the line if the coup succeeded. The thought tasted bitter. He shouldn't do it.

You give him whatever he wants, Giacinto had said, as if he had read the doubt on his face, and pressed the letters against Alessandro's chest. Promise.

His resolution had surprised Alessandro – the Greek, until now, had shown no sign Lorenzo was anything to him other than a convenient drinking partner.

I promise.

When Alessandro entered the church, he blamed the chill trickling down between his shoulderblades on the grave-cold of the church.

With the sound of distant thunder, the door boomed shut behind him, leaving him in the dim twilight of the deserted halls.

The church slowly grew out of the darkness around him as his eyes got used to the low light. The only windows rose behind the altar at the far end, their stained glass tinting the shadows red.

Where the fifth lion prays...

Alessandro's eyes settled on the altar.

His first step echoed unnaturally loud, the domed ceiling throwing it back at him tenfold, as if it were mocking his fear. There was no one here. The second someone so much as shifted in here, Alessandro would hear. He relaxed.

The image of Giacinto, walking without a sound, flashed through his mind.

Alessandro ignored the uneasy twist in his chest and pressed on, striding down the aisle, the pews on either side of him shapeless shadows, like a pack of wolves circling him, crouched low, ready to leap –

Alessandro shook his head. His mother had always scolded him for his overactive imagination as a child. Still, he felt his step quicken, as if the shadows behind him were reaching for him.

When he reached the altar, his steps faltered, caution beating courage. From the stained glass windows, a lance of red light cut through the twilight. It impaled Christ on the cross, washing down his chest like blood. It was just a coincidence, but something twisted in his gut.

Why was it so silent?

He circled the altar twice, to no avail. No one was here. No Lorenzo, no reaper.

Doubt rose like bile in throat, but cold as ice. What if he had been wrong?

What if he had read the riddle wrong, what if he wasn't supposed to be here? The winged lion was Venice's symbol, there were thousands of lion statues throughout the city.

In the domed apse, his breath was too loud. No, no. He had never been wrong. He was right, he had to be, he was just missing something, he wasn't wrong.

The thunder of his heart felt too much like fear now. He spun in circles, trying to find that little detail he had missed, the hint that someone had been here, anything, anything that meant he wasn't wrong.

Nothing.

"Shit." He slid down the altar, dragging his hands through his hair. Think, Alessandro, think. His fingers tightened to fists, pulling his hair, but he barely felt the flash of pain. Think.

The fifth lion. Leo the fifth.

Or any other lion statue, the voice in his head whispered.

And praying, a church, it had to be right.

Cold seeped from the marble altar through his jacket. A king would have knelt here to pray, not in the pews. But there was nothing here.

... what if he hadn't been wrong, but there had been nothing here? The thought hit him like a bucket of ice water. He had said it himself, Lorenzo had not taken that earring with him. There was no Lorenzo to find. This was nothing but a cruel joke. Luring Alessandro here, just to take away Giacinto's only witness.

He was a fool. He loved riddles, he wanted everything to make sense, to fit together perfectly – and the Reaper had used that against him. It had been so easy.

Dragging himself back to his feet, against that horrible weight in his chest, his eyes landed on the engraving at the altar's side.

A wry smile played on his lips – Leo the fifth, kneeling in prayer before this church. He had been right, but he had been the only one playing this empty game. As if the Reaper were mocking him, a carved skeleton smiled beside the king, hands stretched out as if to bless the viewer.

The bones of Saint Zaccaria, the king's gift to Venice.

Alessandro had visited the church with his father as a child, refusing to go near the altar. Laughing, his father had explained the bones had never been here. San Zaccaria was an old church, the first one had long sunken into the ground, the swamp Venice had been built on slowly swallowing the city. They had built another church above it, the old cathedral used as a crypt, until the ocean had seeped through the cracks in the old walls – the crypt was flooded now, the water rising and falling with the tide. The bones had been removed, kept safe in a monastery.

Then it hit him.

The king had not prayed here, the first church was underground.

For the first time in his life, Alessandro hesitated. He could not keep chasing ghosts, figments of the overactive imagination he had gotten in trouble for as a child.

He turned towards the exit. But what if he was right? He turned back. Took a step forward. Stopped again.

He wanted to scream. He did not know. He did not know what was right and wrong anymore. If he left, he could help Giacinto. But if he left and he had been right ... he would leave Lorenzo in a crypt that would flood with the next tide.

The knot in his chest tightened. Giacinto would be fine for another half an hour. He could not leave Lorenzo behind, not again.

No, you just want to know if you're right, the voice whispered.

Alessandro ignored it, marching down the aisle before he could doubt again. Second door to the right, he remembered, his father had showed him. Its dark wood was too rough for the fine marble of the church.

And it was bolted shut.

Rust crusted the heavy iron. A city of rust, Venice's eternal dampness gnawed at its very foundations. Almost reverently, Alessandro reached to brush a finger over the lock – the slightest indent, right along the length of the bolt.

Alessandro smiled. The monks did not go down there anymore. But someone had been slid the bolt back, not long ago, tearing a fresh scar through the rusted metal.

He had been right.

Exhaling slowly, he took a step back, his eyes locked on the area right beside the bolt. He had done this a thousand times.

Two quick strides to create forward momentum – his boot hit the wood, the impact rocking through him, the old wood and lock bursting open with the crack of dry bones. Alessandro told himself he did not enjoy the violent splinters torn through the door.

Stairs dropped into darkness, but he could see the faint light of a faraway torch flicker along the walls.

No way but forward now.

He stopped on his way down, to tear the lock out of the remains of the door. He was not getting trapped in a crypt that would be fully underwater in a few hours.

The darkness smelled of rust and algae as it embraced him with its cold arms, dragging him down into the abyss. A faint dripping sound came from somewhere ahead of him. The tide was coming.

When he rounded a sharp twist in the tunnel, a gigantic cave opened up before him. The light of a dozen torches, far below, barely reached him and it took him a moment to realize he was not in a cave, but an old cathedral. He stood just beneath its vaulted ceiling. Above his head, shadows flickered like vultures circling a dying man.

A cast-iron staircase spiralled straight into a hall of endless columns. They appeared to float in nothingness, the pale marble diving down into mirror smooth darkness. From the black sea, the reflections of the torches blinked up at Alessandro like a myriad of glowing eyes.

The cathedral was already halfway flooded, Alessandro realized with a start.

Only when he was halfway down the spiralling staircase, the columns growing taller above him, the thrill of his perfect riddle faded. He was unarmed. Weapons were not allowed in the Duke's palace, Alessandro had left his sword at home –

Movement, out of the corner of his eye.

His head whipped around. There, hidden in the shadows, a balcony ran around the cathedral, a few meters above the water. It was newer, out of the same ornate wrought iron as the stairs – probably a first attempt to save the relics from the rising water.

But nothing moved. He waited a few more heartbeats, then swung himself over the banister onto the balcony. It creaked under his weight. He stilled. At first nothing.

Then it creaked again.

Behind him –

"Alessandro?"

The voice was so soft he almost did not hear it over the thunder of his heart. When he spun around, his knees nearly buckled at the sight.

Pale as a ghost, in his white blouse and bloodless face, stood Lorenzo.

Alessandro wanted to move, but couldn't, frozen between two heartbeats. The blond stepped forward, and Alessandro's heart tore apart between hope and fear. Almost, he expected the other to fade away when he stepped out of the dark shadows and into the light.

But he was right there, only a few steps away and the ice trapping Alessandro shattered. He nearly threw them both off balance when he crashed into Lorenzo, yanking him into his arms, the solid weight against him telling him Lorenzo was here, he was real, he was alive –

"I'm sorry," Alessandro rasped, throat suddenly too tight to speak. But he had to, he had so much to say, so much –

Lorenzo's fingers curled into the back of his jacket. Alessandro forgot what he wanted to say. Something between an eternity and just a second passed and he broke. His knees gave out, but he could not let go of Lorenzo, never again, so he dragged him down with him.

"I'm sorry," he finally managed to get out, hands tearing at Lorenzo, trying to pull him closer, ever closer, "I'm sorry, I should have been there, I didn't know, I thought you jumped with Laelia, but then you weren't there and –"

Lorenzo's hand curled around the back of his neck, pulled his head down into the crook of his shoulder and Alessandro swayed into him. He had kept it all down, had forced it away, but now his grip slipped.

The first sob felt like someone cleaved his chest open.

He had failed them. They had trusted him, they had followed him, and he had failed them.

As always, Lorenzo knew. "It's not your fault," he muttered, his voice warm against the top of Alessandro's head.

He managed to pull away, but his fingers fisted into Lorenzo's shirt on their own, afraid he would vanish again. His eyes raced over every inch of the other, trying to assess the damage. He looked ... fine. Tired, the dark circles under his eyes seeming impossibly deep in the flicker of the torchlight, but fine. There was a long cut across his temple, freshly scabbed.

Rage rose, like a tidal wave, threatening to pull him away into destruction when he realized an arrow must have narrowly missed Lorenzo's head. His hair was tangled and the shadow of a beard was dusted around his jaw. His shirt was fresh, but a bright red drop of blood already seeped through on his arm – his wound must have reopened when he caught Alessandro.

Before he could apologize, Lorenzo's lips finally pulled into a brilliant smile. "You're staring."

"I'm trying to make sure you're not dying." The moment the words left his mouth, they hit him like a punch. "I ... I thought you were dead."

"I know," Lorenzo whispered, "I know. I'm sorry. But Lia – I could not – I had to –"

When Alessandro pulled him in, their kiss tasted like his tears.

Too soon, reality caught up. The grate that was the balcony's floor dug into his knees painfully and the creak of metal when he shifted to press closer made him flinch.

He pulled away, catching his breath. "We have to leave." He pushed to his feet. Lorenzo stared up with him, hair a worse mess than before, lips bitten red. Alessandro nearly dropped to his knees again.

Instead, he held out his hand. "I took care of the lock. But we have to leave before the Reaper notices."

It ... bothered him. Only a lock? Enough to keep Lorenzo down here, but still... If the Reaper had been there, Alessandro would have stood no chance, he could have just taken the letters.

This was too easy.

The warmth of Lorenzo's hand taking his dispelled his thoughts. Maybe they got lucky, for once. He hauled Lorenzo to his feet. Maybe the Reaper was trying to manipulate Giacinto's trial. Maybe he had bet on Alessandro playing the hero, not trading the letters for Lorenzo.

"Are you alright?" Lorenzo's fingers wove through his, squeezing his hand. Alessandro reached up to smooth the wrinkle between his brows.

"Of course." He shook the tension from his shoulders. "Let's go." A glance downward told him what he had already known – the tide was rising, the water steadily climbing closer and closer. It was less than a meter below them now.

When they reached the spiral staircase, Alessandro pushed Lorenzo behind him. If someone came for them, they would have to go through him first. But just when he set his foot on the first step, Lorenzo pulled him back.

"Do you have the letters?"

"Of course," his hand rose to his chest, where the parchment felt like it burned a hole through his jacket. For a moment, he considered lying, but then he sighed. "Marinos nearly threatened to murder me if I wouldn't bring them."

"Aww, I knew he liked me." The he frowned. "Back to Marinos for now?"

"For ever."

"You don't mean that."

"I do."

Lorenzo looked at him as if he had announced he liked wide-hipped women. "No you don't?"

"I would know what I mean, Lorenzo," Alessandro gritted. "Let's move, he's not going to hang on my watch."

Again, Lorenzo pulled him back from the stairs. "What if he's coming? In the tunnel, you're unarmed –"

Impatience shifted under his skin. They did not have time for this. "It'll be fine."

Lorenzo barked a laugh, a little too high, panicked. "Fine, Alessandro, fine? Against the Reaper? Have you lost your mind?"

"Possibly," Alessandro yanked his arm out of Lorenzo's grip. "We're not staying."

"They hold mass before noon, I heard them from down here, if the church is full, we can leave in the crowd –"

Alessandro's heart grew heavy. It was smart – but the tide would find them long before mass started. He didn't have to say it, Lorenzo's eyes following his glance to the rising water.

The other's jaw worked, clenching in determination. He held out his hand. "Give me the letters."

Alessandro hesitated only for the briefest moment, before reaching into his jacket to pull them out. He had not thought of it, but it might work. "Keep them visible," he said. If the Reaper had been ordered to get the letters, it might buy them some time.

He held out his hand to Lorenzo. They would do this, somehow. Together.

Lorenzo gripped the letters tighter.

And held them into the flames.

---

Giacinto did not even pretend to listen to what Alessandro's superior rattled off. He had heard it a dozen times in the past hour. Instead, he watched Daniele. It was strange, seeing Alessandro's uniform on someone else, but Daniele wore it like a king's robe. Against the blood red cloth, his long, red curls burned like a fire.

Alessandro certainly had a type. Daniele was tall and slender, his long limbs almost a little lanky. The roguish twin scars through his eye clashed with the polished, almost stiff way he carried himself. And while he may not be as good looking as Lorenzo, he was handsome enough, in a sharp, edged way.

Still, Giacinto decided, Lorenzo was an improvement. Mostly because Giacinto liked Lorenzo.

In the background, Signore Borroni still droned on and on about Giacinto's devious plans.

He liked to pretend he was above such petty things as guilt, but every time he thought of Lorenzo, something twisted in his heart.

It was his fault. If he had just jumped, Alessandro wouldn't have had to come for him, could have saved Lorenzo.

"Are you alright?"

Giacinto jumped at the whisper. Alessandro's father had leant close, eyes soft with concern. They had the same eyes, Giacinto realized, a warm, almost yellow shade of brown. He sighed. "Of course."

"Not to be nosy," Michele leant back, "But that's exactly what my son says when he's not alright."

The corner of Giacinto's lips twitched into a grin. Just when he wanted to answer, the Duke rose.

"As Inspector Steno's ... replacement," the Duke turned to Daniele, "You worked this case with Inspector Borroni. Since his statement contradicts the Cardinal's, please confirm your superior's word, so we may proceed with the sentencing."

Giacinto tensed in his seat. While Daniele and him had met only once, when Giacinto had interrupted Daniele and Alessandro's – fight? Kiss? Threatening? – it was safe to say Daniele did not like Giacinto.

Daniele's smile appeared to be made of glass, beautiful, delicate, and cold as ice. "No."

A murmur went through the council. Giacinto was sure he had misheard. Only Antonio seemed unsurprised, as always.

"No?" The Duke's face cycled through several shades of red.

Daniele looked like he had to fight very hard to bite back a comment about the Duke's sense of hearing. Giacinto knew because he felt how Daniele looked.

"No," the man repeated, "I cannot confirm my superior's statement, because it is false."

Several councilmen jumped up to shout at each other, the Duke, the guards or Daniele with his glass smile, hands flying as the gestured wildly at everything and anyone around them.

Michele leant back in his seat. "Huh."

When Giacinto turned, Carlo looked like he desperately longed for the simple times of burning enemy ships and dodging cannon balls.

"Silence," the Duke roared. When everyone forced themselves to settle back on the edge of their seats, he faked a dignified cough. "Thank you. Now, Inspector Cornaro, please elaborate."

But his superior fought through his shock first. To Daniele's credit, he did not even flinch when the shorter man planted himself in front of him, the medals on his chest shaking in anger. "You filthy little –"

"Are you calling my son a liar?"

Calm and cold, the voice sent a chill down Giacinto's spine. He knew that tone, for a second the Regent's face flashed before him.

Daniele's father had not partaken in the endless debates, simply watching the hall like a hawk. Now that he spoke, Alessandro's superior grew pale. Of course. Daniele's father was not just a member of the Grand Council, but head of the Venetian guardsmen. The police, the palace guards, the spies, everyone answered to him alone.

If Signore Borroni defended himself and called Daniele a liar, he would insult the only man who still ranked higher than him. Daniele's father was known for not taking kindly to being opposed.

And the council would always side with one of their own.

The intricacy of this stroke of genius bore Antonio's handwriting – when Giacinto's eyes strayed to him, the Arab's pleased smile betrayed his involvement.

It was only a matter of minutes until Daniele had recounted the Cardinal's lie almost word for word – and tangled up Alessandro's superior right in the middle of the plot. The men from the church that Giacinto had never went to had needed an inside man to have Giacinto arrested – tempted by his greed, Signore Borroni had agreed. But his envy of Alessandro's abilities had lead him to accuse the inspector of treason alongside Giacinto, to ensure he would lose his position in the police.

Daniele had uncovered his fabricated evidence and done his sacred duty to his city and turned against his superior. It was so outrageously heroic Giacinto almost gagged. But the council adored it and not ten minutes later, Giacinto shook the Duke's hand and got swept out the hall with a chattering bunch of councilmen.

Giacinto ignored Michele and Carlo calling after him, a glance at a grandfather clock in the corridor rekindling the nervous fire under his skin. Two hours – Alessandro must have long reached San Zaccaria.

Up ahead, Antonio's feathered hat slipped away in the waiting crowd of nosy noblemen. Giacinto caught his arm just before he twisted away through a hidden door.

Antonio pointedly glanced down at Giacinto's fingers curled around his wrist. Rolling his eyes, Giacinto dropped his hand. "You forget you are no old book, Antonio. Touch will not make you crumble to dust."

Antonio just raised a thick eyebrow.

His and Antonio's deal hid him from Crete. Antonio was eerily exact with his deals, he hadn't just saved Giacinto out of the goodness of his inky heart. "Why?"

"You don't play the part of the fool very well, Hyakinthos. Well enough for your Inspector, but not for me."

Oh, if only he knew. Antonio was his fool.

But he was right. Giacinto knew. "What did she offer you?" He gritted.

Stupid girl. Giacinto would have gotten out of this, somehow. But a deal with Antonio was nothing Laelia could just slip out of.

"A secret," Antonio smiled, "For a secret."

Giacinto followed his glance to the Cardinal storming out of the council hall. Antonio shook his head. "The men closest to God are the farthest from His heart."

Giacinto did not give two shits about Antonio's poetic ramblings. He had to get to Alessandro and he had to go shout at Laelia for her carelessness. And then probably thank her.

"What about Daniele and his superior? That's more than one secret. Are you in the charitable business now?"

"God forbid. That was partly your deal to get your inspector out of the sling Signore Borroni had around his neck. The council will likely exile him, that should get him out of your hair."

"And the other part?" Giacinto asked warily.

"Signore Cornaro's idea." Antonio inclined his head. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

Again, Giacinto caught him. "Was it you?"

"Was it me who what? Danced the cantarella last carnival? Ate the last cornetto? Please just say what you mean."

"I'm going to set your library on fire, you hilarious man." Giacinto stepped closer, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Was it you who sent Laelia that snake?"

A muscle in Antonio's jaw twitched. Too bad, Giacinto had no sense for danger.

"Because if you did, I'm going to gut you like a fish." He stepped back, plastering a smile across his face before the other councilmen could get suspicious. "And I mean that exactly the way I said it, Signore Dictionary."

"I did not."

"It was your agent that delivered it."

"I sent no letter. Alcyone was meant to keep an eye on you. If she wrote a letter in my name, it was to make sure something reached you." For the first time, something like regret twisted his face. "And she payed for that mistake with her life."

"It was your handwriting." That Antonio had learned from his father.

"Impossible," Antonio shook his head. "She barely knew any Italian."

Enough to screech there was a traitor among them as she was dragged of by the Medici guards, Giacinto recalled bitterly. That was what had always stood between Alessandro and him – and the one thing that had been a lie. Giacinto had offered Alessandro's life to the Reaper – but he had not killed her.

It had always been there, at the back of Alessandro's mind, sneaking through the cracks of his fragile trust in Giacinto. Only Giacinto – and that annoyingly touchy woman he had picked up in his drunken stupidity – had been there when Lorenzo had let it slip he and Alessandro were going to interrogate the witch. And then that woman had been dead in her cell before Alessandro had even reached her.

But Giacinto had been too drunk to properly throw out the woman when she had kept touching his scar. He certainly hadn't been able to break into any prisons.

Antonio was watching him, those too quick brown eyes never leaving him. Giacinto barely paid it any attention. There was something, right there.

Pacing up and down the hallway, his mind raced. The agent, what had she written on that wall? All'oro, from gold. The Lady Medici had nothing to do with this, even if she had worn a golden dress – she would slit her own throat before she would lay a hand on her husband.

But the agent had been stabbed to death. The cells were small. Giacinto closed his eyes. He could feel the resistance of tearing a knife back out of a skull – there would have been blood splattered all over the walls.

And she had not known Italian very well... he remembered his own first attempts at writing in the latin alphabet, the letters spaced too far apart.

His head snapped back up. Too far apart.

Antonio was next to him in an instant, a hungry glint in his eyes. For a moment, the ground seemed to sway beneath them as an icy wave washed over Giacinto.

"She didn't write all'oro."

"What –"

A drop of blood between the letters, creating an apostrophe. She would not have noticed if she had no real knowledge of Italian, Arabic had no apostrophes. "She wrote alloro."

Antonio's dark skin turned ashen.

All'oro. Golden.

Alloro. Laurel.

Lorenzo meant laurel wreath.

---

For a split second too long, Alessandro stood frozen. He could feel the heat flare up against his skin as the parchment caught fire.

Lorenzo did not even try to fight him, letting Alessandro tear the letters from his hand. The flames bit into his skin, he had to let go, the stench of singed hair filling his nose as the letters fluttered to the ground.

It was too late anyways. The wax seal, their only proof, had already melted. Like a drop of blood, the red wax ran down the parchment, before it too was swallowed by flames.

Right in front of his eyes, everything they had bled and cried and died for, burned like tinder.

Lorenzo crushed the fire beneath his heal, leaving behind nothing but ash to trickle through the metal grate into the endless water below. "Let's go."

The world spun away from Alessandro. This made no sense.

But when Lorenzo reached for him, something took over and he jerked back. "What did you do?"

He tried to read Lorenzo, but apart from the way his eyebrows furrow in confusion, he looked at Alessandro just as always. Anger sparked, shielding him from a reality he could no longer comprehend.

"You said it yourself," Lorenzo said, lips curving into a frown, "This is all that made us the Reaper's targets. With it gone, we are free to go." He spoke slowly, as if Alessandro were a child.

Alessandro was burning, the sting of his blistering hands spreading through his veins, until his heart blazed in fury. The fire burned bright, his confusion, his fear, everything fed the flames until there was nothing but rage.

Lorenzo took a step back, too late. Alessandro's caught his collar, yanking him so close their chests touch with every ragged breath. "You are not that stupid."

He can feel the heat of his own breath between them. "Without this we can prove nothing."

His fist is so tight in Lorenzo's shirt the man struggled for breath. But his eyes burned into Alessandro's, cold, unafraid. "Good."

---

Giacinto didn't notice he had started running until a servant shouted at him for nearly crashing into him.

Lorenzo had been holding back a screaming Laelia when the woman had been accused of witchcraft and sentenced to death on the spot. When she had shouted about the traitor among them. Everyone had forgotten about him.

The columns blurred around him as he raced down the corridor. Alessandro had gone to find Lorenzo. And he should long be back.

Angry voices from behind a half open door pulled him to a stop. Daniele. Giacinto took a few steps back, slipping into the shadows. Through the crack in the door he saw someone else with Daniele, with his back to Giacinto, but he recognized the elegant robes – Daniele's father. The councilmen wandering through the halls, loudly discussing this trial, made it impossible to understand what the two men were saying, but from their sharp gestures Giacinto assumed they were fighting.

When the older man threw his hands up abruptly, Daniele flinched. Giacinto's blood ran cold. He knew that flinch.

Years later, his skin still burned with shame. In that second, there was no doubt how Daniele had gotten the two scars splitting his face.

The shame turned into rage – Giacinto forced himself to slip away. He could not interrupt this. Time was running out. But Daniele's father would regret this.

He started running again, but his thoughts still circled that fight. Even if Daniele still had lingering feelings for his old lover, Alessandro had no longer been accused – Daniele had no reason to interfere with the trial. But now that Giacinto knew Daniele had went against his father, it made even less sense...

It didn't matter. There was no time. He ran faster.

The giant staircase to the entry hall was too crowded, a crowd of noblemen and guards and politicians streaming into the palace for their day's work. Giacinto shouted for them to make way, the fear clawing up his throat making his voice crack mid-sentence.

Lorenzo hadn't 'let it slip' that Alessandro was going to interrogate the imprisoned agent. Lorenzo had made sure Alessandro would suspect Giacinto.

---

"Good."

A single word, spat at him with so much venom Alessandro stumbled back as if struck in the face.

Lorenzo straightened up, brushing Alessandro's hand from his shirt like a fly. "You are not going to stop this. They deserve it, they all do."

The first time Lorenzo had mentioned his father, and his uncle the Duke, Alessandro had seen Daniele's vicious fear of his own father rage in Lorenzo's eyes. The fire died in his chest.

He couldn't do this. Not when Lorenzo looked at him like this. Terrified and murderous.

"They don't deserve to die, Lorenzo."

"Neither do I!" When he looked up at Alessandro, his soft blue eyes had been swallowed by rage. "Neither do you!"

"You –"

"They let criminals walk the street. They commit crimes worse than any man rotting away in their prisons. But us, they beat us to death like stray dogs, Alessandro. Do we deserve death, for love?"

Alessandro stayed silent. Good little soldier, the voice hissed.

"They have to fall. They are all guilty, but no one will punish them."

"This is not how you change things," Alessandro gritted.

"When I went sailing with friends, my uncle told me he hoped I would go overboard and drown, so my burial would not defile holy ground with my filthy body." Lorenzo's shoulders slumped. For a second, Alessandro hoped, beyond hope.

"Then leave. Leave Venice, go to Florence." Alessandro struggled to breathe against the tightness in his chest. "Please."

But Lorenzo had always known him better than Alessandro had himself. His smile was almost sad. "You would never let me walk away, Inspector Steno."

He had said it so jokingly, but Alessandro's heart broke. He couldn't reply. He knew, deep down, Lorenzo was right.

In the end he was always the good soldier, following his orders, with a numb heart and an iron fist.

Perhaps he was the monster.

"My father hates every breath I take. I just got a little sister, Alessandro," Lorenzo's whisper broke. "What if she turns out like me? What will he do to her?"

"You will protect her. Like you protected Laelia –"

Lorenzo flinched at her name. "If not for me, if not for anyone else, I have to do this for her."

Alessandro lost it. He couldn't do this. "Stop this. You still can, we will find a way –"

"The Duke has to die. Everything will be well. Look at Florence! People like us, they don't care!"

But Venice wasn't Florence. Venice was an old and wicked queen, eternally torn between her fear and her greed, dreaming of ruling the world in her maze of canals as she sunk deeper and deeper into the swamp that would one day swallow her whole.

Venice feared difference. Giacinto's skin, Lorenzo's heart, Alessandro's prayer. She lusted for the Jew's gold, the traveller's riches, but she saw a dagger in every smile.

Venice wasn't Florence. Venice would never love her art more than her armada. Venice would never love them.

"Your father and Giacinto's general. When the Duke dies, it'll be a race between them for the throne. They both are good men. We can live with them." Lorenzo must see the doubt on Alessandro's face. "They were the favourites last time, my uncle should never have won. Laelia's grandfather should never have died. Don't you see?"

His words were sweet. Too sweet. Alessandro froze his heart. "I see a man who lied to me before."

A man Alessandro had believed.

How often had he thought Lorenzo was too perfect for someone as crooked and broken as him, too perfect to be real?

Because it hadn't been real.

"I never lied to you, Alessandro. You would have been able to tell."

No, Alessandro's emotions were the only thing that would blind his abilities and he had adored Lorenzo – realization hit him. No, he hadn't. Not from the start. When they had just met, Alessandro should have been able to catch any lie. He searched his memory, almost feverish, trying to see where he had went wrong, where –

Laelia.

Laelia, in her naïve excitement had introduced Alessandro as the man who could tell truth from lie without fail. And Lorenzo had smiled, shaking Alessandro's hand and he had known.

He had never lied.

He had simply left out the truth.

And of course. Of course, Alessandro had been blinded by his smile. Too busy chasing after Giacinto's suspicious secrets, too trapped in the riddle of how Giacinto had been at that first and second murder scene to realize so had Lorenzo. And had appeared right when Laelia had wanted to flee to Florence with them. Had found them in Florence, after they had tricked him.

He had never seen the connection – the Reaper had appeared in Florence a day after Lorenzo.

What a fool he had been. Had he himself not told Lorenzo – good, sweet Lorenzo who always listened to his rambles – that Daniele had only managed to deceive him because Alessandro's feelings had masked Daniele's emotions, leaving Alessandro blind? And like a fool, he had let Lorenzo charm him.

Alessandro wanted to break something. It had been a game of chess and Alessandro had lost.

And had Lorenzo not sat with him to sketch together, explaining he could not draw well from imagination, but copy any master's brushstroke? Had Lorenzo not been the one to fake Laelia's cousin's handwriting to fool her parents?

Antonio had not written the letter that had almost fooled Laelia. They had thought the answer was Antonio having taught himself to write by copying his father's letters. But who had told them that? Lorenzo.

Antonio's father had not written those letters either. Lorenzo had simply faked his brother's handwriting.

But ... Lorenzo had nearly died at that cliff. Alessandro could still feel Laelia's screams against his chest as he had held her, before she could throw herself back into the raging river.

Lorenzo had told him to get Giacinto. Lorenzo had shoved Laelia off that cliff. He had made sure no one would really see what happened.

Alessandro had always wondered how the mercenaries had found them. Giacinto had lead them through fields and forests, avoiding streets and villages – it should have been near impossible to track them so fast. But Lorenzo had suggested they rest at the ruin, the only distinct landmark for miles.

The ambush had been planned before they had ever left Florence.

When he finally looked at Lorenzo, in the jumping torchlight, his face flickered back and forth between the sweet man and the beautiful monster.

"Figured it out, hm?" Lorenzo's smile hurt.

Before he could reply, Lorenzo's hands grabbed his face, pulled him down, and for the first time, Alessandro saw fear in his eyes. "But I swear, on everything you want me to, I never lied about this."

The rage and hurt tore the shards of his heart through his chest. But before he could even think, the tick-tock-tock from his nightmares sounded behind them.

---

Giacinto burst out of the Palace in an explosion of men cursing and women shaking their fans at him. The bright morning sun stung his eyes, but he kept running, a cloud of angry pigeons fluttering out of his way across Saint Marcus' square.

When he leapt across a vendor's cart, he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Antonio's agents stuck to his heels.

They were not here to help. When forced to choose between justice and his brother, Antonio would not hesitate to take out the judge himself.

They were fast. But never faster than him. Not when Alessandro's life was on the line.

He sped up, betting on them not knowing their way around Venice's backstreets like him as he twisted sharply into a narrow alley in the last second. The cold morning air stung his lungs, but Giacinto pressed on.

---

For a heartbeat, he was back, bleeding on the ground of the hollow-way, the Reaper's looming shadow slowly walking closer. The tick-tock-tock of his scythe tapping against the stone as the assassin had neared.

Tick-Tock-Tock, like the wooden echo of a heartbeat. Alessandro shoved Lorenzo behind him. There, the torchlight licking at his boots, stood the Reaper, leaning on his scythe like a walking stick.

"Good morning, Alessandro," the assassin nodded his head. When he spoke, a dark line twisted on his cheek. Alessandro felt a burst of grim satisfaction – when Giacinto had come to save Alessandro, he had sliced the assassin's cheek.

And had nearly died for it. For him.

The knot in his chest pulled taught. Giacinto had betrayed him, but he had been ready to pay for it with his life. All the time Alessandro had suspected him, it had been Lorenzo.

"Ah, I see your darling boy has talked." The Reaper sighed. "Loose lips do sink ships after all."

"The letters are gone." Lorenzo pushed Alessandro's arm away, standing tall at his side. "He has nothing on us, let him go."

The assassin did not even look at him, his stony eyes fixed on Alessandro. "And you did not see it coming. Not the first time, with your runaway prince. Not the second time, with your pretty bedfellow. Tell me, did they lie to me when they said you could tell truth from lie?"

"Try me," Alessandro gritted. He ignored the shiver of doubt at his words. He had to buy them time.

Giacinto would find them. He always did.

"The earring was his idea."

Alessandro's jaw worked. "Truth."

"Alessandro, I –" Lorenzo started.

"Not a word."

The Reaper looked at them like one might watch circus performers before they attempted an especially spectacular feast. "His brother is pulling the strings."

"Lie." Alessandro said it before it even registered. The Reaper could not lie to him – Antonio truly did not know what his brother had done.

"Impressive." The assassin's applause rose through the cathedral, echoing off the rising water. Just a few inches below their balcony now... "I had considered myself a good liar."

"Not good enough."

"I don't need to be," the Reaper twirled his scythe, watching the firelight run along its wicked blade like a drop of blood. "Dead men tell no tales."

---

Between the narrow houses, their footsteps echoed back and forth like cannonfire. Giacinto smiled grimly. They were falling behind.

A crossroad neared, faster and faster. Right for San Zaccaria – Giacinto raced straight ahead. He could not lead them to Alessandro.

A canal, right ahead. This could go horribly wrong.

Still, Giacinto slowed his sprint, feigning exhaustion, until he could hear the steps right behind him. Three more metres until the canal. His eyes locked on a metal pole a gondola was tied to.

Two. He could hear them shout behind him in Arabic. They must have realized he was going to jump, speeding up to gather momentum –

One.

Giacinto leapt – hands catching the pole in the last second. The agents sailed past him, landing on the other side of the canal. For a second, his feet dangle inches above the black waters – then he swung back around into the street.

He could not resist sweeping into a deep bow, catching his breath as the agents realized their mistake. The next bridge was far away and without the momentum of their chase, they would not manage to jump back.

The ghost of his laughter still echoed around the alleyway when it had long died from his lips. Alessandro might be dead. And the last thing they had told each other was that they were better off as strangers.

---

"Dead men tell no tales."

It took everything to keep his face empty, when he felt like he was back on the forest ground, the Reaper rising his scythe for a last strike.

A hand found his, pulled him close. Lorenzo did not look at him, eyes trained on the assassin like a guard dog on a stray cat. His pale profile stood out sharply against the deep shadows behind them, strong and arrogant like a king stamped onto a coin. "You will not lay a hand on this man."

"This man," the Reaper said, "Owes me his life. He was supposed to die in that church. His Cardinal saved him. But every heartbeat since is mine."

Lorenzo did not move an inch, but his hand was slick with sweat in Alessandro's. He pushed out his chin, the little gesture reminding Alessandro of Laelia. "You have your rules. Unless you're ordered to kill or they are obstructing you from fulfilling your orders, you won't attack."

"So what does that tell you then, boy?"

Lorenzo's arguing faded into the background, the gears in Alessandro's mind starting to race. The letters were gone, he was no longer a threat. Lorenzo had not lied when he had said he had not ordered Alessandro killed. And Giacinto had broken the Reaper's rules when he had saved Alessandro, the assassin would no longer follow his orders either.

... there was someone else.

"He's smarter than you," the smile in the Reaper's voice yanked him back into the present. "Tell me, did you truly think your little vendetta could have ever been this grand?"

---

A carriage blocked his path, but it would need more to stop him. For a second, Giacinto was glad Alessandro was not here to get suspicious again as he jumped onto a windowsill, climbing the wall steadily despite the screams some woman hurled after him. But the air was still night-cold and the stone slippery with the rain from before. His legs were starting to burn and his fingers ached where they dug into holes between bricks barely larger than a small coin.

But his fear burned brighter.

---

Lorenzo's mouth opened. No word came out. You foolish, foolish boy.

Alessandro boiled with rage, but all he could do was stand still and pray someone would find them in time.

But Gods never listened to the beggars and the sinners.

The Reaper extended his hand. "Come, boy. We still have some use for you."

For a second, when Lorenzo took a step forward, Alessandro thought this was it. But Lorenzo's hand squeezed his and he caught the glint in his eyes as Alessandro's fingers slipped through his. He'd seen that glint before, when the mercenaries had threatened Laelia.

It was all the warning he got.

The next second, Lorenzo leapt, tackling the assassin to the ground.

---

With a groan, Giacinto dragged himself onto a balcony, knees buckling when he caught his breath for just a moment. He rattled the door. Locked.

Locks would never stop him, but he had no time for finesse – he smashed the window, reaching in and opening the door himself. The small bedroom was empty – the dressing room he burst into next wasn't.

The mother lacing up her daughter's corset stared at him. Giacinto did not want to know what he looked like, hand bleeding from shattering the window, wild eyed and drenched in sweat despite the cold outside. The girl started screaming.

"San Zaccaria?" Giacinto pointed out the window with one hand, covering his eyes with the other. "I'm in a hurry?"

The mother nodded, hugging her daughter tight.

"Thank you." Giacinto peeked past his fingers to toss them his wallet. "For the window. I swear I'm not a pervert!"

The daughters scream when he leapt out of the window still rang in his ears when he was racing down the street below. He could see the white façade of the church just behind the next corner. He prayed he wasn't too late.

---

Lorenzo was shouting for Alessandro to run, but his legs had turned to stone. All he could see was Giacinto and the Reaper, rolling over the forest floor like Lorenzo and the assassin did now, and then ... then Giacinto had been lifeless in his arms.

"Run!" Lorenzo's shout rose to a scream and blood bloomed red on his arm – the Reaper's fingers had curled into his old wound.

Alessandro ran.

Towards them.

Just a breath away, the Reaper finally wrestled Lorenzo beneath him, a knife flashing in his hand the next second.

Alessandro ducked the first time. The second time. His sparring with Giacinto saved his life as his body took over, mind still frozen in shock.

He was unarmed, and he could not duck forever.

But he could not leave Lorenzo. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the blond still struggling, but the Reaper had a death grip on his throat.

When the next knife flew towards him, on instinct, Alessandro's hand shot for his sword, and with a deadly surety he knew he had lost the second he would have needed to duck away –

His fingers closed around a hilt.

Pain tore through his shoulder, he looked down and found a throwing knife buried to the hilt. The blood ran down his skin like a fingertip.

But in his hand glinted a blade. In the flickering torchlight, the hyacinth carved into the steel seemed to wave in a soft breeze.

How...? Alessandro had refused Giacinto's gift, tossing it away onto his desk in a burst of anger.

Like a flash, he felt Giacinto pinch his waist, to snap him out of his panic when Daniele had arrived. He blinked, remembered the Greek leaning against his desk as Alessandro had ranted about his choice of cravat. That little ...

Giacinto had stolen the dagger and slipped it into Alessandro's belt when everyone was watching Daniele.

The next knife never came. The Reaper's were fixed on the blade, greed and wrath tearing at his face. "You carry his blade."

Alessandro's fingers curled tighter around the hilt. This was it. The Reaper's obsession with Giacinto, the need to possess the Prince, to turn him into his mirror image. Alessandro's plan was mad. But he had nothing else.

His hand still burned with phantom fire and the wounds the Reaper had left him with just days ago ached in the cold of the sunken cathedral. He was not Giacinto, he could not hold his ground against death with nothing but bared teeth and a raging heart.

Alessandro slowly sheathed the blade, the Reaper's stare following his every moment. Giacinto was the assassin's only weakness. This had to be distraction enough.

---

Against the pure marble of the church, the darkness of the gate gaped open like a jaw before Giacinto.

His hand settled on the hilt of his dagger, almost expecting teeth to sink into his back as he stepped through.

---

For a split second, the Reaper was distracted by the blade. Lorenzo freed his hand, fist slamming into his ribs.

And Alessandro ran, throwing himself over the railing.

---

They should not have tried to stop him.

Giacinto heard them long before they even suspected death had found them. In the hall of the church, every breath echoed like a storm. Their rowdy laughter, coming from his right, behind a row of columns, was to him like a drop of blood to a shark.

When he turned to follow the trail of their voices, he was a ghost, shapeless, soundless, until he appeared behind the first man and slit his throat from ear to ear.

The blood washed over his hand in a warm caress.

---

Alessandro crashed into the water, shattering the dark mirror.

The torchlight from above still shimmered through his fingers as he dove deeper. The water would slow a blade. And if he got deep enough, the darkness would hide him from the Reaper. If he just made it behind one of the columns, he could resurface and play this game until Giacinto would come.

Because Giacinto would come.

---

Giacinto yanked a second knife out of the man's belt, shoved the limp body aside, pouncing before he even hit the ground.

One of the three snapped out of his stupor, moving to draw his sword – Giacinto threw his knife without aiming. Like a lightning strike, the stolen knife flashed silver through the twilight of the church, burying itself to the hilt in the man's stomach.

Blood dripped down his hands as he watched him fall. The air hissed as the two men their swords, the blades glinting like a jaw opening up to swallow him whole, but his heartbeat was cold and steady. He only feared being too late.

"Leave now," he spoke into the silence shivering between them. They rushed at him.

Tackling the first, they both went down, Giacinto's hand curled into a shoulder to steady himself, the man's thrashing pointless as Giacinto's blade came down, once, twice, between neck and collarbone until his scream died to a gurgle.

But Giacinto only had that one knife, damned be the rules for being in a room with the Duke, and the second it took to yank it free when the blade caught on bone was a second too long.

He felt the movement behind him more than he saw it. In the last moment, he grabbed the dead man's collar and twisted them around. The body jerked against him when the sword pierced its back.

There was a squelching sound when the man yanked it out, a cruel grin twisting his broad face as they both realized Giacinto had no way out. His arms were trapped by the limp weight pressing him into the ground.

Panic crashed over him like a tidal wave. He couldn't move, he was back on that table in the vaults, back in Crete, there was a knife hovering above him, blade curved like a wicked smile, and then it bit down and he screamed and screamed until his voice gave out, but no one ever came for him.

He thrashed against the body and dead hands moved over him –

---

Alessandro fought to keep his eyes open against the sting of the salt water. Just ahead of him, the long shadow of a column drove through the water. He swam faster.

A searing pain bit through his leg. It shot up his spine to burst at the base of his skull and for a second, his vision swam white. His mouth opened in a silent scream, the water rushed in, down his throat in a thousand pin pricks, reaching for his heart with icy fingers.

His chest was about to burst. The need to breathe and the urge to cough the water from his lungs nearly tore him apart. Up, he had to go up – where the Reaper waited.

---

Later, Giacinto did not how he had gotten out under the body in time. But it was over before it began.

The familiar resistance of his dagger tearing skin snapped him out of the screaming in his head. He stepped back, the ground swaying beneath him, and the mercenary crumbled like a puppet that had its strings cut.

Giacinto turned away and threw up.

The marble was cold under his hands and knees as he retched, body convulsing even when there was nothing left to throw up. The stench of warm blood and bile made his throat twist and he gagged again, knuckles going white where he clawed his fingers into the stone.

Finally, it stopped. His hands were still shaking as he patted the ground for the dagger he had dropped. Only when his fingers hit the cold metal that was as familiar as his own skin, the panic died down.

Catching his breath, Giacinto rose to his knees, grabbing onto a column to drag himself back to his feet. He rolled his shoulders, flexed his fingers, checking for injuries. Nothing. Only the sticky film of blood drying on his hand pulled on his skin when he moved his fingers.

He nearly threw up again.

Giacinto took a deep breath, bending back down to pull a second dagger from one of the bodies. God only knew who awaited him down there. And only God would have mercy if Giacinto found them.

The door to the crypt had been torn out of the wall, hanging askew in its hinges. "Subtle, Steno," Giacinto muttered, stepping over the fallen men.

With a last slow breath, he descended into the darkness beyond.

---

Alessandro's arms tore at the water, but his leg won't move, and he sank, faster and faster, the cold dragging him down into its darkness. Warmth tingled through him, his hazy mind taking too long to realize it was his own blood, wrapping him in a cloud of dying warmth as he sank.

Everything grew darker and darker, even though his eyes were wide open. He no longer knew where up and down was, the pain spinning his head around. His hands grasped at nothing, still fighting.

Soon, the darkness around him didn't change, even when he blinked. He was heavy, so heavy, his mind losing the connection to his limbs.

There was a flash of Lorenzo's smile across their chessboard. He fought again, trying to drag himself up through the water, two strokes, three, until his arms gave out. His lungs were screaming. The darkness creeped back in.

Giacinto's grin, silver in the moonlight as they dangle their legs off the roof, trying to see who could name more constellations.

His mouth opened, the last bubble of air floating away from him.

Laelia's laugh. His father and his mother, his little brother –

The darkness swallowed him whole.

---

When he reached the hollow heart below the church, Giacinto stopped and stared. As if he were standing inside a giant's skeleton, the pale marble arches and long columns rise around him like ribs.

An iron staircase dropped into the darkness in narrow spirals. Loud clanging echoed out of the depths of the church. Giacinto's heart flinched when he recognized Lorenzo voice in the muffled shouting. He threw himself onto the staircase without thinking, nearly tripping on the narrow steps as he raced blindly down, the cold fear lashing at his back like a whip.

He risked a glance down – too high to jump. But Lorenzo was no longer shouting, only the ominous groan of the balcony and the shrill clang of blades striking stone coming from below.

A single shout, cut short right after it began.

Alessandro. Giacinto would know that voice, always.

The balcony was still too far and his scar burned through his skin like acid, but Giacinto grabbed the handrail and swung himself over, into the darkness below.

The impact punched up through his legs, even as he threw his momentum into a forward roll and the metal grate of the balcony bit through his palms. He was up and running in the next heartbeat.

The water had already reached the balcony, his boots slipping on the thin carpet of water, but he could not slow down, not when he might still have a chance, to save Alessandro, to make this right.

A loud splash whipped through the columns and Giacinto ran faster, nearly falling twice, grabbing onto the railing and stumbling on. Just when he raced around a column as broad as a gate, the Reapers arm pulled back, a throwing knife glinting between his fingers.

He was still running, the dead man's knife suddenly in his hand. They threw at the same time.

Two comets, mirror blades burning in the torchlight for the split second before they collided with a clang above the dark water, then stumbled down through the air like dying stars.

Before they even hit the water, he could feel the Reaper's eyes find him. Like stepping down into a grave, his gaze sent a chill down his spine.

"Excellent aim, little prince. But you should have gone for my heart."

The Reaper pulled out two more knives, weighing them in his hands.

Giacinto had only his dagger left.

He was close enough to see the Reapers smile as he aimed at something in the water. Alessandro was nowhere to be seen. Only Lorenzo, struggling to his feet, hand clutching a bleeding arm.

The wrath tearing through him at the sight nearly knocked him off his feet. Traitor. He always pretended he was no Prince of Crete, did not share his ancestors' murderous glory. But in this moment, he was their Prince of Monsters. He wanted to punch his fingers through Lorenzo's ribs, tear out his heart and find the answer there.

The second of distraction was enough. The next knife already sailed through the air in a silver arch, diving into the water without a splash.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Giacinto's breath came ragged, he had to grip the railing to stay upright. Then, the water turned red.

Like a drop of ink, it spread, and Giacinto felt like he was the one bleeding out. He started running again, the knife in his hand burning through his palm.

He forgot he was a coward, forgot he was the one who always ran away.

He was going to kill him.

Luca turned, the last knife glinting in his hand. "You broke my rules, little traitor."

It wasn't far. Not far enough to both throw and evade the blade that would come for him in turn.

Giacinto aimed.

The night at the tavern flashed through his mind. When Luca had provoked him and Giacinto had stabbed his knife through the hand resting on the table. With a distance that short, with Giacinto's speed, he should have felt bone bursting. He hadn't. Luca had moved his finger just a hair's width, and the blade had splintered the wood beneath.

He hesitated. If he missed now, he would be unarmed. He had to save Alessandro, even though he did not know if he still could.

His eyes landed on Lorenzo, swaying on his feet.

Little traitor.

Lorenzo was trying to stop the Reaper, had broken his rules, too, but the assassin had left him alive. He still needed him.

Giacinto switched his aim in the last second. When the knife left his hand, the hilt brushed his palm like a last heartbeat.

As it flew, Lorenzo turned his head. For a second, their eyes locked, and Giacinto swore his face softened.

Then the knife buried itself in his chest.

Giacinto didn't stop to watch him fall, leaping over the railing and into the icy water.

It grew colder the deeper he dove, the torchlight fading above him. Soon, a hazy brown filtered through his fingers as he swam – blood. Giacinto dove into the cloud, deeper and deeper, eyes wide, straining against the salt and darkness.

Then, a shadow, floating in the nothingness. Giacinto dove straight down.

In two strokes, he reached Alessandro, diving under the other before he could sink further. When his arm wrapped around Alessandro's waist, pulling his back to his chest, a spark of hope lit up.

But swimming with only one hand slowed them down and Alessandro's weight pulled at his arm, the limp legs getting tangled with his every time he kicked water. They were too slow. Giacinto's childhood escapades had left him with an impressive ability to hold his breath, but he must have been searching for Alessandro for minutes, and his lungs were starting to burn.

When he craned his neck, he could see the flecks of torchlight swim above him, but no matter how hard he swam, they never got closer. Fear twisted deep in his gut when the urge to breathe in became stronger and stronger.

If he let go, he could still make it.

Giacinto pulled Alessandro closer. He had made his choice in that forest, when the Reaper's blood had rolled down his blade. If Alessandro was going down, Giacinto was going down with him.

His head was starting to swim from the lack of oxygen, but Giacinto pressed on. The water churning around them felt like hands, trying to pull them back down into the darkness. Were the lights growing closer or was his mind playing a desperate trick on him?

He fought the ache in his limbs, pressing his lips shut as hard as he could, lungs screaming to just breathe, his hand reaching up as if to grab at the lights –

They burst through the surface with a gasp.

Giacinto twisted, coughing and sucking in air at the same time, while trying to keep Alessandro afloat. The man wasn't moving, head rolling limply against Giacinto's shoulder.

Giacinto closed his eyes, before the tears could fall.

The sound of his laboured breathing was the only sound echoing around them. The Reaper was gone.

He had not aimed to kill Lorenzo on the spot. Giacinto had bet on his instinct telling him the Reaper still needed Lorenzo – a mortal wound had forced the assassin to get the man out of here, leaving Alessandro and Giacinto to their fate.

Cursing under his breath, Giacinto sank backwards into the water, holding Alessandro against his chest and swam them towards the balcony. Against his thigh, he could feel the warmth of the blood still leaving Alessandro.

"You're going on a fucking diet." Giacinto tried distracting himself. The artery, hell, the veins in the thigh were as large as a man's finger. If the Reaper had hit one, Alessandro would not survive the day.

"You're way too heavy, you stupid –" His voice gave out.

He swallowed. "You're on rabbit food, you hear me?"

Alessandro's head only bobbed with the movement of his swimming.

Giacinto twisted his head over his shoulder, trying to steer them towards the balcony. It would be alright. It would be alright.

"I'm the prince of Crete, not your damned gondola." When he reached back with his arm, his fingers hit metal. Giacinto almost sagged with relief.

The water has flooded a few inches above the balcony already, helping to heave Alessandro's body onto it when Giacinto had nothing to brace himself against, only treading water as he groaned with the burn in his muscles. But finally, Alessandro's torso was on the metal grate and Giacinto sank back into the water with a sigh of relief.

The next second, panic shook his limbs like a leaf in a storm. He barely managed to grab hold of the banister and drag himself onto the balcony when his body suddenly forgot how to swim.

Trembling on his hands and knees, he felt like the little boy they had pulled out of the tide again. What had he been thinking, he didn't swim, he couldn't –

His eyes landed on Alessandro's pale face. Giacinto crawled towards him, reaching to cradle his face between shaking hands. He hadn't been thinking. "Wake up," he whispered.

Alessandro did not move, his skin cold as ice against Giacinto's palms. It was just the water, he told himself, just the cold water, as he fumbled with the empty weapon belt around his hips. His fingers were stiff from the cold, but somehow he managed to pull the belt tight above the wound torn through the back of Alessandro's knee.

His knees ached from kneeling on the sharp metal grate in the icy water rising around them, but Giacinto just gritted his teeth and pushed on. His fingers push under Alessandro's collar, desperately digging into his throat for a pulse, a swallow, anything. He nearly passed out when the faintest thud touched his finger tips.

But the water was rising faster, Alessandro's face already half submerged. "Wake up, come on, please, please, you have to wake up."

Giacinto pleaded, begged – nothing. His breath broke into a sob. This was all his fault. "Wake up!"

He screamed, shaking Alessandro's limp body, yanking at his bloody jacket until a nail tore against the golden buttons. All his strength left him at once and he slumped over, crying silently for the man he had betrayed.

Punching Alessandro's chest weakly, Giacinto dragged himself to his knees again. He had to move Alessandro somewhere higher. He could feel the water rising against his legs.

Like a flash, he remembered. He remembered waking up on a boat, the wood rocking beneath him, blinking up at two big brown eyes, sparkling with all the mischief Giacinto had ever wanted. A fisherman had heard the guards storming the beach and turned his little boat to save the prince from the tide. And he remembered the press on his chest, seconds before he doubled over and threw up all over the young man's lap.

He looked back at Alessandro. He had nothing to lose. He pushed down onto his chest, again and again, until his arms shook and the spots of light from the torches seemed to spin around them. He refused to stop. Not until Alessandro would scold him for ruining his cravat in the murky water.

---

The voice tore at his slumber. It pulled him out of the darkness, relentlessly, no matter how hard he fought it.

The voice grew louder, but he still didn't understand. It hurt to think. He felt like his entire body was encased in ice, slowly crushing his bones.

He wanted to go back into the soft darkness, wanted to fade again, away from that voice.

"Alessandro!"

He wanted to tell them to stop, to shut up, that the light stabbing through his eyelids hurt, to just let him go. He wasn't as important as the voice sounded.

A slap whipped his head to the side and suddenly, the world rushed back at him as he convulsed, retching the water from his lungs. There was a metal grate, digging into his side as hands rolled him over, held him steady.

He struggled for breath, but it hurt like a burning iron being shoved down his throat and he folded in half as he coughed up more water.

Alessandro didn't know how long he laid there, throwing up and sobbing through the pain, but the hands on his side were the only thing keeping him sane.

Bit by bit, his world expanded as his coughs slowed down. There was a strange warmth on his face. When he tried cracking his eyes open against a crust of salt and tears, light stabbed his eyes. A torch, half submerged in the water, flickering weakly. A burning in his hand. A throbbing pain in his shoulder. Only his leg, he couldn't feel his leg.

The hands turned him over, back onto his back. The shadow leant above him, Alessandro blinking against the fog clouding his vision. Two eyes, burning green even in the dying light around them as the water swallowed more and more of their torch. Then thin lips, moving, the words so hard to make out.

"—sandro. Alessandro. Listen to me, you have to stay awake –" It faded to static again.

The hands were cruel, yanking at him every time his eyes threatened to close.

He just wanted to sleep.

Blood was dripping from the man's temple onto his cheeks, warm like tears.

He blinked again, strangely irritated by the wet curl that stuck to the man's forehead. He wanted to reach up, push it back, but his arms won't move. Alessandro felt like he would know the warmth of his skin.

"Alessandro!" Giacinto was shaking him again. Giacinto! That was his name. But why did Alessandro's name sound so strange when he said it?

He had never said it before, he realized with a start.

Alexandros, the Greek's dead friend.

But Giacinto was still calling his name, over and over again.

No, no, Alessandro didn't want him to hurt. His brows furrowed in thought, trying to find a way to stop Giacinto from hurting.

It took him three tries to even open his mouth. And when he did, no sound came out. The hands holding him were shaking.

"Someone's coming, I promise. Don't worry –"

"Giant," Alessandro croaked. Giant was good, giant wouldn't hurt.

"You stupid –" Giacinto's eyes rolled back as he slumped over, his weight knocking a painful breath out of Alessandro.

It took every ounce of strength he had to lift a leaden arm, to wrap around Giacinto's waist, hold him close as his vision began to fade again.

The sting of the metal grate digging into his back was starting to blur. When his head rolled sideways, the torch lying next to them seemed to flicker on and off.

Soon, his only connection with reality was Giacinto's hand, limp on his chest. But then that too started to fade and he tried to fight it, to cling to it, but the white was creeping through his vision again and every breath took more and more willpower.

Then the hands were gone, too.

He was floating. He could hear his heartbeat, rushing in his ears, like steps slowly fading into the distance.

The torch was dying on the ground.

Alessandro closed his eyes.

And let the darkness take them.

Lorenzo, what did you do. 

Who do you think is behind this all? Do you think Lorenzo can be forgiven?  Will Laelia choose his side or stay with Gio and Sandro?

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, despite the Reaper and me coming for all of our darlings. 

Ready for a last twist? I still have an epilogue for you. ;)

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. You made this story happen. Your support means the world, you're the true hero of The Mosaic. I wish you all a lovely day!

Avis.