Chapter 7 – Tiziano
Mud clings to my boots, thick and heavy. It slows me down with every step.
I push through the swamp. The ground fights me—pulls at my feet like it doesn’t want to let go. Vines wrap around my ankles, wet and slick. I keep going.
My suit is done. My pants are soaked up to my knees, coated in sludge, and my shirt is stuck to my back with sweat. My jacket is tied around my waist. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t come here to talk. This isn’t a deal.
It’s a cleanup job.
I’m tracking someone.
The one Vespera didn’t finish. The man who bled all over her alley, who carved a threat into her door and walked away still breathing.
That should’ve been the end of him, but it wasn’t.
He touched something that’s mine to protect. That’s all it takes.
I hear movement ahead. Slow, dragging steps through water. He doesn’t care how much noise he’s making. He thinks no one followed him.
He’s wrong.
The fog covers everything, making each footfall quiet. I stay low, hidden.
The machete in my hand is old. The blade’s dull in spots, worn from use. I didn’t bring a clean one. He doesn’t deserve it.
I crouch behind a tree and spot him through the brush. He’s standing near a twisted cypress, muttering under his breath. The smell of rot hangs, thick enough to choke.
He shifts his weight, pacing in place, talking to himself as if he’s trying to explain things no one asked him to say out loud.
“No one told me she’d fight back like that,” he says. “Cracked my ribs.”
He spits into the mud and winces. The sound makes my jaw tighten.
“She should’ve been easy. That was the deal.”
He leans forward, adjusts his boot strap, head down.
He has no idea I’m here.
I step out from behind the tree.
He doesn’t notice until I’m right behind him. By then, it’s too late.
“Looking for this?” I say.
He spins around too fast and nearly slips into the water. His eyes go wide.
“Shit! What the—” His hands go to his belt, fumbling for something.
“You left a mess back at her bar,” I say. “Figured you’d want it returned.”
“Wait—look, I didn’t know she was—” His voice jumps an octave, high and fast.
I swing the machete.
He stumbles back and falls into the shallow water with his arms raised. “I didn’t mean to hit her! Alfeo said to just scare her!”
“She scared you.”
“She broke my nose!”
“You got to walk away.”
He crawls backward through the water, boots slipping. “You don’t have to do this!”
“I’m not doing it because I want to,” I say. “I’m doing it because people like you keep forgetting what the line is.”
“I was following orders! Alfeo sent me!”
“Alfeo sends plenty of people,” I say. “I’m the one who follows up.”
I move closer.
He attempts to get up, but falls again, breathing fast.
“I won’t touch her again! I’ll leave the city!”
“You think this is about you?”
He looks at the water like it might save him. It won’t.
I raise the machete. It catches what little light there is.
“Please!” he yells.
I bring it down.
The blade cuts into his shoulder. The sound is wet. His scream is louder.
He twists, tries to crawl, but his leg snags on a root.
I hit him again, lower this time. His thigh. He howls, hands digging into the mud, pulling up chunks of swamp.
“Stop! Please, stop!”
I kneel next to him. The water seeps into my knees. Cold. Doesn’t matter.
“Say her name.”
He blinks, blood on his lips. “What?”
“Say her name.”
He stares at me like he doesn’t understand.
“Vespera,” he gasps. “Her name’s Vespera.”
I press the blade to his throat. His skin is warm, slick. His pulse skips under the edge.
“If you say her name again, it’ll be the last thing you say.”
He nods, barely.
I finish it in one clean motion. Fast. Direct.
His body jerks once. Then, it goes still.
Blood soaks my arm and chest.
I watch his body fall into the water. It rolls, then starts to sink.
The swamp doesn’t argue. It takes him fast, pulls him down into the dark.
I stay there a moment.
The surface smooths out again. The ripples fade.
Off in the mist, I see a gator sliding through the water. It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t need to.
This place has all the time in the world.
So did I.
This wasn’t a message.
It was balance.
“For her,” I say, wiping the blade on my shirt. “Always her.”
The words don’t echo. They settle into the air, quiet and final.
Her face stays with me. The way she looks at me when she’s not trying to scare me off. The weight in her eyes. She doesn’t know I’m out here doing this for her. If she did, she’d hate it. She’d hate me.
She’d tell me I was wasting my time.
And I’d still do it again tomorrow.
I turn back, head toward the trees.
The mud pulls at my boots. Branches brush my shoulders, trailing across my shirt like the swamp wants me to carry something with me.
My shirt clings tightly to my chest. Blood, water, sweat—doesn’t matter. It’s all part of the job.
The machete drips. It’s not clean, but it’s done.
I can feel the ache in my legs and in my arms.
Doesn’t matter.
All I feel under it is heat.
That heat belongs to her.
The fog gets thicker as I move, covering everything.
Bugs hum around me. The sound creeps in through the trees and settles behind my ears, loud but steady. Like the swamp’s breathing.
The path narrows, but I don’t stop.
The water rises, and the light fades, but I keep walking.
Back toward the city. Back toward her.
The water goes still.
Bubbles rise once, then stop. The ripples flatten until the surface turns dark and smooth again. The gator disappears beneath it, dragging the body with it. No splash. No struggle.
He’s gone.
That part’s over.
I keep my grip tight on the machete and let out a breath. It’s not relief, just pressure leaving my ribs. The tension that built up during the chase, the fight—it slips out now that the job’s done. My chest feels hollow, but steady. My heart slows, syncing with the lazy pull of the swamp around me.
The trees groan in the wind. Their branches hang low, weighed down by moss. The storm passed hours ago, but the swamp still carries the memory.
I turn to leave.
That’s when I hear it.
Something quiet. Not footsteps. Just movement. A shift in air, a light sound across the surface.
It’s not far.
Left side, low near the tree line: the deep part of the swamp where the roots twist and water pools are thick and unmoving.
I stop.
Wait.
Something breathes. Slow. Controlled. Not panicked. Not too close to strike, but not too distant either.
The fog across the waterline thickens, curling around the base of the trees. It moves like it’s covering something on purpose.
I feel it before I see it.
Then, the shape appears.
A figure, covered, with the hood up, moving slowly.
Not rushing.
Not speaking.
Just there.
They step through the fog as if they’ve always been part of it. Their cloak merges with the mist, its edges tattered and wet.
They don’t make a sound.
They stop a few feet from me.
Still.
I know Alfeo’s style. This isn’t one of his. He sends people who talk too much, shoot too fast. Loud threats. Flashy exits.
This is different.
The figure doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for a weapon. Just stares.
I shift my stance, raising the machete an inch. Not to threaten—just ready.
“Name,” I say.
No response.
“You’re in the wrong part of the swamp.”
The figure tilts their head—not quickly, just with a careful adjustment, as if they’re sizing me up.
Then, they speak. One sentence: “You’re next.”
The voice is low, dry, and cracked like dead leaves underfoot.
I don’t move. The words land hard.
Not because they’re loud, but because they’re certain.
I grip the machete tighter, and my shoulders go rigid. The figure doesn’t step forward or give me more.
They just turn and walk back into the mist. The fog swallows them. No sound. No trail. One moment, they’re there. The next, gone.
But I saw them.
I know they were real.
My pulse kicks again, not from fear, just recognition. Something’s changed. This wasn’t about Alfeo. Or his men. Or the Order. This was something else.
Something older.
Something I can’t explain.
I don’t chase them.
I don’t shout.
I don’t wait for them to return.
I wipe the blade off against my shirt. The blood smears, dark and sticky. I drag it across a patch of moss. Let it absorb the rest. Then, I slide the machete into the sheath strapped to my back.
And I walk.
The swamp clings to me. Roots catch at my boots. Water tugs at my legs. My pants are soaked halfway up. Cold. Heavy.
My hands are sticky. Blood dried into the folds of my fingers. It flakes down my wrist, stiff where it’s settled along the edge of my sleeve. The breeze cuts across my neck, sharp where the sweat cooled.
The trees thin near the road. I spot the rental where I left it—parked under a rotting sign. The lettering’s mostly gone, just enough left to tell me I’m at the edge of something.
I climb in, and the leather seat squeaks under me.
I turn the key.
The engine growls—not clean, but it runs.
I don’t turn on the radio. No news. No sound. Just the road in front of me.
The city’s awake by the time I make it back. The sun’s higher now, cutting through what’s left of the fog. Doesn’t help. The cold I brought with me doesn’t burn off.
The bar is closed. Neon lights are off. The windows are dim, reflecting the street like mirrors.
I park around back.
The alley smells like wet concrete and spilled beer.
I walk up the stairs. Each step complains under my boots. Old wood. No surprise.
I leave the machete in the trunk. It’s done for now.
But I don’t clean myself off.
I want her to see.
To know what I did.
What I dragged into the swamp and buried so her name stays untouched.
The back door creaks when I push it open. The hinges groan like they feel it too.
Inside, the scent of lemon oil, coffee, and bourbon permeates, all hers, settled into every corner of the place.
My chest tightens.
I don’t stop walking.
I move through the hall. The boards beneath my boots creak. I leave streaks of swamp water and mud behind me—faint trails. Nothing I care to clean up.
I step into the main room.
She’s behind the bar, cleaning. Her movements are slow, focused.
Then, she stops.
The moment she hears the door shut, her head lifts. Her eyes lock onto mine.
No hesitation.
She sees the shirt. The blood. The dirt. The sweat. All of it.
Her face doesn’t change right away.
But then I see it—worry. Then recognition. Then something else. Something sharp. It holds her gaze as if she’s trying to figure out what I’ve done without needing the full picture.
Her eyes drop to my hands.
Blood remains. Dried. Caked under my nails. My fingers stained, my shirt stiff with it.
I don’t speak yet.
I step forward. The weight of what I’ve done is still on my chest, but it’s quiet now.
I stop at the edge of the bar.
We don’t touch.
We just look.
Her eyes search mine.
I let her.
“Done,” I say, voice rough. It comes out low, strained.
She doesn’t respond.
I stay there.
Closer than I should be.
Not saying more.
Not explaining.
She looks at me like she already knows. Not every detail. Just enough.
She knows it’s not over.
I know it too.
That voice in the swamp—it’s still with me.
You’re next.
I don’t know what that means yet.
But it wasn’t a bluff.
Still, in this room, I don’t feel it. Not with her looking at me like that. Not with her standing steady.
She puts the rag down.
Her hand lingers on the bar. I notice the slight shift in her fingers. She’s not shaking, but she’s tense.
So am I.
My blood doesn’t scare her.
It never has.
We don’t say anything.
We don’t need to.
Whatever that thing in the swamp was—whatever it meant—it’s coming. I know that.
But I’ll face it.
Because she’s here.
Because I want to.