Chapter 9
Olivia
As soon as Malik left the room, worry settled deep in my gut.
This was his domain—a place steeped in secrets, where shadows lurked in the corners, and whispers of the past clung to the air.
The walls were lined with shelves overflowing with books, their spines cracked and worn from years of handling. A massive mahogany desk commanded the center of the space, its surface cluttered with papers and files. What kind of secrets lay hidden within those documents?
Outside, the wind howled, a shrieking gale that rattled the rafters as if the very bones of the house resisted our presence.
I scanned the dimly lit space, a sense of foreboding coiling around me. Something was wrong here that made my skin prickle. Malik was a force of darkness, an enigma, and we were trespassing in his world of secrets.
My gaze dropped to the journal in my hands.
I turned to Emily, finding my apprehension mirrored in her wide eyes.
“Should we be reading this here?” I whispered, gripping the diary tighter. “I’m apprehensive about going through Mom’s words… and doing it in his space? It feels like we’re stepping into something we won’t be able to escape.”
Emily exhaled, her fingers tightening on the fabric of her skirt. “I know what you mean. But maybe… maybe this is exactly where we need to be. The perfect place to unravel the truth.”
I swallowed, nodding. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
Emily moved wordlessly across the space, took a seat at the opposite end, and then joined me on the sage-green velvet sofa.
Neither of us spoke.
As I held the journal in my lap, its weight felt disproportionate—heavier than it should have been, as if it carried both words and burdens. Secrets. Clandestine knowledge pressed between the worn leather cover, waiting to be unearthed.
I ran my fingers over the faded surface, my pulse hammering against my ribs. Did I truly want to see what lay inside?
I wasn’t sure.
But I had to.
This was my mother’s life, thoughts, and truths—perhaps the only key to understanding what had been left unspoken.
I exhaled, hesitating.
“Are you all right?” Emily questioned.
“What?” I glanced up, pulled from my thoughts.
“You’ve gone white as a ghost.” Her brows knit together. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
I nodded solemnly. “Yes. I’m ready.” I paused, then admitted, “And yet… I’m uncertain. I’m just glad you’re here.”
I reached for her.
She squeezed my hand briefly before letting go. “That’s right. I’m here for you—for support or whatever you need.”
Reassured by her presence, I inhaled deeply and skimmed the pages.
Some entries were marked with tiny stars, denoting importance. Others had underlined words, bold against the aged parchment in my mother’s neat handwriting.
Then, nestled between the pages, I found something unexpected—a photograph.
I carefully pulled it free and stared at the frozen moment in time.
A birthday. My birthday.
There I was—a little girl, grinning at a table where a white-frosted cake sat before me, pink and green candied horses galloping across the top.
Beside me, my father smiled, content. And next to him, my mother, her gaze soft, lingering not on the cake but on me.
Beneath the photo, a note in her handwriting:
Olivia, my sweet darling. I’m sorry for everything. I hope you’ll understand someday.
A lump formed in my throat. My vision blurred as tears burned the backs of my eyes.
Emily plucked the photo from my fingers.
She turned it over, frowning. “What is this? It looks like you as a child, but… it’s not painted.”
I blinked, forcing myself back to the present. “It’s called photography. It’s similar to a camera obscura but captures the image permanently using film.”
Emily gasped, studying the details with wonder. “Oh, my! It’s so lifelike. So real. You were a beautiful little girl.”
“Thank you,” I reached for the picture, tucking it carefully back between the pages before flipping to the next entry.
My mother’s neat, flowing handwriting filled the page, every word inked in Italian.
“You’re fluent, right?” I asked, glancing at Emily.
She nodded.
“And so we proceed,” I said solemnly, my stomach knotting as I prepared to decipher my mother’s words.
June 1, 1556
I have had a week of more exciting nights than I’m used to.
Tonight, I’ve been invited to a masquerade at the estate of Pietro Costa, father of Raul Costa.
Everyone will be there; it promises to be a night to remember.
I’ll wear an off-white lace dress with delicate straps that fall off my shoulders.
It cinches perfectly at my waist, making me feel dainty and graceful.
When I spin, the skirt billows beautifully around me.
Tomaso, who is much older than me, tells me I should be with boys my own age.
But I tease him, saying that sixteen-year-old boys are like baby sharks—they chew off the fins of their lovers!
This makes him laugh, and he tells me how much fun I am.
Then he invited me to meet him at his home tomorrow. I can hardly wait.
I fought the urge to cringe.
An “older man.”
How much older? Eighteen? Twenty-eight?
By today’s standards, my mother would be considered jailbait. But I swallowed my judgment and kept reading.
June 2, 1556
Tomaso and I rushed to the Pietro Costa party, energized by our desire for one another.
He eyed me hungrily and let out a low growl that made me laugh.
I pushed him away playfully. As we entered the masquerade, I felt his intensity growing until suddenly, he gestured for me to follow him.
We left the festivities behind, and I asked in amusement why he’d brought me to such a smelly barn.
“We are going to christen it with our love,” he replied before crashing his mouth against mine so ferociously that stars appeared behind my eyes.
Before I knew it, Tomaso was inside me, pushing hard against the stone walls of the horse barn as we both moaned with pleasure.
Suddenly, this woman appeared out of the blue.
Her hair was wild and messy, her eyes were a strange dark color, and her skin was unnaturally pale.
She screeched like a feral cat and brandished a knife in her hand.
She lunged forward and drove the weapon into Tomaso’s back while he was still inside me.
I shrieked with terror so loudly that people from the party ran over to us.
Tomaso lay motionless on the cold ground, surrounded by his blood, but the woman had already disappeared.
As the revelers tended to Tomaso, carrying his limp form out of the barn, I raced outside.
There, I saw the woman again in the distance.
She watched everyone disappear into Pietro Costa’s house, then ran toward me, wielding her knife.
This time, I didn’t scream—I stood my ground, as frightened as I was.
I knew she wanted to kill me, too. I prepared to meet my maker and be with Tomaso, who I was sure was dead.
But suddenly, a mysterious man materialized out of thin air, like a ghost, only he was very much alive. He struck down the woman with his dagger, and she transformed into a dry corpse.
I was more intrigued than scared by him.
He was mysterious, powerful, and moved with nimble grace like an athlete or dancer.
I couldn’t help myself—I kissed him for saving my life.
The kiss started as gratitude on my part but turned into a passionate fire.
I’d never experienced a man like this—he seemed to burn with fire and lust, and it was all directed at me.
When we disentangled, I stroked my lips with my fingertips, then his. We stared at one another with wonder. At that very moment, I knew I would love him for the rest of my life—no other man would compare.
“Who are you?” he said, fingering my cheek.
“I’m Alina.” I trembled at his touch. “Are you going to kill me, too?”
“No,” he said gently. “She was a bad woman who wanted to harm you. I couldn’t let that happen.”
He placed his warm fingertip beneath my chin and tipped my head to face him. “You and I belong with each other now, my lovely Alina. I’m sorry that woman frightened you. You no longer have to worry about her. She is gone. And, I’m sorry I kissed you so wantonly.”
I just looked at him and shook my head. It was like we both existed in some other time, disconnected from the reality of Italy and the horror that had just occurred.
“I will take care of you from this day,” he said, stroking my cheek.
I nuzzled his finger like a kitten, never wanting to be away from him.
In some inexplicable way, I knew he “got me”—that he understood me in a way no one could.
It was as if we’d known each other throughout time.
I was protected and treasured by this man.
And it was so strange since we had just met, but I felt like I’d known him forever.
I lifted my gaze, rubbing my forehead as a sickening realization settled.
She was describing Balthazar.
A wave of nausea twisted my insides, the same gut-churning sensation I had felt aboard the ship in Rome, bracing for battle in Caledonia under Emperor Severus’ ruthless command.
I exhaled sharply and flipped ahead several pages—fast.
I had no desire to read about my mother’s intimate encounters with Balthazar. Some things were better left undiscovered.
July 17, 1561
For the last five years, Balthazar and I have been having an affair in secret.
We meet after sunset when no one can see us, our love burning bright in the darkness.
His presence lingers in my mind throughout the day.
My parents have been pushing for me to marry someone of Italian descent.
That’s why I’ve said no to marriage proposals from men I don’t love.
Finally, I decided to tell my father the truth about Balthazar.
So, after we’d finished dinner and he had a few glasses of mead, I took a deep breath and told him everything.
“Papa,” I said, sitting on the arm of his chair.