Chapter 10 Vincenzo
Vincenzo
There are places in Vintermoor that even monsters approach with reverence. The chapel is one of them.
Hidden on the far eastern edge of campus, past the old fencing yard and through the iron rotunda draped in ivy, the chapel sits half-sunken into the ground. The stone is black, not from paint but from ash—collected over decades of candles, smoke, and blood spilled in whispered oaths.
There are no priests. No confessions. Just saints carved from violence and shadow, and one altar in the center dedicated to the only god we’re allowed to bow to.
San Matteo delle Lame.
A myth. A warning. A murderer turned martyr who slit the throat of his own brother to protect a secret, then set fire to the town that birthed them both.
Legend says he carried seven knives—each one with the name of a betrayal engraved into the hilt.
And when the final name was carved, he drove it into his own chest and bled out beneath the stars.
He is the saint we pray to before a sanctioned kill.
Not for forgiveness, or even for mercy. But for clarity and focus. For the strength to finish what needs to be done.
I enter without ceremony, boots echoing against the stone floor, the doors swinging shut behind me.
The air is thick with smoke and wax, and the iron scent of old rust clings to every corner.
The windows are narrow, stained with blood reds, deep blues, and burnt oranges, casting the room in the colors of a bruise.
The altar is simple. A black slab with a blade mounted at its center, handle worn from decades of hands gripping it in desperation, in penance, in prayer.
The statue of San Matteo towers behind it—hooded, faceless, robed in knives.
His arms are spread wide, palms upturned, waiting for someone to lay something in them.
An exchange: a bullet for a name
I approach slowly, strip off my gloves, and kneel. My knees touch the cold stone, and I bow my head, letting the silence soak into my skin. There’s no scripted prayer here. No rosaries. No Hail Marys. Just a quiet moment of stillness where I let myself feel what I’m about to do.
This is how it always starts—
The weight in the chest. The static behind the eyes.
The sense that something’s about to shift, and when it does, there’s no turning back.
A name is forming in my mind—a target, a threat.
And the moment it finishes crystallizing, I’ll be expected to act.
To carve it out of this world like a rot before it spreads.
I breathe slowly and let the name form on my tongue, but I don’t speak it.
The door opens behind me.
Footsteps, unhurried and confident. They echo off the stone in a rhythm I already know by heart. I don’t lift my head, I don’t have to.
He kneels beside me with all the grace of a man who’s never had to beg for a goddamn thing in his life. There’s no reverence in the way he settles. Just that familiar arrogance that turns every space he touches into something his. Like the chapel was built to house his sins and no one else’s.
I keep my gaze fixed forward: the statue, the altar, the blade.
But he speaks first.
“I always thought it was funny,” he murmurs. “The way your people turn murder into a religion.”
“It’s not a religion,” I answer. “It’s an understanding.”
“Is that what you’re doing, then?” he asks, leaning forward slightly. “Trying to understand who you’re going to kill next?”
I finally glance at him. He’s dressed in all black, as usual. Hoodie pulled low over his brow, hands clasped loosely in front of him like he’s here for a joke and already knows the punchline. But his eyes—those glacial, pale eyes—aren’t mocking me now.
“I’m here for clarity,” I say simply.
Nikolaj tilts his head, lips curving. “And did your Saint of Stabbings give it to you yet?”
“I’m still waiting.”
“Hm.” He glances at the blade on the altar. “You ever think maybe the answer you’re waiting for is the one you’ve already got?”
I sigh loudly. “You come in here just to irritate me?”
“No,” he says. “I came because I knew you’d be here.”
He doesn’t elaborate further. That’s the thing about him—he doesn’t play games with rules, just instincts. Raw, brutal, infuriating instincts that dig under my skin and set up shop like they belong there.
“You’ve been quiet all week,” he adds after a moment.
“You’ve been loud enough for both of us.”
“You’ve been looking.”
“I’ve been watching,” I correct.
“Same thing.”
“It’s really not.”
He turns fully now, one leg bent. His arm drapes casually over his knee, like this is a dorm lounge and not sacred ground. “Alright then, Prince,” he says, tone low. “What do you see when you watch me?”
I exhale slowly. “You don’t want that answer.”
“I think I do.”
I meet his eyes. “I see a brat,” I say finally. “A brat with too much swagger, too little respect, and a death wish disguised as a smirk.”
He grins. “Sounds a lot like someone else I know.”
“I see someone who was sent here to start a war.”
“And you’re scared I’m going to finish it?”
“No.” I lean forward slightly, voice sharper. “I’m scared of what it’ll cost me to win.”
For the first time, he stills. Something shifts behind his expression. Not fear. Not guilt. But… interest. “You think I’m worth that much?” he asks.
“I think you’re a poison,” I say. “The kind that gets in your blood without you noticing. And by the time you do, it’s too late.”
He leans back, tongue running over the inside of his cheek. “Then why haven’t you cut me out yet?”
I glance back at the statue. “Because I haven’t decided,” I murmur.
The silence between us hums louder now. He doesn’t move, and neither do I, but the weight of him beside me…
it’s a gravity I can’t ignore. And I hate that.
I hate that I’ve spent my whole life learning how to wield control like a weapon, and here I am—kneeling beside someone who treats control like a toy and still wins.
“What would you ask him, if he answered?” he asks after a while, nodding at the statue. “San Matteo.”
“I wouldn’t ask,” I say. “I’d offer.”
He raises a brow. “Offer what?”
“A name.”
His lips part slightly. He’s too smart to misinterpret what that means.
“And whose name would it be?” he asks.
I look at him and let the weight of that stare press between us like a loaded chamber. He doesn’t blink; he just grins again before leaning in close enough that I can feel his breath against my cheek.
“If it’s mine,” he whispers, “I’d ask that you look me in the eye when you say it.”
The second the words leave his mouth, something in me detonates.
I don’t remember following him, just the sound of the wooden door slamming behind him as he stepped into the vestibule, and then the flash of rage flooding through my veins like wildfire.
It’s not the insult, nor the arrogance. It’s him. The way he always walks away like he’s won, like he’s puppeteering my ruin with nothing but a smirk and a few well-placed words.
The chapel is nearly silent, save for the echo of his boots in the corridor just beyond the heavy door.
He doesn’t walk fast because he wants me to follow. Wants me to lose composure. Wants me to give him a reaction—something he can wear like a trophy and bring back to his wing to gloat over.
So, I give it to him.
My blade’s already in my hand before I’m fully through the door, hidden against my thigh in the folds of my coat.
I don’t rush, I stalk. He’s halfway down the eastern corridor when I catch up, just past the sanctuary arch where the lit wall sconces cast long shadows across the stone.
He doesn’t hear me. Not until I grab his collar and slam him into the cold tile wall hard enough to rattle his spine.
He doesn’t gasp or fight back. He just exhales a low, pleased sound. That sound infuriates me more than anything.
“You want my attention so badly?” I hiss, pressing him back, my forearm across his throat. “You have it.”
Nikolaj smiles—teeth bared, eyes alight. “Took you long enough.”
I dig the blade into the fabric between us, keep it tight against his chest, just above the heart.
I could end this. One thrust, and no more smirks.
No more games. No more questions about what he means to me when I should be thinking of nothing but legacy and bloodlines, and the empire I was born to rule.
But I don’t stab him.
I grab his collar again, turn us both, and shove him back until he hits the floor, hard. The sound is a satisfying thud that reverberates through my bones, but the satisfaction is short-lived. He looks up at me with a gleam in his eye, like he knew this would happen. Like he wanted it.
I follow him down. My knees pin his hips. My blade flashes in the torchlight as I press it to the side of his throat—flat at first, but insistent. My other hand curls into his shirt, dragging him slightly up from the floor.
His breath catches in delight.
“That’s more like it,” he murmurs.
I press harder, and the blade bites. A bead of blood wells at his skin, glistening crimson against his pale throat. His lashes flutter, and he laughs.
“Fucking hell, Vieri,” he breathes. “If this is foreplay, I might just fall in love.”
“You think this is a joke?”
“I think you don’t know what to do with yourself unless I’m under you.”
I snarl, pressing closer, the heat between us rising fast and dizzying. His breath hits my face. I can smell him—expensive cologne, leather, and the faint hint of those maddening clove cigarettes.
“I want to kill you,” I whisper, the blade kissing deeper into flesh.
“You want to fuck me,” he corrects.
I grit my teeth so hard it hurts. “You think you’ve figured me out?” I growl. “You think I’d ever want someone like you?”
“Someone like me?” he echoes, voice rough with amusement. “Oh, baby. That the best lie you’ve got?”
He shifts under me, hips rolling hard enough to press up into mine. It’s subtle, but the friction is unmistakable. My stomach clenches, heat flashing through my spine like lightning down a live wire.