Chapter 6 – Vespera
I haven’t showered.
Tiziano’s sweat is still on my skin. It’s dried in the bends of my arms, behind my knees, between my thighs.
I can feel it every time I shift. My clothes are still in the hallway—shirt hanging over the stair railing, skirt bunched up on the steps.
I passed them on the way up and didn’t bother picking them up.
Now, I’m at the kitchen table, legs folded under me, wrapped in a cotton blanket. The wood’s cool under my feet. My hair’s still tangled. It falls over my shoulder in loose, uneven knots.
The tarot deck sits in front of me.
I take a breath, but I’m not trying to calm myself; I need to focus.
I need to reset. Pull it back in. Get control.
I shuffle the cards. The edges are worn from use. The motion helps. My hands fall into a rhythm. It’s muscle memory.
Outside, the rain hasn’t let up. It taps on the windows in a fast, steady rhythm. Not heavy, just constant. Like someone knocking over and over, waiting to be let in.
The candle flickers once. Just once.
I keep shuffling.
My fingers still smell like bourbon. And blood.
I press my palm down on the deck.
“I let him in,” I say quietly. “Once. That doesn’t mean I’m his.”
The candle jumps—one small flare before settling again.
I pull the top card.
Queen of Swords.
Figures.
I look at the card. The woman on it sits tall, holding a blade. Her face is sharp, and her robe is layered and stiff. There’s no warmth in her, no softness.
She’s not there to comfort anyone. She’s there to judge.
Queen of Swords: sharp judgment that cuts through illusions.
I slip on my jacket, check the angle of the floodlight over the storeroom door, and make a mental note to ask Tomas about adding a second camera. If that queen demands clarity, I’ll give her every shadow under a spotlight.
My mouth pulls tight. “Bianca,” I say out loud.
Tiziano’s sister. The one who stood across the street two nights ago, arms crossed, watching me like she’d already made up her mind. She didn’t wave. Didn’t speak. Didn’t pretend to care if I saw her. Just turned and walked away like she had better things to do.
She’s the one I didn’t factor in. The one he never mentioned. Not once.
That says everything.
Bianca isn’t some assistant he sends to check on problems. She’s the one people send when they want something dealt with quietly—and permanently.
She’s not emotional. She doesn’t talk too much. She waits.
She’s patient.
And she’s watching.
I set the card face up beside the candle.
If Tiziano is my way in, Bianca’s the lock. And I’m caught in the middle—holding a ledger that shouldn’t be in my hands and feeling things for someone I should’ve kept at a distance.
I drag my fingers down the side of my neck.
The skin’s still warm, still marked where he kissed me. Where his mouth was. Where his hands gripped too tight because we didn’t want soft.
I should get up. Shower. Wash off the scent of him.
I draw another card.
The Tower.
Of course.
I stare at it.
A bolt splits the structure in two. People fall from the windows. Fire blazes at the top. Stones break loose.
This isn’t a warning anymore. It’s a report.
I lean back. The blanket slips off one shoulder, and I don’t fix it.
My body aches, but not from fighting. From how far I let myself fall.
There was a moment—on the bar, of all places—where nothing else existed. Not the alley. Not the body. Not the game we’re all playing.
Just him.
And me.
Fifteen minutes. That’s all I gave myself.
Now, I’m sitting here reminding myself why I stopped letting that happen.
I slide the two cards aside and place my palm over them for a second.
Then, I fold them back into the deck, put the deck in its pouch, and set it aside.
The chair creaks when I get up.
I move slowly. The rain’s louder now. It hits the windows harder, like it’s trying to come in.
I grab a stick of incense from the shelf, light it, and drop it in the copper bowl near the bed.
The smell fills the space fast—rose oil, smoke, something faintly burnt.
I walk to the mirror.
My reflection looks worse than I expected.
Circles under my eyes. Lips swollen. Hair a mess. I don’t look like someone in control. I look like someone who’s trying to remember how to pretend.
I lean in.
There’s a red mark on my neck.
I don’t touch it.
I grab my robe from the back of the door and pull it on, wrapping it tight around my waist. Then, I crack the window open. The breeze is damp, cool, just enough to lift the edge of the curtain.
I stand there for a while, long enough to forget what time it is. Long enough to forget how the night started.
The fight.
The alley.
The body bleeding into the pavement.
The drawer with the ledger inside.
The man who still has fingerprints on my skin.
I go back to the table, sit, and think about Bianca. Her face. Her stare. The way she didn’t blink.
I stand.
The blanket drops from my lap and lands in a heap at my feet. No ceremony, no pause. Just one more thing out of place. My legs ache from sitting too long. My back cracks when I straighten. I didn’t realize how long I’d been in that chair.
The floor is cold. I cross to the window.
Outside, the street is lit in patches—gold from the busted streetlamp, red and yellow from the bar’s neon sign. The rain reflects everything back. Water runs down the street in thin streams, puddling around the storm drain like it’s waiting to carry something away.
The window glass is old, thin, and lacks a proper seal. The rain hits it with quick, light taps. The sound doesn’t soothe; it’s steady but not comforting. It feels like a countdown.
I scan the alley across from the bar.
At first, I miss her. She’s too still, blends in too well with her arms folded and head lowered, leaning against the wall like she belongs there. She has no umbrella. No coat with a hood. She’s not hiding from the rain. It rolls off her, and she doesn’t even bother.
She’s not moving to stay warm. She’s not shifting her weight. Her posture is firm, unshaken.
I blink.
Then, I notice the sharp lines of her jaw, the way her coat fits perfectly. The quiet, calm way she holds herself.
It’s Bianca.
Tiziano’s sister.
The one who stared me down from across the alley a few nights ago. The one who made it clear I wasn’t being watched; I was being evaluated.
She’s not pacing. She’s not walking. She’s standing there with purpose.
At first, I think she’s looking at the building.
Then, she tilts her head slightly—just enough.
She’s looking at my window.
My hand tightens on the curtain.
The candlelight behind me will silhouette my body if I move too fast. I step sideways, slipping into the shadow between the window and the bookshelf.
My chest tightens with understanding.
This isn’t an accident.
She didn’t just happen to be out there.
She didn’t come to talk.
She came to be seen.
She came to make sure I know someone’s always watching—no matter how high up I am, no matter how locked the door is.
Alfeo sends threats you can see coming.
Bianca just shows up. Waits.
She learns.
She decides later.
I glance across the room.
The incense is still burning. Smoke drifts in a thin ribbon, slowly curling near the window. The candles on the shelf have melted into uneven rivers. Wax trails toward the edge of the wood.
This space used to feel safe, something above it all.
Now, it feels exposed.
Not because of the glass.
Because of what I know she’s thinking while she stands out there.
I back away from the window. I don’t shut it completely, just move slowly. Quietly.
Let her believe I didn’t see her.
I crouch low, reach for the window sash, and ease it shut with the tips of my fingers. The latch clicks, and the sound of the rain dulls. Her shape blurs behind the wet glass and rising fog, but she’s still out there.
She doesn’t have to break in to cause damage.
She just has to stay long enough to make me question what’s mine.
I let out a slow breath and return to the table.
The tarot deck is still where I left it.
The Queen of Swords is facedown now.
I don’t remember turning it over. Maybe I bumped it. Maybe not. Either way, the meaning doesn’t change.
She doesn’t have to look at me to remind me what she is.
I sit again.
The candle nearest me flickers. It stays lit, but the flame leans heavily to one side before regaining its shape.
I reach under my shirt and grip Leon’s locket.
The metal is cold against my skin. It shocks me enough to make my breath catch.
I hold it tighter.
The weight keeps me steady. Not emotionally—physically. Like it pulls me back into place.
My breathing evens out, and my back straightens.
I don’t close my eyes.
I watch the flame stabilize, watch the incense twist and fade upward.
And I think about her expression.
About how she didn’t smile. Didn’t sneer. Didn’t raise her chin or square her shoulders like she had something to prove.
She didn’t try to scare me.
She didn’t have to.
She stood still, and that was enough.
I tighten my grip on the locket. My fingers dig into the chain, and it presses against my skin until I feel it.
Bianca isn’t like Alfeo.
She’s not chaotic, not showy.
She’s surgical.
Not messy.
Not loud.
Precise.
But anything that sharp can still be broken—if you find the right angle.
Everything breaks under pressure if you apply it the right way.
Even her.
I pull the locket away from my skin and breathe deeply. The incense mixes with the air—rose, ash, and something bitter underneath.
I reach for the drawer under the altar shelf and pull out my notes.
Then, I start writing.