These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which as they kiss consume. ― William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
They were surrounded by frozen ghosts.
The White Hall was a sweeping expanse of pale marble and mirrors. A spiderweb of silver light flooded the room, and it took Alessandro a moment to figure out where it came from – high, arched windows lined the length of the walls and alternated with a mirror shaped as its twin. Their order was reversed on the opposite wall, so that every window faced a mirror. The light streaming in through the windows was reflected in the giant mirrors and bathed the room in a silver moon sea.
A shadow already flitted through the myriad of marble statues – all of them eerily life-sized, as if a group of revellers had frozen when the light of the moon hit them. Giacinto turned to shoot Alessandro a gleaming smile. "You were in a rush two minutes ago, artista."
Alessandro glared. "I'm surveying the perimeter."
"You're looking at the art like a toddler at candy."
Opening his mouth to argue, Alessandro thought better of it and sighed instead. "Take the back half."
Giacinto visibly battled the urge to crack a bad joke, but then quickly disappeared in the sea of statues. The man would give Alessandro grey hair before the end of the year.
Wandering the paths between the statues like a loose labyrinth, he found himself slipping into the silence as if stepping into a different world, one at the bottom of a moon-sea, where even the shadows seemed spun out of silver.
The tension from before slowly ebbed as he scanned the statues, reaching out to touch the long drapes of a flowing gown, almost surprised when his fingers met cold stone. Each statue looked as if it was just suspended between two heartbeats, and he would only have to blink and find himself surrounded by a sea of bustling people. A huntress Artemis leaped up at his side, her crescent diadem a slice of mirror bright with moonlight.
The helpless fear when they had been stuck in the confessional, hiding from the reaper, the torturous wait the week before, unable to do anything before the ball, the impotent rage simmering below his skin at the ball, the lies and emotions of everyone around him tugging at him constantly – that drove him insane.
This he knew how to do. He had directions he could follow, a riddle to solve, all puzzle pieces laid out right in front of him.
A quiet whistle called him to the far end of the hall, Giacinto peering up at the statue of a woman wrapped in a plain Greek chiton, a dove on her shoulder, right hand extended to point at one of the window-shaped mirrors. Alessandro didn't recognize her as any goddess.
"Aletheia," Giacinto muttered. "I saw her at a temple ruin. The Oracle of Dreams." Longing softened his sharp features. "My father took me."
Alessandro hesitated, strangely unsettled by the Greek's gentle expression. "Why would we look for a goddess of dreams?"
Giacinto blinked, returning from wherever his mind had wandered. "Oh, no. She's the goddess of truth." Giacinto told him about the oracle without an oracle – visitors would sleep in the temple and truths would visit them in their dreams. The statue stood at the entrance and pointed to the place of truth.
Nudging the tip of his boot against the marble tiles, Giacinto continued. "Look. She was moved." Long scratches scarred the marble tiles where someone had turned the statue almost 180 degrees around its axis – now she was pointing them towards their truth. The giant mirror.
Alessandro stepped closer, trying to see through the mirror's secret. At first glance, it looked just like the others, following the high arches of the windows, but the mirror glass seemed to swim before his eyes. The Lady Medici's poison smile crossed his mind.
His theory was quickly confirmed when he inspected the frame. It wasn't a mirror. It was a pane of glass just a hair's width in front of a mirror, a clear liquid swirling between the two.
Giacinto stepped next to him, knocking a knuckle against the glass. A hollow echo answered. "Secret door." But there were no tiles to press, no levers hidden in the frame. Giacinto drew his dagger. "This'll be many years of bad luck."
Alessandro caught his hand in the last second, the weight of the impact surprising him – he kept forgetting how strong the small man was. "Don't. Poison." If someone would shatter the glass to force their way into the secret passage, the crashing glass would splatter them with poison. Alessandro didn't doubt the Lady Medici had trapped a nightmarish elixir behind the glass.
The old bishop must have used the palace's already existing traps and hidden hallways to guard his secrets. Or the Lady Medici had sent them on a wild goose chase...
"Your boots," Giacinto muttered, narrowing his eyes.
Alessandro looked down. He couldn't see any flaw Giacinto could make fun of. "What of them?"
"They're not in the mirror. Look at the statue, its feet are cut off."
"... are you drunk?"
"Generally, yes." At Alessandro indignant frown, Giacinto rolled his eyes. "Lies have short legs, ever heard of that?"
"Yes."
"Can you lift me?"
"Why?" Alessandro frowned. He was used to the Greek not making much sense to him, but this was getting a bit excessive.
"Can you lift me?"
Alessandro sighed. "With one or both arms?"
"Show-off."
Alessandro swallowed a biting retort, raising an expectant eyebrow instead. He wouldn't give Giacinto the satisfaction of asking what he meant.
"I think if we tilt the mirror downwards, the door will open. See, the titan Prometheus made Aletheia, the goddess of truth, out of clay. He took a break – one can only assume to get drunk on great Greek wine – but during that break, Dolos, the god of lies, made a twin statue as a prank."
Find you god, the bishop's message had said. Truth and lie.
"When Prometheus returned, he couldn't tell the difference between the goddess of truth, because the copy was so similar. Except, the copy didn't have any feet, because Dolos had to flee when Prometheus returned. Or maybe he just grew bored and found something else to do," Giacinto explained, eyes glinting with the promise of adventures.
Alessandro wondered if he had told these stories to his little brother, with a fake deep voice and letting shadow hands dance across the walls like mystic beasts.
"Prometheus gave life to both statues, because he liked the copy so much and consequences are only for mortals. The true statue had feet and sauntered off, now the goddess of truth, but the copy without feet didn't get far."
"Lies have short legs..."
"So to make lie –" Giacinto pointed his dagger at the image in the mirror with cut off feet, "—to truth, you have to tilt the mirror downwards so the statue's legs appear in the mirror."
Alessandro looked back and forth between the reflection and the statue. Then he nodded, folding his hands. "I'll give you a leg-up."
"Or," Giacinto said, "I could sit on your shoulders."
Alessandro lifted an eyebrow.
"I mean. Your idea is pretty instable. You wouldn't want me to crash into that mirror and die excruciatingly painfully? I'll bleed all over your suit."
"God forbid," Alessandro said dryly. He didn't mention that Giacinto balanced on balcony rails while drunk or climb up several stories to Alessandro's chambers – he would never fall.
"Lovely." Giacinto grinned, excitement practically sizzling in the air around him.
Rolling his eyes, Alessandro turned back to face the mirror and kneeled down. Giacinto's left leg swung over his shoulder, then the right, Alessandro shifting until there was no longer any bones digging into his shoulder.
Giacinto crossed his ankles in front of Alessandro's chest. "Are you waiting for the stars to be in the right position?"
Alessandro settled his hands on Giacinto's thighs, forcing down the reflexive jerk when the thick scar pressed up through the Greek's trousers into his palm. He hadn't known it went down so far. That bull must have ripped him almost in half.
Standing carefully, he realized Giacinto was lighter than he had been just weeks ago. The bones digging into his shoulder before ... Alessandro tried to recall the last time he had seen Giacinto eat.
"My horse is taller than you."
"I'm glad that brings you satisfaction. Might I add that you're not supposed to ride me?"
Giacinto snickered.
"Don't touch the hair," Alessandro warned.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Giacinto's arm drop again. The Greek feigned indignancy. "I wasn't going to."
"You were."
"Shut up." Iron hard muscles shifted under his hands when Giacinto stretched to reach the upper edge of the mirror and pulled. Alessandro held his breath. Nothing happened.
Then, a soft click.
The giant mirror tilted towards them, stopping just an inch from Alessandro's nose, the silver fogging with his breath. With the sudden whizz of a clog work, the lower half of the mirror jumped forwards as well, Alessandro's hands tightening on Giacinto's thighs in surprise. He stepped back just as the mirror swung open like a door, revealing a dark opening yawning in the wall.
"If you're done groping, you can let me down again."
Alessandro tensed, realizing he was still squeezing the Greek's thighs – his own hands so large they almost covered all of them. He yanked his hands away as if he had caught fire, already feeling the tips of his ears starting to heat in embarrassment. "I wasn't—"
The weight on his shoulders suddenly swayed backwards, then disappeared. When Alessandro turned, Giacinto swept into a dramatic bow like a circus artist – he had backflipped off Alessandro's shoulders.
At the Greek's proud grin, Alessandro found himself smiling, too, something warm spreading in his chest. "Khatal'tul."
Giacinto frowned. "Does that mean 'fuck you' in Hebrew?"
"I'm not certain what gave you the impression I would use such language." Still, Alessandro smiled. "It means 'little cat'. You always land on your feet."
Technically, it meant kitten, but 'little cat' would get too long for a nickname. Minor details. That Giacinto didn't know of.
Giacinto averted his eyes, bouncing on the balls of his feet, smiling. "Well, it would be stupid if I landed on my face." He cleared his throat. "And I'm not little, I'm travel sized. Ai gamisou."
Alessandro sighed. "I assume that's 'fuck you' in Greek."
Giacinto's grin could've slashed throats, but it was one of Alessandro's favourites. "What a smart boy you are."
"That makes one of us."
Alessandro stepped to the opening of the secret passage, peering into the waiting dark – a drop into black. He couldn't make out the bottom of the pit, the pale moonlight streaming in from the hall fading to deep shadows just a few feet down.
"Well, let's hope curiosity doesn't kill the cat this time." Giacinto shouldered past him, unsheathed his dagger and dropped it into the darkness below. Silence. Then a sudden thud. Silence again.
Giacinto turned back to Alessandro. "Not that deep. Something soft is down there. Fingers crossed it's no body." Grinning, he dropped backwards off the ledge, plummeting, the darkness swallowing him whole.
Alessandro rushed forward, leaning down, trying to make out the shape of the Greek even though he knew it was pointless. His heart thudded against his throat. "Are you –"
"It's cushions." The Greek's voice floated up to him, "this must be some sort of secret escape tunnels. Tense when you jump, or you'll just twist your ankles on the pillows."
Alessandro hesitated.
"It's not that deep."
Easy for him to say. Giacinto probably climbed roofs instead of sleepwalking. Not-that-deep to him could be a mountain's height to a lesser man. Alessandro took a deep breath and stepped off the ledge, fighting the urge to claw at the walls, trying to stop his fall. A too long second later, he fell right into soft velvet, loosing his balance and tumbling into a sea of cushions. He stayed still for a second, the velvet cool against his cheek, and only when he couldn't hear the hiss of snakes slithering closer, he carefully sat up.
He jerked when something sizzled right next to him, a flame sparking to life – Giacinto had struck a match on his boot and stretched to light a torch mounted on the wall next to them.
The circle of light grew around them, flowing down a seemingly endless hallway of rough bricks. When Giacinto turned to watch Alessandro, the torch's flames danced across his dark skin. His eyes gleamed in an almost unnatural shade of green in the strange lighting, high cheekbones and slanted eyes turning him into a devilish prince.
Then he grinned and the spell was broken. "That was fun."
Alessandro pushed to his feet. "That was an uncalculated risk –"
"Like I said, fun." Giacinto pushed a lever in the wall. The whirring of clockwork spun around them like a swarm of insects about to descend, then a low thud echoed down to them. When Alessandro looked up, the mirror had boomed shut behind them.
"Luca can't follow us now."
"And we can't get out if anything is down here."
"Worrywart. I can climb that wall and open it again." Giacinto pulled the torch out of his holding. "I suppose we won't need riddles now. Only way out is forward."
The red of the terracotta glowed even deeper in the light of the torch, like a tunnel leading down to hell. Their shadows jumped and shivered in the flickering light. Alessandro fought down the feeling of being trapped below a palace crawling with assassins, not knowing what awaited them. It felt like they were walking in place, the tunnel around them never changing, an endless row of identical bricks, it went straight on and disappeared in darkness far ahead.
If Giacinto noticed his tension, he didn't mention it, a dark ghost at his side, quick fingers letting a coin dance across his knuckles.
They walked in silence, the echo of Alessandro's steps jumping down the corridor, then rolling back at them from the walls. If he hadn't known the weight of Giacinto in his arms and the solid warmth of his body, if he had met him for the first time down here, in this strange underworld, even Alessandro might have believed the Greek was a ghost. Even in this tunnel, where a breath would echo all around them, his steps made no sound.
The tunnel was slowly tilting downwards, leading them deeper and deeper under the palace, a stagnant, waiting cold slowly rising around them. Alessandro couldn't tell how far they had walked, but they must long have left the palace behind them.
A tingle climbed up Alessandro's neck. He could feel them getting closer. The ground slowly started to rise again, and soon enough, their path was blocked by a heavy wooden door.
Patting the wall, they found a loose brick and when they pressed it, the door swung open with a rusty groan. Giacinto slowly pocketed his coin. Alessandro stepped through the arch first, fingers curling tightly around the hilt of his sword.
Thick, even colder air wrapped around him with the heavy scent of drying herbs.
They stood in a crypt.
Rows of marble tombs rose from the ground all around them. Alessandro turned in a slow circle. The flames of the torch suddenly danced all around them like a ring of fire, reflected in polished marble walls. It was a small hall, with a low, vaulted ceiling held up by skeletal branches of black marble, coming together to thick, gnarly trunks instead of columns all around them. A forest for the dead. The space between the 'trees' was smooth, ghostly white marble, like the light of a foggy dawn creeping between the trees. It was eerily beautiful.
He jumped when the door clicked shut behind them, blending seamlessly into the cold marble wall. A sharp intake of breath pulled him from his worries of being trapped down here.
"No," Giacinto muttered. "No..." He stood next to one of the graves, the flower wreath laid on top of its lid just barely starting to wilt.
Alessandro stepped closer, golden letters flickering into an all too familiar name in the light of the torch. Piero di Cosimo de Medici.
Giacinto traced the P with his finger before sharply turning away. He pushed the torch into a holder on the wall. "Let's start looking." His voice was rough and one again Alessandro wondered what the old banker's and his story was.
When he turned to search the crypt, out of the corner of his eyes, he caught a glitter hidden between the leaves of the wreath on Piero's grave. He reached out, jerked away at the sudden bite of a rose's thorn, a small ruby welling up at his finger tip, but he kept digging through decaying decadence, the blossom's sweet, already slightly rotten sent filling the crypt. Cold metal met his fingertips.
He called Giacinto over, holding up the key that had been woven into the flowers and thorns. The Greek leant so close Alessandro could feel his body warmth against the clammy air of the crypt. Where would a box containing all evidence be hidden?
Alessandro could tell the second Giacinto figured out what he was thinking, eyes widening for a split second, the bronze of his skin turning ashen even in the orange glow of the torch.
Giacinto shook his head, desperate. "No. No, look." He rapped his knuckles against the heavy marble plate covering the grave. "He could never have lifted that. He was an old man , he –"
"He didn't need to. He got here before the corpse."
Alessandro had noticed there weren't any scratched or chips in the marble grave hinting at it having been opened. But the entire room was empty. And Piero had been the Reaper's victim. It was a perfect hiding spot. Alessandro sighed, glancing up at the ceiling. "What's above us?"
"If this is the family crypt, then ... the Basilica di San Lorenzo di Firenze. One of the oldest churches, built in the 300s. Used to be the cathedral."
"A retired bishop would have access to a former cathedral."
"Steno, I'm telling you –"
Alessandro almost gave in at the raw emotion in Giacinto's voice. He forced it down. "Piero died unexpectedly –"
"Because he was stuffed with flowers and nailed to a bed with swords –"
"The grave wasn't ready. They must have stored the corpse at a morgue until it was finished. De Vito knew where he would be buried and as a priest, he had access to any church. He got down here, pretending to pray for the patriarch while the stone masons were working and the grave was still open."
He could see Giacinto wanted to argue, but the Greek just nodded, flexing his fingers. "Then let's get it over with."
While Alessandro moved to push back his sleeves, ready to – attempt to – lift the giant marble plate, Giacinto moved to stand at its head. The Greek shot him an almost pitiful look. "Always with your head through the wall, huh? Or rather, your fists through a grave." He waved Alessandro to stand at the opposite end of the grave. "There's a tile of black marble, smaller than the others. Step on it."
Alessandro hesitated to put weight on the tile, the second he did, it dropped several inches and a slow grinding sound filled the room, stone grating over stone – the plate covering the sarcophagus was moving.
"It's a banking thing. Some treasuries can only be opened with two people turning separate keys at the same time." Giacinto watched with a stony expression as the plate slid back, revealing the dead banker's corpse like a curtain lifting on a macabre theatre. "I thought he might like it."
"I'm sure he would have appreciated it." Alessandro wasn't sure what else to say. Half of him wanted to ask Giacinto to step away, he didn't have to see Alessandro searching the banker's grave for their evidence. The other half knew Giacinto would be insulted by the implied weakness.
Piero had been dead for several weeks, yet his skin had nothing of the bloated reddishness other corpses had – the Lady Medici must have worked on his body, judging by the sweet smell he had been salved with wax. An elaborate doublet hid the wounds on his stomach and arms, but those on his hands stood out in a garish red, never healing flesh sewn together with black thread. Despite all loving care, death still took its toll. Only half of his nails still clung to his fingers, elongated like claws by the receding skin, the others littered the satin cushioning he had been bedded on. His mouth was caving in, the teeth having fallen out.
Giacinto didn't blink when he bent to slide a hand under the pillow under the old banker's head and pulled a long, ivory box from beneath. "Key." His voice was as still as his expression. Again Alessandro swallowed his concern, handing over the key without a word.
With the click of the lock, the tension in Alessandro broke like a wave, crashing into every thought, throwing them over and under in his mind. Before it could consume him, the box sprung open, and just like that, it was all over.
Everything they had worked for, bled for, even killed for – a pile of letters. The waxen seals glittered like fresh blood in the light of the torch, like devil bargains and trapped souls. In a way, they were. A seal held a life, a family name – almost as if their owners confessed themselves.
If they could show these letters to the council, it would be enough to search these men's villas, find their conspirators, exiled years ago after the first coup. It might be enough to save Giacinto and Alessandro from their sentence at the gallows.
Bitterness rose like bile, when he remembered Daniele had a part in their imprisonment.
Paper crinkled, the box slammed shut, shoved into Alessandro's arms as Giacinto strode past him. "You have what you need. Let's go."
It was a slow ascend from the crypt into the church above, two silent wanderers slipping through shadows and moonlight columns, one trapped in his past, the other in his future. They didn't speak until the church's gates fell shut behind them and they breathed in the fresh night air. Only when the soft scent of the midnight jasmine blooming in the courtyard blurred the memories of half rotten corpses and cold tunnel air Alessandro dared to smile.
They did it.
If they rode fast they could make it back to Venice in under a week.
Home.
He clamped an icy fist around the doubt stirring deep in him. Would it really be over so simply?
Soft melodies carried over to them on a breeze, rustling the leaves of a bougainvillea bursting with blossoms, far away laughter weaving through the city's alleys. Giacinto turned, a slow grin dawning on his lips. "Race you there?"
Alessandro shifted the weight of the box in his hands. "You'll beat me."
"That's why I like it." Giacinto skipped ahead into the yard, spreading his arms as if he wanted to catch the moonlight streaming through his fingers. "I'll give you a head start. Come on. Live a little."
He wanted to. "We're not children –"
"No, children don't shave their chests," Giacinto winked.
Alessandro was quite certain his cheeks turned the colour of the bougainvillea. "I – this is ridiculous. I just don't like hairy chests," he sputtered, making Giacinto laugh even more. "Why are we having this conversation?"
"I'm bullying you into racing me to the palace."
"I don't even know how to get there." Alessandro tried for a last excuse.
"Just follow me. You'll be behind anyways."
And then the night blurred around them in laughter and the breeze ruffling their hair out of its meticulous styles and for the first time in three years, when he was breathless and several paces behind the laughing Greek, Alessandro felt like himself.
Not the dutiful inspector. Not the liar. Not the golden son, his father's pride and mother's hope, a Jew with a position of power. Just Alessandro.
Out of all people Giacinto – the Greek he had thought he would either arrest or punch within the first few weeks of dancing around each other – was the one who never expected anything of him. Maybe it was because Giacinto himself defied all expectations, but he never cared for any of Alessandro's facades.
He must have slowed down, because a blink later, Giacinto had returned to his side, a wild grin on his lips, eyes sparkling in the dark. Someone had watered flowerpots on the windowsills lining the narrow alleyway and the water shone silver on the cobblestone. It was messy, it was beautiful. Alessandro laughed. A hand stretched out and Alessandro took it, fingers lacing together firmly as they sprinted over a bridge of moonlight.
---
It was a dream and all dreams must end.
Theirs shattered the second they stepped back into the ballroom, still half out of breath and hair badly fixed. Giacinto had been laughing the entire time as Alessandro tried to shake a spider's web from the tunnels off his waistcoat. And then Giacinto's smile froze. Their steps quickened, growing hectic as the orchestra faded into the background.
Laelia was gone.
"Maybe they just went –" Alessandro started, cut off by the Greek whirling around, panic twisting his face.
"No, no I told Lia to stay in the crowd with Bianca." Giacinto dragged a hand through his hair, gaze swinging through the room. Tension whipped around him. "The palace is crawling with assassins. They're safe only in the crowd. Lorenzo said he would distract his father, keep him away from the girls, Bianca gave Laelia her veil – shit. Shit. Steno, I told them –"
"We'll find them." Alessandro said, lacing the words with steel, armour for that fragile hope. They couldn't both panic. "Where's Lorenzo? He might have seen something."
Giacinto scanned to room, then jerked his thin to the far, the bright white of Lorenzo's costume outshining the group of revellers bustling around him as they stepped back in from the gardens. But Alessandro could only see the man at his side.
He wasn't sure what he had expected. Perhaps an ugly, twisted man. Someone opposite to the swan beside him. A fairy tale villain. But Lorenzo's father looked like the mirror image of his son. They shared the same long, lean figure, the same elegant features, even their hair fell in the same waves, his father's hair the colour of cold steel instead of the soft blond.
But when he saw the man move and smile, in the exact same way as his son, the son he hated, Alessandro's heart broke – because he realized, growing up, Lorenzo must have copied his father, eagerly mirroring his mannerisms.
Lorenzo noticed them, too. He glanced at his father and back at them, visibly torn. He couldn't come over without his father noticing, but he had realized what Giacinto's tense expression meant. Lorenzo frantically scanned the room for Laelia, then glanced at the long, open windows leading out to the park – Alessandro guessed he had had to follow his father outside and during that time, the girls had disappeared.
Giacinto's fist clenched on his dagger. Alessandro nodded at Lorenzo – he would have to stay here, even though Alessandro could see he was seconds away from crashing through the dancing crowd between them, father and reaper be damned. He knew Lorenzo loved Laelia more than anything else. But if Lorenzo left, his father would know.
Lorenzo's jaw clenched. Then he quickly waved in the opposite direction, calling a young noble over, drawing his father's steel eyes with the movement.
"Let's go," Alessandro hissed, using the moment of distraction to twist behind a group of servants in their black feather masks. "The Lady. She might know."
But the Lady was nowhere to be found.
Suspicion, bitter and guilty, crawled up his insides. They jogged through endless corridors and halls, further and further away from the music and laughter, until it was just heavy silence cut by the hectic sound of their boots striking marble.
There should be assassins. They had searched half the palace, considering how one had found Alessandro just minutes after his walk to the chapel, they should have run into someone by now. If they weren't here, they were all elsewhere. That thought gnawed itself under Alessandro's skin and refused to leave.
No one prayed for an assassin to show. But in that moment Alessandro did. They had left Laelia alone. If anything had happened to her –
Someone twisted out of a room before them, eyes widening for a split second. He hadn't even fully wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword when Alessandro slammed into him, sending them crashing against the wall like an avalanche.
"Where are they?" His fingers dug into the man's collar so hard the fabric tore. "What did you do?!"
The man opened his mouth, but was cut off by Giacinto appearing at Alessandro's side. "Don't even think about lying to him."
"Don't know anythin'," the man shrugged. His lips twisted into an ugly smile. "'cept that they're probably dead by now."
"I will cut the truth out of you if I have to," Giacinto warned.
"Truth is, that little boytoy just didn't keep a good enough eye on 'em. Had to entertain his old man, gone for one second and oops, gone they were." The man sneered, foul breath tickling Alessandro. He chocked when Alessandro tightened his hold. "Heard he looks pretty on his knees, I'm sure you'll like his apology then."
"Tell us, now," Alessandro grit. The fury in his chest unfurled slowly, stretching, testing the waters.
"Tell ya what? Weather tomorrow? Sunny with a chance of entrails, I think."
Alessandro forced ice over the boiling emotions. He needed to keep a cool head. He switched tactics. He could tell if the man was lying, he just had to manipulate the questions ... "Are they in the palace?"
The man pretended to think for a moment. "... no."
Lie. "They are. The Reaper, did he find them?"
"One of us found them, we called him."
Truth. The ice started to splinter, spider web cracks around the hell in his chest. Alessandro tightened his hold again, until the man sputtered for breath. "Talk."
"Oh yes, he was very happy to see them."
Lie. "He didn't get to them yet." Alessandro could see Giacinto's shoulders slump in relief from the corner of his eyes, then tense up the next second. Yet. Every second they wasted on this man was a second they lost to get to Laelia.
And the assassin knew it.
His smile grew broader by the second, his dimpled, scarred face twisting into an eerie mask. He laughed in their faces. "Look at you, boy, always so glorious and now? They'll die. Because you couldn't get to them in time."
And then Alessandro snapped.
The ice burst, tore into a millions shards ripping into his chest from the inside and the eternally simmering anger could finally, finally burn. He yanked the assassin forward by his collar and slammed him back against the wall so hard the heavy painting frames shook, the man's eyes going glassy for a second. Alessandro's fist connected with his jaw, sending the man flying, skidding across the marble floor.
The assassin laughed, blood flowing from a burst lip in a wild, mad grin.
Alessandro was on him in the next moment, punches hailing down in rhythm with his erratic heartbeat. The man screamed. Liquid fury pumped through his body. Alessandro was burning on the stake, from the inside.
They had no time. The helplessness went up in flames when the rage touched it, fire meeting gasoline. He could make him talk. He could. He could.
He had to.
His fist came down again, and again, and again, pain spiking up his fingers, a red haze wrapping around his hands and it took Alessandro a moment to realize it was the man's blood staining his hands. The man's jaw cracked. He screamed again. Alessandro didn't hear it, he could feel it, ripping through his chest, but he could hear no sound, everything fading to a high buzzing sound filling his ears.
Past and present blurred, two different men screaming, the echo of cracking bones dancing around him, long cold blood mixing with warm one on his fingers, Daniele's face twisting in horror, disbelief, Alessandro drowning in a sea of blood, Alessandro taking a life, Alessandro becoming an inspector, a liar, respected, lying, admired, hiding –
"The red pavilion!" The man shouted, arms too weak to hold Alessandro off. "The pavilion, they're in the –"
The sentence caught in a gurgle when Alessandro's fist struck him again. White ripped across the man's cheek when one of Alessandro's rings caught and tore the skin down to his cheekbone.
It was pure. The rage burned away everything else.
Just when he raised his fist again, something caught his arm, pulling him off the man.
"That's quite enough," a voice muttered, and Alessandro clung to it like a lifeboat in a storm. Giacinto blurred into focus next to him. Alessandro couldn't make out the emotion on his face, rage still tearing at the edges of his consciousness, roaring and clawing, yearning to punch and break.
A wheezing breath caught his attention, the assassin, face a bloody pulp, rolling onto his stomach and crawling away from them. He sputtered, spat blood, kept crawling. That sound, the blood and spit splattering across the marble, that was what yanked Alessandro out of it.
It all crashed down. If Giacinto hadn't torn him off the man, he would've beat the man to death. His knuckles ached, a distant echo of the punches. The icy cold of the realization doused the last flames of anger. He almost killed a man.
He might still. The with injuries like that, the man might not make it. Even if, the Reaper would kill him for talking.
Alessandro had caused this man's death. One way or the other. Even when the man was still gasping and moaning in pain, dragging himself away from them.
Giacinto might be a killer.
But Alessandro was the murderer.
Daniele's voice echoed through the emptiness suddenly yawning in his mind. It takes one to catch one.
"He'll die," Alessandro said, shocked by the smooth depth of his voice. It was supposed to be rough, raw, but all the screaming had been the other man. Either the assassin would slowly burn away in a fever caused by his infected wounds, or the Reaper would squeeze his life out of him. A being who followed an iron codex of twisted honour like the Reaper would not take kindly to a traitor.
Alessandro didn't know which would be worse.
He could end it. His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword.
You did it before, whispered the voice at the back of his head. Do it again.
He got up, dropped back to his knees besides the assassin. Squeezed his shoulder. Like a butcher calming the cattle before the slaughter.
His mind wasn't empty now, but he'd take anything, the anger, the emptiness, anything but the horror and panic whirling around him now. He couldn't do it. He had to do it.
He couldn't do it.
He had had to make the man talk. Laelia's life was on the line. He was right. He was wrong.
His breath trembled.
A hand appeared, long, bronze fingers curling into the blood streaked strands of the assassin. Pulled his head back. Drew the silver blade across a white throat.
Alessandro jumped black, blood pulsing across the floor in weaker and weaker pumps. The stinging smell of copper filled Alessandro's nose. The man gurgled. Silence. A gleaming red smile gaped across his throat.
Alessandro swayed on his knees, tried forcing the ice over everything, but it melted to blood warm guilt.
Giacinto knelt before him. Alessandro couldn't look at him, eyes locked on the discarded, bloody knife at his side. He had added another nightmare to the Greek's drunken nights. He had made Giacinto kill. Because he had been too weak.
"I'm sorry," Alessandro whispered. "I'm sorry. I – I could have done this. It was me –"
Giacinto took his face between his hands, forcing Alessandro to look at him. "No," Giacinto said, slowly. "No. You're a good man. This wasn't you."
"I did this, it's my responsibility – "
Giacinto pulled their foreheads together, noses brushing together. Something fierce burned in his eyes. "This isn't you. You shouldn't have to do this."
It should have been Alessandro's knife across the man's throat. But he couldn't do it.
Giacinto's voice was a slow murmur. "Let me be your monster."
This chapter was a bit different, full of clues and riddles, less action, I hope you liked it!
Something is definitely changing between Alessandro and Gio ... what was your favorite moment this chapter?
Thank you for reading, I hope you guys are doing well, thank you for always brightening my day!
Avis.