Chapter 15 #3
By the time I was ready to depart, my stomach was full, my body warm from the meal, and I was tipsy enough to feel pleasantly unbothered by life’s uncertainties.
Outside, a groomsman approached, leading a magnificent black steed toward me. The sight of the horse made something tighten in my chest—he resembled Tempestas, my warhorse from Rome. Nostalgia stirred, but I pushed it aside as I took the reins.
A moment later, another groomsman appeared, leading a mule.
For Tristan.
Tristan shuffled into the stables with a scowl, arms crossed. “Let me guess—you got to eat the good food.”
“An excellent meal,” I admitted, patting my steed’s neck.
“Meanwhile, I had to suffer through a servant’s meal.”
I shrugged, adjusting the saddle straps. “And yet, you were fed.”
Tristan planted his hands on his hips, scanning the stable. “Where’s my horse?”
I smirked and gestured. “See that mule? That’s yours.”
His face fell. “Fuck. Why don’t I get a horse like yours?”
“This is a stallion. Can you even ride a stallion?” I ran my hand along the horse’s glistening coat, feeling the horse’s muscles tense beneath my touch.
Tristan puffed out his chest. “Sure. It can’t be any different from riding any other horse.”
I arched a brow. “Tell you what—if you can ride this horse, we’ll switch.”
A cocky grin spread across his face. “Easy peasy. Watch me.”
Swaggering forward, he reached for the horse’s reins. The stallion immediately backed away, nostrils flaring.
Tristan faltered. “Hold him still for me.” His bravado wavered, betrayed by a hint of fear in his wide eyes.
I held the reins lightly. “I’m trying.”
“Doesn’t look like it. Looks like you want him to buck. You need to hold the reins tighter,” Tristan snapped.
I let out a breath, shaking my head. “That’s where you’re wrong. Riding a horse is a partnership, not a means of control.” A grim smile tugged at my lips.
“Whatever.” Tristan lifted his foot into the stirrup.
The stallion reared with a piercing squeal, flinging Tristan straight to the ground.
“Fuck!” He groaned, sitting up and brushing the dust from his clothes. Then, with a scowl, he said, “Show me how it’s done, Lone Ranger.”
I frowned. “Lone Ranger?”
He waved a hand. “Forget it. Just get on your damn horse and let’s go.”
Shaking my head, I mounted my stallion in one fluid motion. Grumbling under his breath, Tristan climbed onto the back of his mule with considerably less grace.
As we trotted down the road toward Giovanni’s house, I tuned out Tristan’s incessant whining, far too absorbed in the beauty of the Italian countryside.
Florence was unlike the Rome I once knew—rolling green hills stretched into the horizon, magnolia and olive trees dotted the land, and herds of goats and sheep grazed peacefully in the fields.
Before long, we arrived at a modest, white-washed house, its yard alive with clucking hens pecking at the dirt and grass. A few goats meandered beneath the shade of olive trees in the distance.
As we approached, a hound dog bolted toward us, barking to announce our arrival.
“Hello, pup,” I said, dismounting with ease. I gave the dog a pat on the head, earning a wag of his tail.
Looping the horse’s reins over a sturdy tree branch, I glanced back at Tristan. “You stay here.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Go do your important things while I sit outside doing absolutely nothing.”
Ignoring his theatrics, I strode up the dirt path and knocked on the wooden door.
A young maid answered the door, her eyes darting left and right before settling on me.
“Yes? Can I help you?” she asked, her voice low and wary.
I straightened instinctively. “I hope so. I’m looking for Giovanni Zampa. Is he here?”
Her lips parted in alarm. “Mio Dio,” she whispered, hastily making the sign of the cross. “He’s not here.”
Her eyes looked past me, scanning the road as if expecting someone—or something—to appear.
Disappointment settled in my chest like a stone. Another dead end. No closer to finding the dagger. No closer to finding my wife. No closer to Malik.
“Cecilia!” A male voice came from deeper inside the house. “Who’s at the door?”
Hope surged through me. Maybe it was Giovanni. Maybe she lied about his whereabouts.
Cecilia hesitated. “I don’t know, Signore,” she called over her shoulder.
A man in his late forties stormed into the small room behind her, his presence filling the space. The room was cluttered with mismatched furniture, but I focused on him. His expression was hard, unreadable.
He reached for Cecilia’s shoulders, gripping them tightly as he whispered something in her ear.
She nodded hurriedly and scurried away, disappearing down the hall without a glance back.
“Who are you?” he demanded, stepping forward.
His hair was thinning on top, leaving a brownish fringe circling his skull. A bulbous nose dominated his face, perched above thin, cracked lips. Something about his presence felt hardened, worn by time and experience.
“I’m Roman Alexander. I’m here to see Giovanni Zampa.”
His eyes flicked past me. “Is that man with you?”
I glanced over my shoulder. Tristan sat slumped on his mule, looking bored. “Yes. He’s my manservant.”
The man’s gaze snapped back to me. “And who are you?”
I resisted the urge to sigh. “I already told you. I’m Roman Alexander, here to see Giovanni Zampa.”
His expression darkened. “My father is dead. He was murdered six months ago. What do you want?”
A beat of silence stretched between us. Murdered. That explained the tension that clung to this place.
“Might I ask your name?” I finally asked.
“Vincenzo. Vincenzo Zampa.” He cast another glance past my shoulder as if expecting danger to creep up behind me.
I forced a nod. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Vincenzo.” I extended my hand.
For a moment, he hesitated. Then, reluctantly, he clasped my hand in a firm shake. “What do you want with my father?”
I paused, considering my words. Should I tell him about the dagger? About time travel?
Finally, I relented. If Vincenzo knew something, I needed that information.
“It was my understanding that your father studied time travel.”
Vincenzo’s face drained of color. “Don’t ever say such things!” He seized my sleeve in a vice grip and yanked me inside, slamming the door shut behind us. “Such thoughts are treasonous.”
I held my ground. “Treasonous to whom? To you?”
“No,” he hissed, running a hand across his bald pate as if the action could steady his nerves. “To the people who killed my father.”
I blinked, trying to piece together his story. We stood in the cramped foyer, the dark-red tiles beneath us scuffed with age. Shadows pressed in from the dimly lit hallway beyond.
“Do you know anything about the whereabouts of the Sun Dagger?” I asked carefully. “I was told Giovanni had it. That he would be happy to hand it over to me.”
A lie, but one that might push him into revealing the truth.
Vincenzo’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. Then, in a whisper, he said, “They already took it. It’s gone.”
My pulse hammered. “Who took it?” I grabbed his lapels, pulling him closer. “I must find it. There’s a demon hunting my wife, and we need the dagger to vanquish him.”
Vincenzo twisted, trying to free himself from my grip. “Are you one of Costa’s men?”
He shoved against me, trying to break away.
I released him, my mind racing. “I don’t know anyone named Costa. Who is he? And what does he have to do with the Sun Dagger?”
Vincenzo stepped back, rubbing his throat where my grip had crumpled his collar. His eyes returned to the door; his body tensed as if he were considering escape.
“Raul Costa,” he said, voice tight with bitterness. “He’s a Timehunter. He sent his men here to attack my father. I couldn’t save him.”
I frowned, scratching my cheek. “A Timehunter? What’s that?”
Vincenzo didn’t acknowledge my question.
His voice thickened with emotion as he pressed on.
“They attacked Cecilia and me, too.” He pushed back his sleeve, revealing deep, jagged scars that snaked up his arm.
Then, lifting the hem of his shirt, he showed me more wicked pink slashes across his abdomen.
“We played dead, waiting for them to leave. They tore the house apart and found the Sun Dagger’s hiding place… only then did they finally go.”
His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the red-tiled floor, his head dropping into his hands.
“My father was a scholar. A gentleman,” he rasped. “Not a warrior. Not evil. He spent his life guarding that cursed knife. And in the end, his oath to protect it cost him everything.”
A horrible sob tore from his throat, his grief unfiltered. “They robbed us. They tried to kill us. And now Costa wants me dead too, for the same reason he killed my father. He thinks I know something.” He lifted his head, his eyes blazing with fury. “Raul Costa is a dangerous, despicable man.”
I crouched beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I can help you.”
Vincenzo’s face crumpled with rage. “I don’t want your help.” His voice was a snarl, his grief now burning into something edgier. “I want nothing to do with you or anyone involved in time travel.”
Before I could react, he shot to his feet, yanking me up with surprising strength. “Get out!” His grip turned iron-like as he shoved me toward the door. “Stay away from me! Don’t ever darken my door again!”
The next thing I knew, I was stumbling onto the porch. The door slammed behind me so violently that the entire house shuddered.
I exhaled, staring at the closed door.
“Didn’t go as well as you thought?” Tristan’s voice drawled from behind me as I strode toward my horse.
I ignored him, freeing the reins and mounting the horse. Without another word, we turned back toward the count’s estate.
I let Vincenzo’s words bounce off me, keeping focused on the road ahead. My mind spun like a wagon wheel stuck in the mud, churning over the questions I had without finding a single answer.
Raul Costa. Timehunters. The stolen Sun Dagger.
I had no leads—only dead ends.