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"Well, too bad you didn't know that no one can run from me. No one."

Crouching down, the Greek pulled out a limp arm from under the cloth, slung it over his shoulder and hoisted up – a corpse.

A casual posture. Like helping a drunk friend stagger home. Just that, this was a stranger and being carried towards a wet grave.

The unmoving feet that dragged over the ground were hidden by Giacinto's cloak around the corpse's shoulders. It had been a bit of a hassle — Giacinto was half a head smaller than the man and his cloak had originally ended somewhere around the other's shins. Nothing he couldn't fix. If anything, he was creative.

Money and power were fickle things. Strength and skills were better, but there could always be situations were even those weren't accessible. Resourcefulness, however, was the one thing no one could take away. And he had gotten quite far with it.

It should concern him that strolling through a city with a corpse in his arm, pretending to walk home a drunk friend — the dead's waxen face carefully hidden by a hood — was not the strangest thing he had done.

It had seemed Venice had turned into a stage. Everyone thought they were the director of the play – that the other's were their actors.

Giacinto smiled grimly.

They were all puppets. And who pulled the strings – none of the forces at work. Not the Ottomans, not the conspirators, not the Genoese. Not even a doge, a king, a pope. They were all dolls.

Death.

Death was their puppeteer.

Giacinto knew.

Death would let them dance on their invisible strings until they had tangled themselves and were strangled.

It didn't matter if you didn't see the strings. What you believed were threads of fate really ended in death's cold hands. You danced for death.

There was a bitter glint in his eyes. He stopped for a second, readjusting his grip on the dead man.

They all danced. He didn't.

Giacinto Marinos had cut all strings. He was no puppet. He moved through a sea of dolls, drowning in the loneliness of those truly free.

Not that he cared, of course. Loneliness was the price of freedom. He would rather be lonely than caged.

On the chess board, he was not white nor black, stepped on both white and black squares, saw the pieces being moved by the players, but none of them could move him.

In a world of treaties, alliances and contracts, promises, ties and obligations, Giacinto was nothing. Bound to nothing, obligated to nothing, responsible to nothing.

But he also had nothing.

Nothing to return to, nothing to protect, nothing to fight for. No one knew him. He meant nothing. He was nothing.

"Turning sentimental now ..." Giacinto rolled his eyes, forced back that tug in his heart and straightened himself.

No doubt. No regret.

The noiret repeated it in his mind until his step was firm again.

For the second time today, he abandoned the crowded streets, the broad canals. With steady determination he wandered the dark alleys. In the fading light of dusk they were almost colorless, no marble palaces burning red in the sinking sun. There was just grey, dead and cold and dull. Fog crept over the water, clam fingers reaching for Giacinto's feet.

The smell of the wet, slowly fouling wood crept into the Greek's nose. He hated this about these quarters. You just couldn't get the disgustingly heavy odour of piss, old water, rotting wood and algae out of you nose for hours. He could practically taste it.

Giacinto shook his head. Whatever. He couldn't do what he was about to do anywhere else. Only here, in the grey fog of uncaring anonymity.

A normal man would've paused for a second. To listen for footsteps. To look around, check both sides twice. Giacinto didn't. If someone had followed him, no matter how perfectly they timed their steps to match his, he would have noticed. They would always be the slightest bit out of time. Enough, for a man like Giacinto.

Giacinto shoved the corpse into the canal.

Maybe it'd be found. Maybe it wouldn't. Giacinto crossed himself and turned to leave, not sparing the corpse swimming upside down between a dead rat and an unidentifiable mat of trash another look.

If they'd fish it out of the canal, it'd just be one of so many nameless deads every morning.

His pace had a bounce to it now, in tune with a song fiddling in his head. He had heard it in some bar, some time. His toes prickled with the urge to skip down the street, twirl, once or twice. He didn't. A good Christian doesn't skip down the streets after dumping a corpse in a canal.

His laid back attitude seemed deadly foolish. It was not, of course, for this was Giacinto.

Alessandro had been tense here. Giacinto was not.

Alessandro had feared his throat being slit. There was no one who would be capable of slitting Giacinto's throat here.

He turned his head upwards, eyes narrowing at the sky. Almost black, thick clouds hid the stars, thick darkness settling over Venice, while cold fog sneaked through the streets. He would have to hurry.

He still had one more thing to do.

-------

Marble glowed orange, ceiling paintings jumping to live in the flickering light of a huge fireplace.

Two guards stood beside a double winged door at the end of the large hall. The flames danced in their armour, as if trapped in the metal. They knew him, by now.

Thus, Giacinto burst right into Antonio Morosini's private chambers. He let the door wings bang open extra loud, for a lack of drums announcing his presence.

The room hadn't changed much since last time. Two walls lined with shelves, overflowing with scrolls and books, a fireplace bathing the room in warm tones, the golden light shimmering  in the metal of various instruments. There was a giant globe standing in a corner, a telescope pointing out the high windows behind the huge desk, a compass and a theodolite strewn across a map on that desk. Books, maps, loose papers and scrolls were piled everywhere.

Antonio, too, was where he always was: the seat behind the desk. Giacinto wondered if he slept in it, too. He did not look up from the book he was reading.

Giacinto cleared his throat.

Antonio continued reading.

Giacinto bounced slightly on his toes. He coughed.

Antonio flipped a page.

Giacinto was about to cough again when the other raised his hand. The Greek paused.

"Do you need cough syrup?"

Giacinto furrowed his eyebrows. "No."

"Really?"

"You're not funny."

"I'm not trying to be." Antonio finally looked up from his book. "You are, however, trying to get my attention."

"Your observation skills almost match those of that officer."

"Alessandro Steno?"

"Ah, that was it. Something with a. Annoying, Alessandro, all the same to me."

Antonio shook his head. "Why are you here, Giacinto? At this time of day you're usually very occupied with getting drunk out of your mind."

"Not for the reason your guards think," Giacinto grinned.

"I pay them enough not to think."

"I can't blame them. Pretty face like mine, lonely man like you ..."

Antonio raised both eyebrows. "Is this about Laelia? Are you now trying to get word out we're ... fucking?" The nobleman grimaced at the word. "That's why I am not interested in her? Because I'm  a sodomite? That I can't love her? Instead of her finally facing that I simply don't?"

Giacinto's jaw clenched. He could feel his teeth grinding together. "No." He swallowed down the emotions boiling inside him. "I need your help."

Antonio watched him silently for a moment, then closed his book slowly. "Of course." The man inclined his head, voice smooth and sonorous, calm like deep, motionless water. "But please, sit." He waved his hand at one of the armchairs waiting in front of the fireplace, rising up himself.

Surprisingly, the armchairs hadn't yet been repurposed into a storage place for the many books.
Giacinto sat, leaning back into the satin cushions with a calmness he did not feel.

Antonio sat opposite of him, watching him with those eyes that saw everything. He crossed his legs, reaching for a crystal carafe. An ember liquid swished in there and Giacinto assumed it was not tea. "Care for a drink?"

"You know I never refuse drinks."

"And that's why you're here." Antonio poured two glasses.

"For drinks?" The liquor burnt all the way down to Giacinto's stomach, settling in a pool of warmth. Too much spices, for his taste. "I don't like you that much."

"Because I know ... things."

"Yes. You have an empire of knowledge."

"No, not knowledge," the brunette shook his head, then paused to tap his lips in thought. A golden ring shone in the light of the flames. A family crest. A thinner one on his ring finger, a ruby in the middle – Giacinto recognized that one. Laelia wore the same. "Knowledge sounds like library. I have that, too, but that's of no interest to you. I have an empire of information. You want information."

Giacinto shrugged. "Call it whatever you want, I don't care. I might be Greek, but I'm no philosopher."

"So, what do you want? To tell me how to treat my fiancé once again?"

Giacinto felt Antonio's unmoving gaze nail him to his spot in the armchair.

"Careful," an angry glare flickered in Giacinto's eyes for a second, fine brows narrowing in a silent warning, "you don't want to test my loyalties, brother." He didn't wait for an answer and pulled out a folded parchment from his doublet.

Antonio took it, unfolding it with his deliberate elegance. His eyebrows rose higher with every word he read. "That's ... "

"The co-conspirators of Marino Faliero that managed to flee. Or rather, those that are still alive."

Antonio drew in a sharp breath, mustering the parchment with the curiosity one might have for an exotic predator. Expecting it to bite every second.

"The names next to them are their contacts here in Venice. They exchange letters, some are back to Italy already, but most are still in Croatia."

"Where did you get this?"

"A dying boy. Spy." Giacinto was silent for a moment, watching the flames. He felt their warmth on his skin, almost reassuring. When he spoke again, he was still staring into the fire. "You have spies."

"I do." Antonio nodded slowly.

Antonio pursed his lips. Giacinto knew that look – the man would make a decision now. He chose his next words very carefully. "I want you to intercept their letters, read them and send them off again. You have the means to – and only you. I want you to watch their every move."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because your uncle is the doge. A conspiracy like Marino Faliero had planned it would –"

"– dethrone him. Place one of theirs on the throne, turn Venice into a monarchy. A tyranny."

"Yes."

"All rules end one day. That is the course of time. But, alas, I don't want to see this one ending too soon. I will help you."

Giacinto smiled, sharp canines gleaming in the flickering light. A wave of relief washed over him, the knot in his stomach finally loosening to let him relax. He had gained the upper hand again. He exhaled slowly, just now noticing the tension that now fell from his shoulders.

"Under one condition."

Giacinto looked up again. "I don't think I could tell you anything you don't know, but, of course."

"I don't want information."

"Who are you and what have you done to Antonio?"

"You're planning to leave the city. You might not want to take Laelia, but I know you can't say no to her."

Their eyes met and Antonio's brown orbs bore into Giacinto's.

"Give me your word you will keep her safe. No matter what, you will protect her."

If the burning intensity of Antonio's gaze wouldn't have sealed Giacinto's lips, he'd have laughed at the man.

Keep her safe? Why would Antonio care? The poor girl did everything to spent a little time with him. But he had turned his back on her, years ago. As if she was just another stranger.

If Laelia wouldn't hold the fuming Greek back every time, Giacinto would've cut his throat long ago. She'd return home with the soft resignation of a rejected puppy, shaking her head slowly at Giacinto's questioning look and the Greek was always on his feet in a heartbeat, green fury poisoning his eyes.

He had to admit, he partially did that just so Laelia would go back to normal when she'd push him back and scold him.

"Give me your word." Antonio's eyes were agitated.

Giacinto mustered him silently. Half his face was hidden in the shadow, the other illuminated by the fire's glow. His eyes were blazing – and Giacinto realized just how powerful the other man really was.

"You don't have to ask me to do that. As long as I breathe, I swear, no one will hurt Laelia. That includes you."

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What do you think about this chapter?

What's it with Giacinto?

Why does Antonio suddenly care about Laelia?

Thank you for reading!

Avis.