27. Raiden
Chapter 27
Raiden
I climb the stairs slowly, each step an attempt to anchor myself after what happened downstairs. The power is still out, but the faint moonlight trickling in through the windows guides my way. My head is full—of Lucrezia, of how she looked at me, of the way we came together as if the rest of the world didn’t matter.
Priest warned me about her; he said she’d be dangerous for my heart. I scoffed at the time and dismissed his concerns as the paranoid ramblings of an overprotective mentor. Now, I’m beginning to realize he was right, but not in the way I expected. She’s not dangerous because she’ll betray me; she’s dangerous because she’s left her mark so deep inside me that I’m not sure I can pull it out without bleeding to death.
At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretches quiet and dark. The air smells faintly of old wood and lingering traces of Lucrezia’s perfume—something warm and subtly floral. I step into my bedroom, deciding to keep busy to avoid slipping into sentimental nonsense. That’s not me; it never has been. I don’t do poetry or longing glances or sweet nothings. But damn it, if I’m not feeling something like tenderness wound tight around my chest, constricting with every breath I take, making me wonder if this is what it feels like to lose control.
I flick my phone’s flashlight on, sweeping it around the room to confirm everything’s still in place. The bed’s a rumpled mess from earlier today when I was trying to straighten up. With a low grunt, I start making it properly, smoothing the sheets and tugging the comforter until it lies just right. Lucrezia will tease me for this, but I don’t care. If she’s going to share this bed with me tonight, I want it to feel welcoming.
Downstairs, I can hear the faint rush of water as she showers, the sound carrying through the old pipes in the walls. Ten minutes pass, maybe a bit more, and I sit on the edge of the mattress, listening to the steady stream, my fingers drumming against my thigh. Usually, showers are quick and efficient, especially if the power’s out and the hot water’s on limited reserve. But the power’s out for the whole block, so how long can it stay hot, really? The water heater’s probably running on fumes by now.
Fifteen minutes turn into twenty. Still, all I hear is the steady hiss of water. My gut prickles with unease, and the voice in the back of my head says that something’s not right.
I wait five more minutes. Twenty-five now. My foot taps against the floor, a restless drumbeat that echoes my growing anxiety. Something’s off, and I can’t shake the feeling. She wouldn’t linger under icy water just to prove a point—she’s been practical about all things, almost militantly efficient. I get up, pressing my ear to the open bedroom door as if that will give me a clue. Nothing, just silence, except for that distant gurgle of plumbing, the steady rush of water that’s starting to sound more ominous with each passing second.
Thirty minutes. That’s it. I’m done waiting. The knot in my stomach has twisted too tight to ignore any longer.
I head back down the stairs, heart heavy with a strange dread I can’t explain. The living room below is pitch black, but I’m getting used to navigating in darkness. It helps that the phone’s flashlight guides me. The house feels too quiet, unnaturally so, as if all sound except for the shower has been sucked from the air. At the bathroom door, I hesitate before knocking.
“Lucrezia?” I call softly, hating how my voice wavers in the darkness. No answer. I knock harder, voice sharper now. “Lucrezia, you okay in there?”
Still nothing. The shower keeps running, a constant hiss mocking my rising panic. I’m not a man who panics easily—anger, yes; frustration, sure, but panic is rare. Yet here I am, pulse hammering, mind racing through scenarios I don’t want to picture. Each heartbeat feels like thunder in my chest, and my mouth has gone desert-dry.
Screw it. I twist the knob and push the door open. The air that hits me is thick with steam, so much that my flashlight beam scatters in a haze. The mirror is fogged over; I can barely see my reflection, just a dark, distorted shape in the condensation. The shower curtain is partially drawn, and water cascades into the tub without interruption. Hot moisture clings to my skin, making my clothes feel heavy and uncomfortable.
“Lucrezia?” I try again; voice edged with concern that threatens to crack into panic. I approach the tub, careful and slow, each footstep deliberate on the damp tile, but there’s nobody standing behind that curtain. My heart stutters as I yank it back—empty. The water beats down on porcelain, pointless and wasteful. The towel she’d set aside remains folded on the counter, pristine and untouched. No clothes scattered across the floor, no sign of forced entry through the window, nothing disturbed or broken. Not a single clue to explain the impossible.
She’s gone.
I shut off the water, and the sudden silence magnifies the pounding in my ears. How could she vanish without me noticing anything? After our date tonight… after what happened in the kitchen. I feel sick. A knot twists in my stomach that’s equal parts rage and terror.
My flashlight beam wavers as my hand trembles, casting jittery shadows on the wall. I need light—real light, enough to illuminate every corner and crevice of this nightmare. I storm out into the hallway, flipping switches that do nothing until, abruptly, power surges back with a low hum that makes the hair on my arms stand up. The overhead bulb flares to life with an electric snap.
I spin, squinting as my eyes adjust to the sudden harsh fluorescent glare. That’s when I see it. On the wall across from the bathroom door, scrawled in what looks like blood—still wet and glistening under the new light—are words that stop my heart cold:
You stole my prize. Now I’m taking her back.
My jaw tightens until pain shoots up my temples, and spots dance at the edges of my vision. Kristopher. That sick, deranged bastard. He must have taken her while I was busy playing house upstairs. The thought of his hands on her makes bile rise in my throat.
Rage explodes inside me, raw and blinding. I roar, a sound ripping from my throat with more animal fury than I knew I possessed. I slam my fist into the wall beside the message, plaster cracking under my knuckles. Pain shoots up my arm, a distant afterthought compared to the fiery wrath consuming me. Blood trickles down my fingers, mixing with the red letters of his taunt, but I barely notice.
Lucrezia is gone, and I failed to keep her safe. One moment, she was mine—this brilliant, dangerous woman who never needed anyone but herself. Now, she’s been snatched away by a lunatic who thinks she’s his fucking prize. Every instinct I have screams to tear down the city until I find her. My chest constricts with each breath, memories of her smile, her intelligence, her trust in me—all of it fueling a murderous rage I’ve never felt before.
I taste copper in my mouth— I must have bit my tongue or lip; I can’t tell. The smell of steam, old dust, and blood-inked madness envelops me. I stagger backward, trying to control my breathing, to think logically, but logic feels like a flimsy shield right now.
Kristopher thinks of Lucrezia as a thing to be claimed, like some trophy to be displayed on a shelf. He doesn’t understand that she isn’t his to take. She never was. She belongs to no one—not to him, not even to me. If he thinks I stole her, then he has no clue that it’s not about ownership—it’s about a connection forged in fire, blood, and trust. He can’t comprehend that we chose each other in spite of it all, that what we have transcends his warped notion of possession. Every moment we’ve shared, every battle we’ve fought, has only strengthened a bond he could never hope to understand.
I stand there, every muscle coiled like a spring ready to snap, remembering the softness in her eyes at dinner, the way she brushed off the horrors outside to share a laugh and a meal. I remember the candlelit restaurant, the bread and tiramisu, and the gentle brush of her hand against mine. Kristopher wants to erase all that, to paint over our history with his twisted desires.
But that’s not happening. Not while there’s breath in my body.
I head upstairs again, the earlier domesticity morphing into a quiet, violent rage. I need to get dressed and call Priest—he’ll know what to do next.
Kristopher’s made a grave mistake. By taking Lucrezia, he’s declared war on me. And war is what I do best. I’ve spent years honing these skills, perfecting the art of destruction.
Let him run. Let him hide. He can burrow into the deepest hole or flee to the farthest corner of the earth. But when I find him—not if, when —he’ll beg for mercy he’ll never receive. His screams will echo through whatever dark place becomes his tomb.
I will launch a search that shakes this city to its foundations. I will turn over every stone and kick down every door until I find her. The Castiglione allies and their petty politics mean nothing to me now. I have one goal, one singular purpose that burns away everything else: get Lucrezia back, whatever the cost.