I am so sorry for the delay of this chapter — it was difficult to write, since it's so close to the finish line and I don't want to miss anything important. Some of you may know I struggle with PTSD ( a reason why I like to represent it in my writing, too, with both Giacinto and Alessandro) and the past months haven't been easy. I needed to step away for a bit.

I cannot thank you enough for your patience and your support. So many of you commented and cheered for this story, it would not be here without you. So thank you, for being the best!

Summary for the special chapter — a while ago, I published a special chapter featuring Antonio and Daniele making a deal, an order of stars and a lot of hints and secrets. Since it was a special chapter and not everyone might have read it and it was quite a while back, I will leave a very short summary of the most important details of this chapter in a comment here. Or, if you want to go and 'Sherlock' it on your own — it was chapter 53, Way Down We Go.

This is the second to last chapter! Without further ado ...

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts.

The scale threatened to tilt with every smile.

Never had their table been long enough, the room big enough, Laelia sweet enough. With her parents presiding at each end, as far from each other as possible and yet never far enough, Laelia was always trapped in the no-man's-land.

When she had jumped out of the gondola, waving Alessandro good-bye, wild hope had exploded in her chest. They were home. They had done it. They had survived it all, solved it all, beaten every odd.

Excitement had bubbled up in her chest with every step closer to home. But then, just a heartbeat away, she had realized she could not tell anyone. She had worn a tattered, threadbare dress, gloves stained with blood, hair a bird's nest, her parents still believed she had been with her cousin, reading love-poems and giggling over little pastries. Head hung low, she had shuffled back into the shadows, sneaking in through the servant's back entrance. Her heart had sunk when she realized instead of sneaking out with Lorenzo for a secret midnight stroll, she was sneaking in, alone.

But then, this morning! Her old nanny had yanked her from sweet dreams and sweeter pillows – finally, no sticks and stones poking her back every way she turned – whispering about her parents awaiting her for breakfast. Her parents never had breakfast together. Laelia had leapt out of bed and into her dress like a dolphin through the waves, the poor old women must have thought her a faery's changeling.

It was no secret the Lord and Lady Contarini avoided each other like the plague – well, perhaps not the plague, her mother's heart beat for poison and pestilence. If her husband were the plague, she might actually like him.

So breakfast, together? That had to be more rare than Alessandro letting a smile slip through! Even if they didn't know their little princess had fought a creepy, overly dramatic, old assassin, slept in the ditches at side of dirt roads and worn the same dress for the better part of a week like some hopeless spinster, they had missed her.

But the second Laelia had whirled into the room, the tension had nearly sliced her in half.

Her mother had a servant move Laelia's seating arrangement to her right hand, the satisfied smile at her husband's frown cutting through the silence.

Her father had just shaken his head and complimented Laelia's dress. She had spun around for him, trying to show off the way the light bounced off the silver pearls reaching up the skirt like wild-flowers bowing in the wind. Her mother's sharp voice had cut through the salon not a second later. "Yes, what a pretty dress, isn't it? What limited vocabulary you have. To you every dress is pretty, just like every ring is pretty and every necklace –"

"Laelia is pretty in every dress."

"Vases are pretty. A tapestry is pretty. These pretty flowers are white oleander, a wonderful little thing that will make your heartbeat dance to a fast, fast tune. She is not pretty, she is so beautiful she will make your heart skip a beat," Laelia's mother hissed. Then she smiled. "Quite literally."

"Mama," Laelia started, but was cut off again.

"Of course, you know your merchants better than your own daughter," her mother challenged. Laelia hid her fists in the heavy folds of her skirts.

It was always like this. Always. Laelia remembered, when she had been seven and Lorenzo had helped her make a flower crown in the park, she had seen her father and run to show him. Her mother had appeared and scolded her for showing him. Why him, Laelia, he is never here, show me, I'll tell you which of these will kill a man the fastest.

Before her father could shoot back – he was a patient man, but Laelia's mother was relentless in her hatred – Laelia grabbed her plates and marched back to the middle of the table, setting them down with an angry clang. She sent a quick prayer to whichever entity had let her stomp around without tripping over her dress and faceplant into the marble floor. (Or to Antonio scene, say no to walk with him and walk away) Silence. Still, she could feel her cheeks heat up under her parent's silent stares.

Swallowing her nervousness, she glared at both of them. Now just don't stutter. "I would like to enjoy my meal. If you will not let me, I will take it in my salon, alone."

Take that. Giacinto would be proud of her.

Her mother looked like she was about to argue, but her father nodded, waving a lazy hand for the servants to move the whole of Laelia's dining arrangement to her no-man's-land. It was easy to ignore the silence when servants bustled around her, carrying trays of fruit and cake and fruit-cake – oh dear, would anyone notice if she hid the entire thing under her skirts? After a week on the road, the urge to hoard dessert was strong. Why else would anyone need skirts this big, if not to hide food in there?

A servant floated past her, balancing an etagere with a dozen tiny pastries and the scent of warm dough and nougat wafting into her nose made her forget her parents were silently plotting murder. Well, her father was just shuffling through a mountain of paper, not even looking up to wave for a servant to hand him ink and quill on a silver tray. For being Venice's richest man, he sure did look a lot like a monk studying the holy scripts.

The rustle of parchment reminded her of Antonio. Laelia waited for the familiar stab in her chest when she thought of him. It never came.

But her mother resided at her end of the table like a goddess of death, watching poor souls shuffle before her. She did not eat. Laelia's father always muttered the woman lived off of spite alone.

Now that Laelia knew how close her mother and the Lady Medici really were, it was suddenly hard to miss all the similarities. Especially in dramatics. A dress as grey as cold smoke rising over silent battlegrounds when all was lost. The heavy sapphire rings Laelia had liked to play with as a child, fascinated by the mechanisms moving the jewel aside with a twist to reveal tiny chambers beneath. Now she knew they were filled with poisons deadlier than the black death. Her hair, as black as the night between flashes of lightning, braided into a heavy crown. Silver threads were woven through the braids, gleaming in the morning air. Like spider-webs.

Her mother always said Laelia looked like her. Laelia doubted that. Her mother was a terrifying beauty, sharp and pale where Laelia was soft and rosy-cheeked.

The Black Widow and the King Cobra. Bianca had whispered Laelia's mother had never wanted to marry, that she was given to her father, a Venetian, far away from her home, because her country's men had kept disappearing around her.

Would she tell Laelia, if she asked?

"Does the coffee taste funny?" Laelia's father looked up with a frown.

She wasn't sure if this was an awkward attempt at conversation or if it really tasted bad. Well, worse than usual. Laelia hated coffee. It was bitter and smelled so much and ew. And, according to Zo, it gave her a bad case of the zoomies, as he liked to call her excited pacing when she told him stories.

Lorenzo...

"It's the cyanide." Laelia's mother sipped her tea.

Her father grew just a bit paler.

Her mother smiled her viciously angelic smile. "Enjoy the breakfast. Or life. You never know these days."

Clapping her hands for her maids to spring to attention, she rose, smiled at Laelia – a real smile, not a fanged promise – and whisked out of the salon.

Her heart sank. It seemed not even their love for Laelia was enough to keep them around her.

Staring down into her cup of tea, she watched the creases between her brows deepen. Maybe she shouldn't have left. Her little brother, her mother hated him. He was his father's heir, he was a man, he was a child she had been forced to have. But she hadn't wanted to have Laelia either. Shouldn't she love him more? He meant they had an heir, that she no longer needed to birth her husband any children.

Her father's attempts to make up for his wife's scorn only made her mother spoil Laelia more, in front of her brother. Even their children had turned into their battleground. Laelia shook her head, conjuring a smile onto her lips. "Does it smell like almonds?"

Her father looked up from his papers.

"The coffee."

He shook his head.

"Then it's not cyanide. And I doubt she would really kill you." Laelia forced a cheerful tone. "At least not at breakfast when everyone would see it!"

She grew uneasy when he frowned, but then he suddenly barked a laugh. "That is a fair point."

Then he surprised her more, setting his papers aside to watch her with warm curiosity. Laelia fidgeted in her seat – when was the last time he had really looked at her? What if he didn't like what she had turned out to be, what if she looked too much like her mother –

"Alessandro Steno is your... friend, I suppose? The Greek too, he took you to a ball once." He waved his hand dismissively at her flinch. "I am not your mother, I have no desire to keep you away from everyone just because your engagement is already secured."

Laelia squirmed. Where was he going with this? Did he know? Was he going to send her away again, to avoid scandals, to stop her from testifying for their innocence –

"Your mother won't let you go. But I reckon if I annoy her a little, she won't notice in time."

Her jaw dropped. She quickly slapped her hand over her mouth, but her cheeks turned red anyways. Her father just smiled, just a little crooked, as if he wasn't used to it.

How did he know?

"They were both sentenced to death in absentia."

"But that's not fair!" Laelia jumped up. "That's not – they didn't get a chance to explain, I was with thzem, it couldn't have been them, they were framed, someone –"

"You'll understand I cannot let you be their witness."

Laelia crossed her arms. "I don't understand. I don't want to understand. And if you try to explain I'll cover my ears!"

Her father sighed, dragging a hand through his dark hair. "The Greek is a commoner. Inspector is a half noble, at best. A jew, in eyes less kind. You stand far above them both. Who else was with you? A chaperone, a servant, anyone? Or were you alone, with two men, roaming the streets like a stray?"

Laelia opened her mouth, angry heat rising in her heart. What did that matter, a life was a life. She would not let them die.

"You cannot stand before a jury and swear you were alone with two men, one who no one seems to know and one with a..." his lips curled," ... less than virtuous past. I know that dead painter was your friend, I know it was the middle of the day – but two eager mouths later middle of the day will change into middle of the night and mourning your little painter friend will turn into seeking comfort from the wrong hands."

Laelia fished for the right words. She didn't find them. He was right. But it didn't feel right. They were her friends.

God forbid if they ever found out she hadn't been on a holiday in the countryside after all.

She gave up, resorting to pouting. That always worked. "You said you'd help me sneak out and help them!"

"Indirectly. Inspector Steno's father sits in the council of ten, so does the Greek's General. They will insist on a trial."

The council of ten – the den of lions that Venice's oldest, richest families sent their sons to. They elected the Doge, they passed laws, they were judge, jury and executioner. Antonio had taken his father's seat.

"I will speak on their behalf –"

Laelia leapt up and tackled him in a hug. "Thank you! Yes! Thank you, you are the best papa in the whole wide world –"

He laughed, wrapping her in a hug. When had he hugged her last? Laelia buried herself in his arms.

But then he sobered up, pulling away. "I will plead their case, if you promise not to get caught up in this."

"... define this."

He frowned, like he was about to scold her, but his eyes sparkled with a life long lost. "You've changed."

Laelia tensed. Did he suspect? She had been so careful. Lorenzo had faked her great-cousin's handwriting perfectly.

"The world is cruel, and while it may be our fault for keeping you from it, you underestimate its ugliness. Stay away from these men. You'll marry Antonio soon. Don't tempt fate, Laelia."

"Maybe fate shouldn't be so sensitive and always feel challenged."

"Laelia," her father warned, "I will speak for them. You said they were with you in the garden, I will say they were with me. But promise me you will let it go, whatever you think this is, let it go."

It ... It was a good deal. Laelia's father, the last Doge's son, a member of the council himself, his word carried weight. Alessandro's father sat in the council, too. And Giacinto's General, Laelia didn't know what his deal was, but she knew without doubt he would protect the Greek.

... they might stand a chance.

But she didn't want to let it go. She couldn't let it go. It wasn't fair. The Reaper did not deserve an easy victory, she wouldn't give him that.

He had taken her Lorenzo. For the first time in her life, Laelia felt the cold hatred she saw in her mother's eyes every day.

... she couldn't risk Alessandro and Giacinto's life.

Her shoulders slumped. "Fine. I promise I won't give anyone ideas for gossip."

Hah, she hadn't said she would stop. Smart.

Her father sighed as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. "Laelia..."

Laelia stuck out her hand before he could continue, looking as serious as she could. ... it felt like a bad grimace.

"Fine," her father shook her hand with a laugh, "You have my word."

---

Laelia felt like a criminal. Alessandro would surely tell her that was a sure sign she was doing something bad, but she found she quite liked the feeling. Peaking out from behind a corner, she managed to sneak a glance up and down the corridor.

The tell-tale swoosh-swoosh-y sound of her dress' big skirts prevented her from just making a run for the staircase – a servant was dusting off a vase just a few feet from her. The same damned vase, for what felt like an hour now. At least now Laelia understood Giacinto's urge to haul vases against walls at every inconvenience.

Huffing, Laelia poked her head around the corner again. Had skirts perhaps been designed to keep women from running away from dumb men?

She frowned. Anatomically, wouldn't a skirt make more sense for men and their ... manly parts?

... she was onto something here.

No, no, she couldn't get sidetracked now. Alessandro and Giacinto needed her. A nervous jitter settled in her chest with every passing minute. They could be arrested at any moment.

Because Giacinto was definitely back – last night, moments before she had nose-dived into her pillows, something had tapped her window. Again, Alessandro would probably scold her for just opening the window and peering out into the darkness – what if they're trying to lure you out? If you asked Laelia, Alessandro was just paranoid. No one had been there, just the canal below her balcony laying smooth and still, like a dark mirror to a world of dreams.

But just when she had turned away, she had spotted the little flower on the balcony's railing, petals waving in the breeze. A single hyacinth.

Purple, like the one she had picked for Giacinto to apologize after calling him evil.

Laelia's throat tightened. How long ago that seemed now, time stretching to accommodate the horror and heartbreak.

Giacinto was back, she knew it in her heart, he was apologizing and she would cling to the belief Alessandro's near assassination had been a mistake. The thought tasted sour, but she swallowed her doubt.

Finally, Laelia breathed a sigh of relief, the servant retreated down the corridor. She gathered her skirts and dashed around the corner.

Her mother, this morning, had warned her in no uncertain terms. No man is worth ruining your life for.

Laelia had stuck out her chin, summoning a confidence she did not have. "If life has nothing worth its ruin, life is worth nothing."

As if Laelia had force-fed her mother a lemon, her lips had pressed into a thin line, but she had not argued. Maybe she truly did not understand. Bianca had said Laelia's mother did not love, not like other people, she didn't just not love her husband, she loved no man.

But did she not love Laelia? Or the Lady Medici, her best friend? Would she not ruin the world for them?

Yes, Laelia realized. Her mother truly did not understand. Laelia would ruin her own live to help those she loved. Her mother would ruin someone else's life. The realization sent chills down her spine.

She could practically feel her ancestors' disapproving glares boring into her back as she rushed past their portraits – well, it wasn't like they could tell her what they saw.

She had promised him she wouldn't risk it...

... she would just have to find a way around that promise. Wasn't that what people did all the time?

Still, guilt gnawed at her. Her mother might be right, her father was away most of the time and if he was home ... he wasn't really home, mind always between the pages of another report, another contract, another letter. But he hadn't always been like this.

Since her grandfather – the Doge before Lorenzo's uncle – had died almost a year ago... her father was the head of the family now. He was the first-born son of the first-born son of a family older than Venice itself. Of course he was busy. That didn't mean he didn't love them.

... right?

Wait.

Almost a year ago.

Laelia skidded to a halt halfway down the stairs. When had the artists started dying? No, less than a year ago. Silly her. She started walking again only to stop dead in her tracks again.

That that was the artists in Venice. Alessandro had said the order's other agents had been killed on missions. Away from Venice.

Seven agents. Four dead in Venice – the mosaic man, her friend the painter, Guido poisoned after trying to warn them, and Marco who had orchestrated his own death as their last hint.

That left three. Laelia chewed her lip... what had Alessandro said? One had died in Constantinople. One had 'went overboard in a storm', off the Croatian coast. And the first, their leader, the only one who knew everything, had been killed weeks before that.

The Reaper worked alone, he had to travel between all of them. To reach Constantinople by boat would take several days. Then weeks to cross half the Ottoman empire to Croatia. Double the time to return to Venice. And he would have had to find them, too, Laelia didn't suppose secret orders left instructions on their whereabouts. Say, seven months.

Add a month to find and kill their leader.

Eight months. At the very least.

Almost a month for the four murders in Venice... Nine months.

And what if – Laelia's heart jumped into her throat. What if it hadn't started with the seventh?

What if it had started a year ago? A year ago, when her grandfather – the Doge – had died after a long illness?

And who had been elected as her grandfather's successor? Michele Morosini. Lorenzo's uncle. The brother of his father, their monster.

Laelia shook her head, pausing at the foot of the stairs to listen for any footsteps in the marble hall. Nothing. That made no sense. The conspirators wanted to dispose of the Doge. Why would he kill his own brother?

Laelia hated him for all he had done to Lorenzo – if she could curse one person to always stub their little toe on the leg of a table, it would be him, even before the Reaper – but she knew him well enough to see he wasn't that hungry for power.

If anything, he despised it. He had even let Antonio take his seat in the council the moment he had been old enough. He blamed power for the loss of his first wife, Antonio's mother. He had loved her.

Still, a nervous itch settled in her stomach.

No, there were bigger problems now. If these two monsters wanted to assassinate each other, sure, Laelia wouldn't stop them. She shook the tension off, gathering her skirts and marching on. She could see the huge brass wings of the entrance. Just a little more ...

She'd almost made it, was already reaching to push the door open, when someone cleared their throat behind her.

Laelia spun around. And froze.

Stepping out from behind a column was a man, as familiar as her mirror image. Laelia wanted to scream. It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair, why now, after all this time?

"Laelia," Antonio said. His fingers tightened on the hat he was holding.

She almost wanted to smile – he had kept to his habit of wearing hats with pheasant feathers. One of their childhood maids had told them a fairy tale, to beware of the stranger with a pheasant feathered hat, for it was the devil in disguise. Lorenzo had joke that should be Antonio, for all the secrets he liked to collect. Even as children, Antonio had somehow always known everything.

But when her eyes drifted, he was a different man. His jaw was stronger, his eyes colder. He'd always tried to blend in – if she shaved, he could pass as a southern Italian. Now he wore a strong beard, the hooked nose and bronze skin suddenly more prominent. No one would believe he had even a drop of Italian blood.

"Why are you here?" Laelia was surprised to hear her voice come out stronger than she felt. He hadn't shown his face in years. And at first, she had tried to find reasons, one after another, had told herself he just didn't have the time to visit her.

But he did, he had time for everything else.

"Can I not visit my own fiancée?"

His fiancé. As if. His family's fiancée, at best.

"Evidently you can," Laelia crossed her arms. "Just as your fiancée can refuse that visit."

She knew it was childish to feel satisfied at the surprise flickering over his face, but Laelia didn't care. He hadn't expected her to talk back. Too bad, she had gotten good at it. After her fights with Giacinto and Alessandro's lectures, Antonio wasn't particularly impressive.

"I wanted to ask you to take a stroll with me."

Any other day, Laelia would have believed him, foolish and excited.

Now she laughed in his face. "Really? On the one day my friends happen to need a witness to prove their innocence?"

"How was I supposed to ask earlier? You weren't in the city," Antonio said, "Not with your great-cousin either, if I may add."

Laelia tensed, peering past him into the entrance hall, but no one was there. So he had known where they were. Suspicion rose again. For the longest time, Antonio had been their main suspect. He had sent her a gift wrapped cobra, after all.

Or someone had, in his name. And he had learned writing by copying his father's letters. It wasn't him, it was his father.

Right?

"I was here for the five years before that." He could keep his lovely lies. She was going to find her boys. "Now if you'll excuse me."

But Antonio had always been the more stubborn brother – at least if he cared enough about something, and those things were few in number and usually leather-bound and sorted alphabetically – when she turned back to open the gate, she heard the clicking of his boots right behind her.

She turned back with a huff. "Move."

"Walk with me."

"I'll walk with you to the nearest canal and push you in."

He had the audacity to laugh, the sound awkward, unpracticed. He held out his hand. "Walk with me."

Despite her best efforts, Laelia snuck a glance down – her heart clenched, just a little, when she noticed his empty ring-finger. Of course, what had she expected.

Why would she still care? Years, he had ignored her for years, went on with his life as if she had never existed. All of this was stupid and annoying and childish and Laelia hated it. Let him rot with his books and secrets –

Secrets.

Something must have shown on her face, because in an instant, Antonio's face shifted. As if a mask fell and revealed the hungry devil beneath. His eyes glinted, he lowered the offered hand.

Her mind raced. Antonio knew everything. He had to know someone, something, that would prove Alessandro and Giacinto's innocence. Even if not, even if he didn't care to collect such useless information, he knew enough secrets to bribe and threaten the court.

But... her heart fell, the sudden spark of hope cooling to ash. He would not share those secrets. He didn't care, not about them, not about her, not about justice.

The only interest he had in them was their story. He would watch it unfold and add it to his collection.

No matter. She would do anything for them. Exhaling slowly, she uncurled her aching fists, and matched his slow smile. "I have a deal."

His eyes narrowed.

Now she just had to make this sound better than it really was. Perhaps he was the devil now, but she had grown up by his side. She could do this. "Why did you stop talking to me?"

His face turned blank again. "I was offered a deal, not a hug-it-out party."

"I'd run away if you tried." Not true, but he wasn't Alessandro and wouldn't be able to find the lie.

She doubted she could really fool him, but maybe ... he was here, wasn't he? He didn't want her to go this court hearing. Whether it was because he did not want to marry a disgraced – if she had to be the one to provide an alibi, she would, her reputation be damned – or because he did care at least for their memories, he was here.

"Years, Antonio, I waited for years. Your brother –" Her throat tightened up again. Lorenzo had always been there.

His face softened. Did he know what had happened?

And how long until one of his spies would tell him it had been Laelia's fault? If there was only one thing that Antonio truly loved – that wasn't a leathery manuscript – it was his brother.

Before he could reply, she hardened her expression. She would find the men who took her Lorenzo and she would make them pay. But to do that, she had to save Alessandro and Giacinto first. "You owe me an explanation."

Now he understood, she could see the curious glint in his eyes harden. Antonio hated being indebted. Even as a child, for every story she told him, he wanted to tell her one in return.

And now he owed her a story.

Better. A secret.

Laelia knew she had him when he argued. "And why would I owe you anything?"

"We are bound for life. I am to be your wife, your equal, even if just in name." But Antonio did not care about such trivial matters. She raised her head, defying him, and her heart. "I was your friend. You can claim to know me less than a stranger know, but we were friends. And friends owe each other the truth."

His mouth twisted into a thoughtful frown – he had full lips, she realized. He was no longer the scrawny boy telling her fairy tales. Heat flushed her cheeks. Silly Lia. So what if he had a pretty mouth, what came out of it was far from pretty.

If he noticed her dilemma, he didn't show it. "Very well," he nodded slowly, "then what do you want?"

His smile was too charming to be real. The devil in disguise, offering more than she could dream of.

She could ask for anything. While he may not care for king and country, he certainly held the secrets of both. He could make her powerful. He could give her revenge, the names of the men that had taken her Lorenzo away.

Shaking off the confusion, she drew herself up to her full height – Antonio wasn't very tall, she was a little tall, and while she might not be able to stare down her nose at him, she could glare into his eyes. He would not trick her.

"You can have your peace from me. I will not ask where you went, why you never talked to me, why you never even said good-bye." She swallowed the thickness in her throat. "But you have to save them. You can."

To her surprise, he offered her his hand. Not to take hers for a stroll, but to shake. A little satisfaction glowed in her chest. Respect. She had had everything, but she had never had that.

Admiration, certainly, from the lesser nobles that whispered about her dresses, to the suitors her mother chased away with thinly veiled threats to annihilate entire bloodlines. But no one respected a little girl in a dress.

She took his hand.

"You have a deal." There was a pleased hint in his deep voice. "A secret for a secret."

---

Alessandro nearly punched a hole into the wall when his mother appeared behind him in the mirror. She was the last person he wanted to see now. Even when she wasn't saying anything, her stern perfection filled the room until he thought he couldn't breathe.

His hands curled into fists on the drawer and he lowered his head for a moment so he could smooth his features before he turned to face her.

The rage in his chest shivered with anticipation. He ignored it. "Yes, mother?" he asked, smooth and practiced.

Out, he wanted out. Not to see him like this. The yellowing bruises on his face clashing with the dark circles under his eyes, emotions barely held in check, the ghosts of the night still lingering around him.

That wasn't her good son, that was a failure.

The servants had been too much already, grinding his restraint down, bustling around him with combs and silks, tugging and pulling and complimenting him into attire fit for a king, until he had snapped and thrown them all out. The waistcoat's red silk was embroidered so tightly with gold thread it gleamed like a piece of armour. Even his boots were lined with gold. Another day, he would have admired the outfit. Now, with a glance at the dress jacket still hanging over the chair in the corner, dread sunk heavy in his stomach.

Red like blood, like his old uniform – his father's choice, no doubt – to remind the court of who they accused of treason. He was the easter lamb, decorated to be admired before the slaughter.

As always, his mother saw all. "At least you are shaved," she said, instead of commenting on the rest of his mess.

"Why are you here?" he asked, as if he didn't know. Marinos was here.

Any time now she would scold him, for falling back into the angry outbursts of his youth.

She wasn't Alessandro, but she still read too much in the puddles around his wash basin and the crumpled papers strewn over the heavy desk.

He hadn't exactly had a good night.

Or a night at all.

"Who do you think you are fooling?" Her cool glance always made him feel like a child.

"Let's not leave them waiting," Alessandro said, as if he hadn't just pretended he didn't know why she was here. "I'll be home for dinner, if they don't hang me first."

He bent to kiss her cheek and then tuned out her protest as he marched out the door. But as his body found its way down the hallways on its own, his thoughts were again drawn to the man waiting for him downstairs. Half the night, doubts and half formed thoughts had circled him like vultures a dying man.

Because Giacinto had come back. He could have let Alessandro die. No one would have known. But he hadn't. He had put his own life between the Reaper and Alessandro.

Alessandro wanted it to be a trick. Giacinto had staged all of it, to gain Alessandro's trust. If he hadn't nearly died, if Alessandro hadn't been screaming for Laelia in the dead of night because there was no pulse, no breath, nothing, if Giacinto had just come back unharmed ...

And then he had confessed, ruining everything between them. Why would he do that if he wanted Alessandro to trust him?

Or was he betting on Alessandro to think that and – stop it.

He should be worried about facing the gallows for high-treason. Instead he was still thinking about Giacinto, like some ridiculous child picking petals of pretty flowers to play he-loves-me-not. Except this flower was rotten, poison seeping through his fingers with every touch. Alessandro wanted to rip his hair out.

That would conjure his mother's wrath – she had had a servant fetch a barber in the middle of the night to fix Alessandro's hair the instant she had stopped questioning him. You look like a rabid horse, Alessandro.

Giacinto, Giacinto... Alessandro had the itching feeling the man was not the random stranger he had happened to accuse of murder, but right in the middle of this whole conspiracy.

The more he thought about the Greek, the more his own memories slowly morphed into lies, his mind turning against itself, his thoughts slipping through his fingers before he could put them in order.

Had anything been real? That was the wrong question. Giacinto's laugh, the weight of his body against Alessandro when he had, just for a moment, leant against him at Piero's grave, the warmth of his tears slipping over Alessandro's fingers as he cradled Giacinto's face.

Only a monster could tell lies with their heart.

What had been real? But that was impossible to answer – Giacinto lied like the devil. His stories about the regent, about his best friend, his scar, his jokes, his stupidly delighted goddamned laugh when he managed to startle Alessandro by jumping from behind a corner – all a lie, half a truth, Alessandro did not know. He was going to go insane.

The Greek who seemed so carefree, so simple, painted his emotions into elaborate masks. And Alessandro needed emotions to tell truth from lie. If that weren't bad enough – now, Alessandro's own emotions blinded him. Whether it was rage, or confusion, or the fragile, unsure hurt that sept out of the shadows when the night was at its coldest – they overlayed the emotions he read from others, turning into unintelligible mush.

That was how Daniele had managed to fool him.

That was how Giacinto had sold his life.

Last night, when the stars started dying, he had decided. He could not bear to be around the man. Regardless of the result of their trail, of the success of their mission, Giacinto Marinos had died that night from the Reaper's poison. If Alessandro stayed around him any longer, he would loose himself.

Voices drifted up the stairs. His fingers ached, his grip on the banister tightening the louder they got until he felt a heartbeat away from bursting his own knuckles. Why was he scared?

Giacinto was the traitor. Giacinto should be nervous.

He had no right to make Alessandro feel like this. Anger sparked through him. He was no coward.

Heads turned as his steps echoed over the cold marble. For a moment, his world turned green like poison, Giacinto's eyes finding his first. Then Alessandro's father laughed, spreading his arms to welcome him into the group. Giacinto looked away.

Turned away, to the General, bending close to murmur something too low for Alessandro to understand.

Small people need to bond together. The sudden pettiness shocked him.

There was time to analyse his newfound rudeness – the General Zeno's head turned slowly, hard eyes giving Alessandro an obvious once-over. Alessandro kept his face blank.

Even decked in a parade uniform, a blue as deep as the bottom of the ocean, the General looked menacing. Like a storm trapped in a man, the white scars flickering over his hands like lightning raging beneath his skin. And his eyes, never leaving Alessandro's, the pale brown of faraway fire behind a wall of smoke and cries. His shoulders were broad (their strength did not suit his short stature, the petty voice noted), the golden epaulets twisted into the heads of roaring lions.

Why Giacinto had to live with this man, Alessandro did not understand – perhaps that was what gave the Greek such hard nights, who wanted that face to be the last thing they saw before bed?

Many nobles sent their sons to learn and live with family friends, but Giacinto was neither a child, nor was the Captain General of Venice's armada bosom friends with the Cretan Kings.

And he most certainly had no reason to gift Giacinto, the enemy, his villa in Florence.

But Alessandro, no matter how much he wanted to damn the Greek to hell, could not see a world where Giacinto would sell out his family to the enemy's general.

What game was he playing?

"A word, Steno." Giacinto suddenly stepped away from Carlo's side. Again, Alessandro was reminded of a dancer as the Greek glided towards him, settling a hand on his arm as if to lead him away. The warmth of his palm seeps through Alessandro's sleeves. Turning to face the men, Giacinto gave Carlo a short nod. "Excuse us."

The General's lips pressed into a tight frown. "It is of utmost importance to reach the Doge before Signore Morosini's men reach us. I suggest we move now – "

Giacinto's hand tightened imperceptibly on Alessandro's arm. "And I am ignoring your suggestion, Carlo." He spoke like a prince, voice hard, leaving no room for arguments.

Alessandro's father snickered, shrugging innocently when both Alessandro and the General turn to glare at him. "If I had known I could speak to you like that, General, all these debates at the council would have been so much more bearable."

"Dare me, Michele. The sharks are always hungry."

"So am I, Carlo, so am I." With his grin, it is impossible to tell whether his father was joking or threatening the man. The tension between the two rose faster than high tide.

And here Alessandro had thought him and Giacinto were bad.

Giacinto muttered something under his breath, his Greek too fast for Alessandro to understand, but it did not sound very friendly. Before the man could give in to his urge to stab someone, Alessandro switched their position, grabbing Giacinto's arm instead and marching them off.

When they were out of earshot, ascending the stairs to the west wing, Alessandro dropped his hand. "What is it?" He didn't look at the Greek, keeping his eyes on the golden vines of the wallpaper.

In the silence before the Greek answered, Alessandro's steps were the only sound on the parquet, Giacinto forever the ghost at his side.

"Just wanted to rehearse our little story," Giacinto said cheerfully, "It would be a shame to hang because you forgot your part."

Alessandro stopped abruptly. The anger sparking at his fingertips yearned to wrap around Giacinto's neck and shake him.

"I know my story," he gritted. "May I remind you I was the one to insist on it while you tried to build a pyramid with your grapes?"

Alessandro had pitied every poor teacher the Greek had ever had as it quickly became apparent Giacinto was not capable of both sitting still and repeating a story.

Infuriatingly, Giacinto just grinned. But his eyes flickered to the side, just a second.

And then he winked.

Alessandro almost shouted in frustration, but then he caught movement from the corner of his eye. A servant, kneeling to polish the gold inlays in the parquet. His head was bent, but tilted just enough towards them to know he was listening.

Giacinto looked very pleased with himself. Obnoxious princeling. If he was expecting Alessandro to praise him, he was dead wrong. Alessandro marched off again, leaving the Greek to jog after him to keep up.

So what if the man had some peculiar talents. If anything, it made him more suspicious.

Giacinto twisted past him, opening the door to Alessandro's office. Again, that self-satisfied smirk that drove Alessandro up the wall. "After you," the Greek bows slightly. Alessandro gave him a cold look, but stepped past him.

"Are you impressed yet?" Giacinto shut the door, but leant back against it as if he feared Alessandro might try to make a run for it.

"You were in my bed chambers last night. There's two doors. When you knocked on the window, I checked one, so you knew it lead to the hallway. The other had to be the office. On our way here you kept looking left. You counted the doors and stopped one before my bedroom." Alessandro sat on the edge of the heavy desk, crossing his arms. "It's not a hard guess."

"Do you ever get bored of how boring you are?"

"No."

"Shame."

To hell with him if he would give Giacinto the satisfaction to ask why he had wanted to talk. Instead, he finally raised his eyes to observe the Greek. In the hall he had not dared, fearing he'd either grab the Greek's collar and slam him into the next wall hard enough to break it or take off running. Avoiding him had almost been harder, somehow the man would always shift into his periphery.

Giacinto just looked back, raising a lazy eyebrow. He looked put together, for once, but not like Giacinto at all. His hair was slicked back again, every curl forced straight and neat. Somehow, it changed his entire face. The wild curls had softened his features, now he looked older, colder, the sharp nose and thin, curved lips giving him a calculating look. As if he was pondering if he should sink his teeth into Alessandro's heart.

That was no longer his Giacinto, that was Hyakinthos of Crete.

He'd changed his dressing, too. Alessandro couldn't remember a time Giacinto had willingly worn more than just his wide shirts and high collared vest. Now he was all the fashionable banker, a jacket of black velvet tight around his chest, silver buttons polished like stars plucked from the midnight sky. Giacinto fiddled with the frilled sleeves, the white lace spilling out under the jacket's wrists. Alessandro almost laughed at the Greek's struggle – the vicious glare in Giacinto's eyes betrayed how badly he wanted to cut them off.

Gone were the knives strapped to his thighs, only his twin daggers still fastened to his belt, but instead of making him look less dangerous, there was something almost terrifying about his sudden civil appearance. A wolf, in sheep's clothing, waiting for you to forget it still had its teeth.

But perhaps the best of all was the frilly cravat pinned to his throat. Alessandro's eyes kept returning to its insulting shade of purple, until he finally gave in. "Take that off."

"Huh?" Giacinto's eyebrows drew together at the urgency in Alessandro's voice. He looked down at himself, then shrugged.

His hands lifted to the silver buttons of his jacket and Alessandro realized his mistake. "... the cravat."

Giacinto looked up again. "Really?" He buttoned the jacket back up. "See, Steno, this is why you need to work on your three word sentences. They get awfully confusing, no?"

Alessandro pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why would I want you to take off your jacket?"

"Why would you want me to take of my cravat?"

"Because it looks horrible!"

The Greek looked more and more confused. "Purple." Alessandro pushed off the table, crossing the room to take matters into his own hands. "You look like a ... a witch."

Awkward silence settled between them as Alessandro worked on undoing the bow at Giacinto's throat, Giacinto glancing at something behind Alessandro's shoulder, trapped between him and the door at his back. "You were," Giacinto cleared his throat, "complaining about purple."

"You have green eyes. It clashes."

"How horrible."

"Horrible indeed," Alessandro agreed, "This is a cold purple, but your skin is a warm tone. Do you want the council to sentence you to death for cursing their eyes with this atrocity?"

"Oh no, whatever shall I do, you uncovered my masterplan." Giacinto's voice was light, but his jaw tightened. "Carlo's idea, please direct your complaints to him."

For a moment, Alessandro's fingers stilled, the offensive piece of cloth forgotten. "Carlo." The General, again, too involved in Giacinto's life. Something was there, he knew it, even if Giacinto shakes is head right away.

"Still not fucking him, Steno. Please come up with a better theory, it's getting rather repetitive." When he drops his head, his breath is warm against Alessandro's hand. "He ... he said I looked too outlandish."

It clicksed, then. The slicked back hair, hiding his wild curls. The Venetian lace sleeves, the cravat ... Giacinto was trying to appear less foreign.

The Greek sighed. "Not working, is it?"

Alessandro just shook his head. Crete was far closer to the Egyptian and Turkish shore than it was to Italy. But even for a Cretan, Giacinto was too dark. If he had to bet, Alessandro would say there's at least one black grandparent involved.

Too much for the pale Venetian court.

Giacinto's skin was dangerously soft against his fingertips when Alessandro rightened his collar for him.

But the Greek still won't look at him. It gave Alessandro time to look at Giacinto. When he scanned his sharp features once more, he noticed the dark circles under his eyes, as if they had shared the same, sleepless night.

Then the silk slipped through Alessandro's fingers, the bow falling open and he saw the dark bites across Giacinto's throat.

Of course. This time, Alessandro's anger tastes bitter like bile. Of course he had spent the night yanking his hair out over all the little pieces that still wouldn't fit together, over the Reaper, over Giacinto – and the damned princeling would find himself a pair of warm arms.

Finally, he dropped his hands, turned away so the Greek can't see his jaw clench. The strike of his boots against the parquet was harsh, angry steps getting him away from Giacinto. Only when Alessandro yanks open the door to his bedroom, Giacinto spoke up. "Steno?"

Alessandro didn't reply, focusing on the drawer he's rummaging through. When he turned back to the study, he found Giacinto in the doorway, face caught somewhere between confusion and anger. "I couldn't sleep, giant."

Giant.

"You're taking liberties," Alessandro said, voice cold, "My name is Steno, refer to me as such."

Giacinto opened his mouth, closed it again. Alessandro tossed him the cravat he'd pulled from his drawer – white lace, at least it would go with his sleeves. "You tried to have me killed." Giacinto would not get to pretend otherwise.

But that was what Giacinto seemed hellbent on doing, he didn't reply, seeming to concentrate on tying his cravat. Alessandro scoffed. "You said you had something to tell me. Let's not waste our time."

Any second spent together threatened to tear Alessandro apart between Giacinto's familiar grin and all his lies.

Giacinto sighed, tightening the cravat and finally looking at Alessandro. "Marius didn't come."

"How do you know about Marius?" Alessandro asked slowly.

"Obviously I followed you."

Alessandro laughed, empty and cold. "Of course you did."

Giacinto shrugged. Just shrugged. As if he hadn't waltzed all over Alessandro's choices, again. "I told you to leave."

"I can let our only witness die next time if you prefer?"

Of course, Alessandro knew the Greek was right.

But it had been the one thing Alessandro had asked of him. After Giacinto had told him he had ordered Alessandro's death. One wish, and Giacinto had nodded as if he would that. And then he hadn't.

He knew it sounded childish, so he didn't say it. But the betrayal in his chest was cold enough to freeze even his anger.

"I just accompanied him to Chioggia," Giacinto said, "The bishop is a friend of his. He'd be safe for the night and in the morning he would take the ship here. Carlo has a battalion stationed there, I told him to sail with them."

Alessandro stayed silent. Giacinto's lips pulled down into a frown, but continued. "Carlo's men arrived this morning. I wanted to pick him up... but the captain said no priest had ever contacted them."

Gold flashed as Giacinto let a coin dance across his knuckles – he was getting nervous. Alessandro loathed how he knew that. "He said Amand would come, perhaps he waited one more day –"

"Father Fromm would not break his word." Alessandro said and the implication sunk down in the silence between them.

Giacinto's shoulders slumped. "I should have stayed. I should –"

"I have the letters. This should be enough to prove –"

"I don't give a shit about your trail!" Giacinto caught the coin in his fist. "Marius isn't a piece of evidence. He's our friend."

"As if you would know much about friendship."

It was a low blow, and Alessandro saw it hit. Giacinto stepped back. Something in his eyes hardened. Suddenly, he was once again the stranger he had met over the corpse of a shattered angel, below a broken mosaic.

Giacinto turned to leave. "You were wrong to trust me. But if Marius is just a chess-piece to sacrifice in your endgame then perhaps I was wrong to trust you, too."

"Perhaps." Alessandro pushed his anger into the space growing between them. "Let's end this."

Giacinto stilled, then turned back slowly. His eyes are cold as a corpse when he looks at Alessandro. "There is nothing left to end, Signore Steno."

"Then let us be strangers."

Giacinto was silent, eyebrows furrowing slightly. "We will never be strangers, Steno." It was softer than Alessandro expected it to be.

"I cannot be your friend." Even if he wanted to. "Nor can I be your enemy." Even if he should.

Something tore apart in his chest. He wanted to be both and could have neither.

To his surprise, Giacinto offered him his hand to shake. "Strangers, then."

The warmth of Giacinto's fingers against his yanked him back, to Giacinto pulling him back to his feet when they had sparred, grin and curls messy, to their late night chess games, to sprinting through midnight streets, hand in hand, through the stars.

"Strangers," he said.

But strangers didn't know the weight of the other's heart.

---

Alessandro saw red.

Red bleeding through the grey fog swirling over the canal, red strings drawing tight around his heart. The police men stood shoulder to shoulder, proud and tall in their crimson uniforms, the faces that had once turned to Alessandro with awe now were alien in their hardness.

Still, they did not dare look him in the eye.

Giacinto next to him took an instinctive step back, but the villa's gate groaned shut behind them, trapping them between the palace, the canal and the men blocking either side of the sidewalk.

"Oh dear, Carlo, did we forget to pay taxes again?" Michele sauntered past Alessandro, the smile on his lips as sweet as poisoned honey.

"Do not call me Carlo," the General sighed.

"Well, Carlo, you have my utmost respect but I do not care." His father turned back to the police men. They stood silent, like breathing statues. "I do not remember inviting you to our little morning stroll?"

Michele's smile was a lamb among lions, innocently inviting bloodshed. He was no fool, he had seen Alessandro freeze and took over. Alessandro wanted to step in, to explain, but a lonely stride echoed through the misty street and the men parted.

Slow, like a ticking clock, the steps neared.

And then they stopped, like the clock that struck thirteen.

Red like blood and gold like the pride that spilled it. As if all those months ago, Alessandro's mirror image had twisted alive. Daniele, in Alessandro's uniform, stood before them with the same expression of stony emptiness.

Alessandro's mind drained. As if he had been knocked out of his own body, he could see Daniele hold out his hand, one of the men rushing forward to hand him a scroll with a bow, but he could not move. Something was ringing in his ears, higher and higher –

A sharp pain at the small of his back yanked him back to reality. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Giacinto's hand lower – had he pinched Alessandro? The satisfied little curl of Giacinto's lips gave him away.

Daniele cleared his throat, cold eyes settling on them. When he had their attention, he unrolled the scroll. "The fugitive Giacinto Marinos is hereby placed under arrest for conspiring against the Republic and framing the Inspector Alessandro Steno for his crimes. Your charge is high treason, your sentence is death by hanging."

Silence crashed after his words, the whisper of parchment eerily loud in the fog when he rolled the scroll back up.

No. No. His puzzle fell apart.

Alessandro frantically tried to fit the pieces back together, but that was wrong, Alessandro and Giacinto had been arrested together, fled together, why were they lying –

The smallest smile broke Daniele's cold expression.

His eyes locked with Alessandro's as he waved his hand and two men broke formation, marching towards Giacinto.

That snapped Alessandro out of his reeling thoughts. He drew his sword before he could think, the cold hiss of steel making the men falter in their stride. The morning sun ran down his blade, blocking Giacinto.

He barely heard his father hissing his name, eyes only fixed on Daniele. What had he done.

Love made monsters of them all.

This Daniele was Alessandro's monster.

The General settled his eerie eyes on Daniele. "This man is under my protection."

Daniele nodded. "Very well. If you insist, we can try you as an accessory to his crimes."

The General did not move an inch, whistling lowly. "Don't fly too high, little Icarus. I burned armadas when you were still begging for your mother's tits. Do not start a war you cannot win." His voice was low, but brimming with bitter promises.

A lonely whistle echoed back to them.

The fog trembled. The sea of red was forced to part for rows and rows of soldiers marching for their General.

Hands twitched to swords, the policemen growing uneasy as the soldiers formed a wall between the two parties. Daniele waved his hand and while his men stood back at attention, the presence of the General's brigade seemed to have spooked them.

Alessandro may not like him, but the General was a legend of gunpowder and glory.

"You were saying?" General Zeno turned back to Daniele.

"If you insist, we can try you as an accessory to his crimes, General," Daniele repeated, unfazed. "Certainly you are not that senile yet."

If someone didn't step in soon, this would end in bloodshed. "Inspector Cornaro. I remember being accused alongside Signore Marinos."

It was unsettling to feel Daniele's gaze fall on him with such intensity. "You remember correctly," he drawled. "During your absence, however, evidence of your innocence has been provided."

"Signore Marinos has been with me. I am witness to his innocence."

Daniele raised a thin eyebrow. "Certainly you have not always been with him? Or..." He trailed off, letting the accusation hang between them.

Alessandro's blood turned cold. "No, but –"

"Then you cannot testify for his innocence."

Daniele turned away again, but the thin light falling through the mist hit the side of his face and Alessandro saw. That night, when Alessandro and Giacinto had fought their way out of prison, when he had seen Daniele in his superior's office... It had not been a trick of light.

A second scar ran through his eye, down his cheek. It was fresh and eerily clean, matching his old scar like a twin.

But before he could think about what that was, what that meant, Giacinto finally spoke. "I'll go."

"No." Alessandro and the General stepped forward at the same time.

"Wonderful," Daniele said.

"If I am granted an audience with the council."

Alessandro could see what he was trying to do, and he could see it would not work. Daniele had been there that night, in his superiors office, after Alessandro had been framed. If Daniele had been involved in this lie, he would not give them the chance to prove their innocence.

"No one is leaving here," the General said, darkness in is voice. Alessandro did not doubt that the man would slaughter the entire police squadron before he handed them Giacinto.

But why go to such lengths for the Greek?

"What dear Carlo is too brutish to articulate," Alessandro's father clapped his hands, cheerful as ever, "is that as members of the council, we demand a hearing."

Daniele and the General both looked as if they wanted to punch his father's smile off his lips. The council of ten ruled Venice at the Doge's side. Both Alessandro's father and the General were councilmen. Even Daniele could not deny them.

A spark of hope lit Alessandro. He could testify for Giacinto. His father and the General would vote to acquit the Greek. Laelia's father might. Together with the letters, it might be enough, even without Marius.

Alessandro could feel the tension crackling through the street, waiting for the spark to blow them up. The police men shifted, waiting for Daniele's decision.

"Very well," Daniele inclined his head. The General relaxed.

But Alessandro knew the edge of that smile would turn into the blade in their backs.

A little voice piped up. "I have something."

All eyes fell onto a small boy scrambling through the rows of men. He spotted Giacinto, eyes lighting up and he scurried. "I have something," he repeated, looking up at the Greek with big eyes, hoping for instructions.

With a glance at two men still waiting for him with shackles, Giacinto crouched down. "Hello, Marco," he smiled, as if he wasn't scheduled for execution. "What do you have?"

The boy shuffled his feet. Alessandro noticed the scraped leather, the boots too wide for his gangly legs, the threadbare, washed out linen hanging from his shoulders. Another one of Giacinto's little street rats.

"What do you have?" Giacinto repeated. "You made me so curious, now you have to tell me."

The boy nods. He flushed red when he had to search his pockets for a while, then holds out a bunched up napkin. The white was too pristine for his dirty fingers. "He," the boy swallowed, "He said to give it to the big man."

"Well, that's not me," Giacinto joked, but when looked at Alessandro, his eyes were dark.

Seemingly gathering his courage, the boy nodded to himself, then hesitantly offered the handkerchief to Alessandro. The silk is cool and damp from the fog, but it all fades away when it fell open to reveal a single earring.

Even in the early light, the glass sparkled as blue as the sea.

Little wings fluttered when Alessandro's hand began to shake.

Lorenzo's butterfly earring.

"Who gave you that?" Giacinto's voice seemed so far away.

Lorenzo's earring.

He had not taken it with him when they had fled Florence.

"Marco, I need you to tell me who gave you this." The urgency in Giacinto's voice could not reach Alessandro.

There's a ringing in his ears, growing higher and higher.

"He said his name was Luca. He said you would know?" The boy sounds unsure.

Alessandro closes his eyes.

The Reaper.

"Where did you meet him –"

Alessandro cut him off. His mind sharpened. He knew. "Where did he tell you to send me to?"

"How do you know he told me?" The boy asked. He was clutching Giacinto's sleeve with one hand, half hiding behind the Greek when Alessandro stepped closer, towering over them.

The Reaper returned, time and time again, like a starving wolf. They had run, they had hidden, but now Alessandro would do what he did best. Hunt.

"He can read minds," Giacinto whispered. The boy made big eyes. "Go one, tell him."

"But if he can read minds –"

Giacinto suppressed a snicker. "But I can't, won't you tell me?"

"He said..." His little face scrunched up in concentration. "To find him where the fifth lion prays. That doesn't sound like a place, though. I don't think lions pray."

Alessandro's mind jumped, connecting the dots. Lion. Leo. Pray. Church. "San Zaccaria." Leo the fifth had founded the oldest church of Venice.

If Lorenzo was alive –

"That's a trap, Steno," Giacinto muttered.

"Of course." But if there was a chance, a chance that Lorenzo was alive, Alessandro would not leave him behind again.

But that meant he would have to leave Giacinto.

Icy admiration fills him. The plan was perfect.

He was the Greek's only witness.

Giacinto sighed, slowly getting back up. "Go."

For a moment, the world faded around them as their eyes lock. "You –"

"Go. Bring him back."

Fun fact -- the original version of this story was about their parents! That is why the adults here seem to have such specific backstories and connections.

Has our little Lia found the missing piece in Alessandro's puzzle? 

What did you think of her deal with Antonio? Our devilish bookworm will be a main part of the story from now on.

Alessandro and Gio make a deal, too ... and Daniele comes back to play. 

What do you think will happen next? (Hint -- heartbreak and murder :))

The next chapter should come out soon, I'm already working on it. Thank you for reading! I hope you are all doing well, eat something good today -- you deserve it for being my hero!

Stay lovely,

Avis.