Hello!
It's been a while. First and foremost — I hope all of you are doing well in these special times! If anyone ever needs to rant, ramble or talk about chocolate cookies and pretty book covers, message me any time!

Secondly, I'm terribly sorry for being gone for so long. 3 months! So, where was I? Some of you may know I'm a Med student, and I also work in a hospital, so right now you can imagine things are crazy! Shifts are super stressful, plus a giant load of work for university. I often just come home, after working overtime late, having a literal dent and scratched off skin on my nose and cheeks from wearing masks, and just crash into bed. If I haven't replied to your comments, I'm so very sorry! I'll try to sort through them these days.

Thirdly, thank you so much for being patient with me, messaging me to ask how I was doing or leaving comments. You guys are the best — and the reason I pushed to write this chapter. So think of this chapter as dedicated just to you! You always put a smile on my face.

And fourthly — if you'd like a tiny refresher of some details that might've gotten lost, because it's been three months and I'm a horrible person, I'll leave a small list of things in the comment here!
And now, enjoy!

"Better the devil you know than the devil you don't..." (Saying)

"I don't think it's Antonio." Giacinto didn't meet Alessandro's eyes.

There's more. Anger flared in his chest, bright and bitter. Of course there's more. There's always more with him.

Giacinto was everything and nothing. A million contradictions. An infamous prince, a nameless banker, a mourner, a survivor, a killer. A liar who held the rawest truths.

But most of all, he was a trickster. Alessandro would do well to remember a trickster's nature. He had been slipping into one of his mother's cautionary fairy tales. Some nobles might keep panthers to purr in gilded cages – but not for one second could that change their nature.

Giacinto wore his masks like a nesting doll. He twisted away in the twilight between truth and lie.

"How long." Despite Alessandro's efforts, the bitterness of betrayal seeped into his voice. "How long did you know?" How long did you let us chase our own tails, loosing time – loosing lives?

The honest surprise on Giacinto's face hit him like a slap. "I don't know anything," he snapped. "But apparently you know I'm guilty before I've uttered a single word."

Alessandro hadn't meant that. ... but you thought that, the cruel little voice whispered in delight. You will always think that.

He couldn't help it. He tried. He kept telling himself Giacinto had saved their lives countless times. And yet, at the first hint of secrets, he jerked away as if he had been cut. Doubt and suspicion had their their clammy fingers eternally wrapped around his neck.

He should be rising to the challenge in Giacinto's voice. He should be getting angry. But ... he was just confused. He dragged his fingers through his hair, jaw tense. He would rather be angry. Anger at least had direction.

"I... apologize." He hesitantly turned to muster Giacinto's expression – the Greek was more sensitive than his wicked grins let on. Had he offended him? Hurt him?

But Giacinto grabbed Alessandro's face with both hands, tugging the corners of his mouth into a theatrical smile with his thumbs. "Smile. You're no ancient hermit."

Alessandro forced his expression blank.

"This worked better with my little brother," Giacinto frowned. "Smile or I'll tickle you again?"

And then things happened too fast.

Alessandro lost to Giacinto's half grouchy, half hopeful expression. He broke into a smile, Giacinto's fingers slipped at the abrupt movement, suddenly his thumb pressed against Alessandro's mouth. He could have counted every single scar on Giacinto's fingertips as they brushed over his lips. The same insistent touch had been so innocent before, now it melted into deep crimson, carrying him away on silken instincts. His mouth fell open against the touch, his eyes fluttering close, tongue moving to caress the finger slipping past his lips.

He tasted salt, mingling with the warm spice of frankincense, dully realizing a servant must've oiled Giacinto after his bath yesterday, but every fiber of his being had zoned in on the weight and warmth against his tongue. A soft moan rose from deep in chest–

Alessandro closed his mouth so fast he almost bit off Giacinto's thumb.

The bandages scratched Alessandro's cheek when Giacinto yanked his hands away.

A blush burned across Alessandro's cheeks, setting the tips of his ears on fire. He wanted to run away and hide. He hadn't meant to – he just – fuck. Fuck! What was he thinking? He hadn't been thinking. He wasn't used to being touched like this. His lovers had, once. But that was years ago.

After years of starving, his body had acted on instinct. Instinct he couldn't explain, couldn't excuse, couldn't wave off. Alessandro felt panic rising like bile in his throat. Fuck. Fuck. What should he say? He had to say something. Say something. Say something.

He couldn't get a word out, fear tightening around his throat like a noose.

Giacinto doesn't mind Lorenzo. He wouldn't report him. ... would he? Alessandro's hands shook when he curled them into fists, a shaky breath escaping him.

"Steno?"

Alessandro's world tilted. He was going to be sick. He couldn't – he just -- like a punch splitting his lip, it hit sharp and fast. Stinging with every move: He was scared. He was so scared.

"Steno?" The hands returned, taking Alessandro's face between them, forcing his too wide eyes to meet Giacinto's sharp gaze. "What got you spooked? Is there a ghost in the room I'm rudely ignoring?"

Alessandro refused to answer, mouth pulling into a tight line. He felt like his jaw was about to snap, teeth crushed against each other in a desperate attempt to keep it all in.

"Do I have to be nice now? Being nice physically pains me, just so you know." Giacinto groaned. "Giant. Shit happens."

"That's you being nice?" Alessandro's voice came out shaky, raw.

Giacinto's eyes twinkled with the same mischief that betrayed him stealing Laelia's pouches off her belt, or swapping Alessandro drinks for gravy at dinner. "Isn't that obvious?"

The both had to laugh at that.

"You have a concussion. You stayed up half the night making sure I was alright." Giacinto's expression softened, thumbs tracing Alessandro's cheek bones. "I'm surprised you're even sitting upright."

Was Giacinto seriously excusing that with his concussion? He should thank society's forceful ignorance. He should be relieved. And yet ... he was lying to Giacinto.

"... if it makes you feel better, I was so drunk last Carnevale, I crashed at Lorenzo's. Word is I confused him with a woman for quite a while." The little laugh escaping him was far too cheeky to pass as ashamed. "Besides, I delight in your suffering."

Alessandro laughed. It choked into a groan when his head throbbed with the movement.

A deep breath shuddered out of him as he let his head rest against Giacinto's palm. "My head hurts." He sounded pathetic even to himself.

"That's what you get for staying up all night playing guard dog."

"You say it like it's a bad thing."

"It is when it hurts you."

Alessandro blinked in surprise, pulling back to search Giacinto's face for the wicked edge in his smile. He didn't find any. But that meant -- Giacinto actually did like him.

The Greek was watching him curiously, head tilted to the side, eyes too clever, smile too soft. Alessandro dropped his head, resting their foreheads together. Their noses brushed. Giacinto's breath still smelled like wine.

"You confuse me." His voice was rough. Even to him, it sounded like a question, a confession.

"And you hate that," Giacinto said softly, fingers warm against his skin. Alessandro didn't know what weighed his voice down so much, but he knew it was important.

Giacinto drew his hands back, giving him a pat on the cheek. "Now, do your duty, Inspector."

Alessandro let the ice rise again, freeze through every fiber of his weak heart. Laelia had once – over dinner – cheerfully explained people freezing to death no longer felt cold, found smiling even when their flesh had crystallized while they were alive.

Maybe he had reached that stage. Maybe the ice would slowly kill him from the inside. Maybe he'd be fine with that.

He'd rather be a frozen statue than the ugly, scared boy that cowered inside.

He froze that thought, too. "Antonio and you have history. Your name was enough to make him tell me everything I needed." What he needed to hide his own bloody secrets. How could he accuse Giacinto of hiding things?

"We're not very fond of each other."

"Because he knows you like Laelia." As soon as he said it, Alessandro wanted to kick himself.

Giacinto's smile was sickly sweet poison. "I'm hiding from Crete. I have ... safety precautions."

The Lost Prince, that wrong witch had called him. A fake name and occupation couldn't be enough. He should've known – Giacinto knew more about Antonio than Laelia. "Antonio is hiding you?"

"He has an empire of knowledge. He's built ghosts to keep my place." The wicked glint in his eyes had turned into steely calculation. He looked older. Further away. Like he was meant to grace golden coins alongside ancient warlords. Tricksters always were amongst the oldest gods, born from chaos and power. This was the prince. "He has spies. Many spies. Remember you sent someone to Ferrara to confirm I was there the night of the murder?"

The night they first met, in a deserted ballroom, a silent waltz to the faded tune of last breaths and stilling hearts, a bloody angel between them, the mysterious mosaic above them twinkling like a sky of gold. Alessandro closed his eyes. "You lied."

"Always. And never." Giacinto's lips curled into his odd little smile. Like he knew a thousand things Alessandro did not. "I didn't kill him. You wanted proof, so I gave you some."

"Fabricated some."

"Oops."

That little brat. Alessandro grit his teeth. How was he supposed to trust him? Just on the thin ice of feelings? As if. "You traced the money to Antonio."

Giacinto had tracked the coins from a dead assassin to the Medici Bank in Florence. Someone hadn't wanted to leave a paper trail -- they paid the Reaper in gold. But an amount that large came from the same stamping process – all coins bore the same engraving. So Giacinto had searched the Medici's ledgers. Alessandro wanted to laugh – how hadn't he noticed earlier? There were hundreds of transactions every day. Giacinto had to have known the Reaper's real name to find the transfer.

Giacinto fished a piece of parchment from the pile between them, tapping the seal. "I never said Antonio. I said Morosini."

Alessandro's shoulders fell. It could be anyone. The Morosini family was one of Venice's oldest, richest and most powerful -- there were at least a half a dozen men who could have made that transaction.

"World domination is Antonio's worst nightmare. He'd have to leave his rooms."

Alessandro frowned. "Be serious."

"If he can't take his books, that man is going nowhere. His normal lifestyle is called 'quarantine'. Hand him a scroll and he won't notice if you tap danced naked on his desk."

Alessandro grimaced. "... disturbing imagery."

Giacinto grinned proudly. Alessandro ignored him. "The painter killed at Laelia's home." There was something. It wasn't hidden in the grotesquely distorted body, burned beyond recognition in the overwhelming sea of flowers. It was – "Antonio came to visit Laelia that evening."

"And?"

"Murderers often return to crime scenes. Attend funerals."

"Shouldn't they hide?"

"It's a demonstration of power. Seeing the horror they cause. The family's grief. Others want to relive the crime. Some hide in plain sight -- who would think the killer is comforting those left behind?" Alessandro's hands curled into fists. He didn't want to remember the dozens of funerals, the wails of widows and mothers as he stood silently, watching, waiting, scanning faces for a cracking mask, a glimpse of the rotting monster beneath the gilded human.

"Maybe he just wanted to visit? When we left, Lorenzo had arrived to comfort Laelia. Maybe he told Antonio he worried about Lia seeing this."

Anger sparked again. Who was Antonio to deserve Giacinto's trust?  "He didn't visit for years. And the Order had discovered the Ottoman's plans for war -- "

"You're right, the Turks would love to send Venice to the bottom of the sea. But alas, Antonio is Arab. Of course, who cares?" Giacinto grit his teeth. "Dark skin, hook nose? That's all you need to know. The evil easterners are all the same."

There was a dangerous glint in Giacinto's eyes. "Monsters and heathens. I have dark skin. Am I'm a monster?"

"No—"

"They pray to the wrong god. So do you. Are you a monster?"

"No –"

"There is no The East. There's dozens of Kingdoms. The Turks and Arabs were at war before Venice rose from the ocean."

Shame heated Alessandro's cheeks. "Still –"

"I can and will stab you if you say the wrong thing now."

"Perhaps... you are right. But he grew up in Venice. He has no connection to his people."

"His uncle is the Doge. Antonio is his favourite. He has a seat in the Council. Enlighten me, why the fuck would he plan a Coup d'état and screw himself over?"

"Language." Alessandro frowned. Giacinto stuck his tongue out. "He sent Laelia a box with a cobra."

"Nothing says 'I love you' more than attempted murder."

"Your Lady Medici started a witch hunt for the woman that delivered it. A fake witch hunt." Disgust sharpened Alessandro's voice. "She shouted there was a traitor. You had her gagged and dragged away."

"You already didn't trust me. She was making it worse," Giacinto gritted.

"She died for that!"

"I would've had her released!"

"No, you drank yourself half to death in the arms of another woman!" Alessandro slapped his notes down, voice rising dangerously.

Giacinto flinched. Alessandro growled, reigning his temper back in. "Lorenzo and I got Marius. A priest can visit prisoners. Lorenzo accidentally told you."

"And? As you said – I was drunk. Busy. Both. Whatever." Giacinto crossed his arms.

"Were you? You were gone when I came back." Why was he trying to provoke Giacinto? "That woman practically ambushed me."

"Why are you saying woman like that?"

Alessandro flared his nostrils, huffing in anger. "We're off topic. You didn't ... bed her."

"She –" Giacinto looked down. "I just went to drink. She tried -- my shirt..." His voice was tense, fingers flexing over the scar hidden beneath his shirt.

"You would've had enough time. We had to get Marius." Why was he saying this? Giacinto didn't kill her. Giacinto who broke down twice in his arms, half mad, half terrified of the monster the Reaper tried to show him in the mirror. Still, anger poisoned his words. "She was stabbed. With your knife."

Giacinto's eyes widened. "That's not – shit." Leaning out of bed, he pulled a knife from his discarded robe. "This?"

It was a piece of art. The blade cut the sunlight falling through the half-opened curtains on a razor-sharp edge. Alessandro brushed his fingers across the handle, pale bone, carved with twisting figures of dark fairy tales. Inlaid with oil black onyx, the carvings reminded Alessandro of a Greek vases. He would recognize it in a heartbeat.

"It's a twin blade. A gift from Luca." He sounded almost sad.

The Reaper's game surpassed everything. Was he just framing Giacinto, fanning the flames of Alessandro's suspicion to drive a wedge between them? Or was it a cunning message, like the coin with Giacinto's portrait on Piero's deathbed, like the bishop's robes on de Vito, trying to make Giacinto blame himself for her death?

Madmen were always dangerous. But while the reaper was mad, he wasn't crazy. His mind was clear and cold like the icy air of a sunny winter's day. Men like him were rare.

Men like him were never caught.

But Alessandro couldn't bring himself to dig further into the fragile walls Giacinto had built around his past. He changed topic. "She wrote on the wall in blood. All'oro. From Gold." Like the Lady Medici's dress.

"You think the Lady is the traitor."

"Rather her than you."

Giacinto closed his eyes. "Don't."

"The woman wasn't lying!" Alessandro snapped. "She tried to warn us of something."

"They killed her husband! She loved Piero more than anything."

"The snake. She's a poisoner."

"Yes!" Giacinto threw his hands up in exasperation. "She doesn't need a fucking snake. The right spores in that envelope could have rid her of everyone in the room."

"Precisely. No one would suspect her."

"No. There was a letter from Antonio. Otherwise Laelia would never have opened it. He said he loved her." Giacinto's jaw worked. "She knows his handwriting."

Alessandro had already opened his mouth to fire back – and suddenly found his mind empty. Except for one innocent line from Lorenzo.

Alessandro had walked him home – Lorenzo had rambled about Antonio, his sudden change with Laelia, random little things – Alessandro had thought how obviously he still loved his brother. He's so smart, Lorenzo had said.

Giacinto's too clever eyes were locked on Alessandro. "What?"

He's so smart – "– he taught himself how to write."

"And?"

Lorenzo had told him about the heartbroken father, raising his half Arab son alone in Venice, refusing to remarry until his family had forced him. Antonio had been just three, playing in his father's office. Alessandro had been too angry to notice. He could hear the guilt in Lorenzo's voice – somehow he blamed himself for his father's hatred.

"He taught himself how to write," Alessandro said slowly. "... by copying his father's letters."

Giacinto's eyes widened. "It's not his handwriting –"

"It's his father's."

Stunned silence fell over them. He felt as if he were floating, reality not yet hitting. It made sense – despite what he did to Laelia, Antonio had never sounded like a monster. Not a good man. But just a man. Their father however...

What had never been human was just fairy tales to frighten children. Truly eerie was what no longer was human. The most terrifying monsters weren't born, they were sewn into human shells after their heart had been carved out.

"Wait –" Giacinto straightened up, eyes narrowing. "The hanged man."

"The last artist?" The agent had hung himself from the balustrade of the doge's palace, head lolled forward onto his chest as if just asleep, swaying slightly in the ocean breeze. It had been eerily peaceful. Only a tarot card left behind, marked with a drop of blood. Giacinto had explained: The artist himself, the hanged man – self-sacrifice. The seven of swords – betrayal.

"You were wrong."

"Excuse me?"

"Your apology has been graciously accepted. You're very welcome." Giacinto flicked his wrist. Bratty princeling. "You said Marin Falier, the former doge, was hung there after the discovery of a Coup?"

"Yes."

"So the agent meant there is a Coup planned against the Doge."

"Yes." Alessandro bristled in irritation.

"Deep down you are so petty."

"I am not."

"You are. I'll say it again, just because this feels incredible. Dramatic pause, please ... You're wrong."

"You only noticed now, too."

"Cretans don't care about Venetians killing each other. We might applaud if you make it a spectacle. But you were so kind to write half a chronicle here –" Giacinto tapped the paper in his lap. "—by the way, you have a lady's handwriting – so I noticed your mistake. Marin Falier was trying to overthrow the Council and rule as a monarch. There is no Coup against the Doge. The Doge is the Coup. And who is the Doge?"

No. How had he overseen this? "Antonio's uncle. His father's brother."

Giacinto tapped Alessandro's nose with his finger. "You're smarter than you look, bear."

"Would you stop with the nicknames."

"No."

Alessandro gave an indignant snort. "I am not hairy."

"But you're huge."

Giacinto's fascination with his size was almost adorable. "Can we maybe try and – the Doge. When was he elected?"

"I've only been in Venice for three years -- "

"This spring."

Giacinto caught on. "When the artists' murders started."

"Exactly!" A thrill chased through Alessandro. It was all coming together. "His predecessor? Andrea Contarini."

Giacinto stilled. "Contarini? Like ... Lia?"

"Her grandfather. The portrait by the dead painter, Laelia said it was of her late grandfather."

"You're saying – he was killed?" A dangerous glint settled into Giacinto's eyes. "She liked him."

The last sentence sent chills down Alessandro's spine. HaShem have mercy on whoever was responsible – because Giacinto wouldn't.

With a start Alessandro realized this was exactly what the Reaper wanted – all the assassins sent after them, Giacinto had always killed to save them. He had a reason. He wouldn't be murderer, he would be saviour. Eventually, those reasons would spiral, excuses taking their place, distorted reality setting in. Then, the Reaper would have his monster.

Alessandro pushed that thought away. "He was never sick."

"You do not die if the Lady Contarini wants you alive. Laelia's mother taught her everything. He would have reached a hundred years with her behind him."

Alessandro had only heard rumours about Laelia's mother. The Lady Medici had mentioned her. How did the two women know each other? How impossibly wide was this web they seemed all entangled in? "Was she the former doge's daughter?"

"The Contarinis are Lia's father's line. I believe she's a Romanian noble, shipped off to Venice for marriage."

Alessandro nodded slowly. "So the Doge wouldn't have just died of heart failure. She would've noticed if he were weak --"

"Murder most foul," Giacinto sighed dramatically.

"You sound excited about that."

"I would never."

"Hm."

Alessandro should feel relieved. They were finally solving this. And yet ... He didn't want to ask, didn't want to shatter their glass hearted peace, but ... he had to know.

He could feel Giacinto's eyes on him, could sense the exact moment they went from curious to suspicious, the sharp glance digging into him like a dagger.

Alessandro forced his face into its empty mask, unwilling to betray the emotions churning inside his chest. "The Reaper. Luca. He is obsessed with you."

"Still incapable of asking questions, I see," Giacinto sighed, shifting. "I suppose he is. My fault, really."

"It's not," Alessandro snapped.

Where had that come from?

Giacinto just chuckled. "How much do you know about ... the Reaper?" He hesitated at the end, as if truly tasting the word for the first time. As if the monster was really just Luca to him.

"As for infamy, he comes only after Cain himself." Alessandro's lips twitched in disgust. "He kills everyone, kings and peasants, men on their deathbed and babies who just drew their first breath. That's why he's called the Reaper. Only death is blind."

This was the truth he had read in staling blood and glassy eyes, heard in the buzz of flies. Not justice, not love. Only death.

And the Reaper had rules. If he accepted a mission, nothing on earth could stop him. He wouldn't stop to save his own life. Once he was unleashed, there was nothing that might save his victim. He couldn't be swayed, bought, turned against his master. He only ever accepted one mission at a time, devoting himself to it with deadly reverence.

And ... there was an eerie code of honor. It reeked of madness, of twisted vision. He didn't kill 'innocents'. Even guards – if they didn't stop him, he wouldn't spare them a second glance. He sneered at rape. His deaths were swift. Usually. The murals he had built with corpses weren't disgusting to him – that was art.

There was a cool, clean preciseness about him that deeply unsettled Alessandro. "He's insane."

"No." Giacinto laughed quietly. "He's beyond insane."

"What waits beyond insanity?"

"Gods."

This chapter gave me a really hard time. I still don't feel too happy about it — but I hope you like it! It's more dialogue and less action than I'd like, but it needed all those reveals and tying tiny details together! Did your guesses turn out right?

There'll be a kiss next chapter — but I won't tell you what it is ;)
Also, more murder, mystery and madness ahead!

Thank you for reading, stay lovely!

Avis.