Chapter 19 – Vespera
I sit cross-legged on the floor, bare knees touching the worn wood.
The map lies beside me—still scorched at the corners, still smeared with blood and fingerprints. I haven’t moved it since I brought it home.
The cards sit in front of me. Face down.
One stack. Sharp edges. Clean feel.
But the deck isn’t clean.
It’s heavy.
Tired.
Like me.
I shuffle slowly. My fingers know the rhythm. The deck talks through weight. Through slide. Through snap.
I exhale.
The candle beside me hisses in the wax puddle it made hours ago.
Leon’s locket rests against my chest: warm, not burning, not heat.
Just there.
I close my eyes.
Pull the first card.
Flip it.
The Star.
Hope.
Rebirth.
Guidance.
The edges ripple in the low light.
A breeze touches my cheek—cool, soft, like a breath from lips I haven’t kissed in years.
The flame bends, flickers sideways.
And then—
“Trust him.”
I don’t move.
I don’t blink.
The voice isn’t thunder.
It’s not imagined.
It’s Leon’s.
Real. Soft. So close I could reach for it.
I open my eyes.
The card’s still upright.
The wax shifts in the dish.
I sit frozen, one hand resting against my thigh, the other brushing the edge of the deck.
“Leon,” I whisper.
No answer.
But the feeling lingers.
Not grief.
Not guilt.
Presence.
I clutch the locket.
Press it flat against my skin.
“You were there,” I whisper. “Weren’t you?”
Nothing.
No more words.
But the flame straightens again. Steady now.
I lean forward, fingers trembling slightly as I draw a second card.
The Two of Swords.
Choice.
Conflict.
Stalemate.
Tiziano.
My throat tightens.
My palm presses into the wood floor to ground myself.
I look at the map. At the red mark over my bar. At the X over the collapsed shack.
All of it spiraling from this room. From this man. From this moment.
“Trust him,” Leon said.
But how?
How do I trust a man who bleeds truth only after it stings?
Who gives his body like a vow but hides every part of his past like it’s poison?
I press my forehead to my knee.
I sit there for a long time, the cards cool between my fingers.
The floor creaks.
No knock. No footsteps. Just the door—hinges groaning low like it’s trying to warn me.
I don’t turn around.
I already know.
Tiziano.
I can smell him before I see him. Smoke. Gunpowder. Metal. Blood.
He’s standing in the doorway, one hand stained red to the wrist, shirt half untucked, face streaked with sweat and soot.
The storm’s still in him. But it’s quieter now.
He doesn’t speak right away.
I look down at The Star, still clutched in my palm.
My fingers twitch over it, trace the points of the illustration like it’s a secret code I forgot how to read.
Then he says, “We’re close.”
His voice is lower than usual. Like it got dragged through gravel.
“They’re retreating.”
I nod once. Slow.
But I don’t get up. I don’t ask questions.
I just tighten my grip around the card.
Not for planning.
Not for strategy.
Because I feel it. Bone deep.
Belief.
It slides into place like a puzzle piece I didn’t realize was missing. Cold, then warm. Then steady.
I look up.
Tiziano doesn’t come closer.
He’s watching me.
Waiting.
The blood on his hand drips slowly, a trail of red across the threshold.
“Yours?” I ask.
“No.”
I nod again.
Then, I finally say, “Come in or don’t. You’re letting all the ghosts out.”
He steps inside and closes the door with his foot. Doesn’t jump when it shuts.
The noise echoes through the room like a drumbeat I didn’t know I needed.
I move The Star to my left hand and gesture to the towels on the sideboard.
“Wrap your hand.”
He walks over.
Doesn’t question it.
Pulls one down. Rips it in half.
Wraps the worst of the blood.
“Is it bad?” I ask.
“No.”
“You lie so easily.”
“I’m not trying to impress you.”
“That’s obvious.”
He doesn’t smile.
Neither do I.
The only light in the room comes from candles along the altar and the shelf. They don’t flicker. They stand tall. Steady.
I close my eyes again.
And I feel it.
Leon.
Still there.
Not stronger. Not weaker. Just…present.
Not pulling. Not warning.
Just watching.
“Do you want to sit?” I ask.
Tiziano doesn’t answer.
But he moves.
Around the edge of the table. Quiet.
Then he lowers to the floor beside me.
He winces as he rests his back against the cabinet.
I glance down at the makeshift bandage.
The towel’s soaked already.
“You should’ve cleaned it.”
“Didn’t want to wait.”
“Why not?”
His voice is hoarse. “Because last time I waited, you asked me to leave.”
I stare straight ahead.
The cards are still in front of me.
A second draw waiting to happen.
But I don’t lift my hand.
I let it sit over the top of the deck. Still. Steady.
Leon’s locket is warm against my chest again.
My heart keeps time with it.
Tiziano shifts beside me.
Doesn’t speak.
His thigh brushes mine—barely. Enough to feel the heat through denim and skin.
He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t reach for me.
He just sits.
Breathes.
Bleeds.
I don’t look at him.
But I let my fingers loosen around The Star.
It rests on my palm. Pale. Burnished at the edges. Ink faded from years of use.
I study it like it might change shape.
I wonder if he sees it.
I wonder if he knows.
“I heard Leon,” I say quietly.
Tiziano stills.
No breath. No movement.
“I was pulling cards. Just now. And he…he spoke.”
“To you?” he asks. Not doubtful. Not scared.
Just curious.
“To me.”
“What did he say?”
“Trust you.”
That gets him.
His throat works. He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds.
Then—soft: “I don’t deserve that.”
I nod. “Maybe not. But I heard him.”
“And you believe him?”
“I didn’t believe in anything,” I say. “Until tonight.”
Another silence.
This one different.
He leans forward, hand still cradling the bleeding one.
“Why me?” he asks.
“What?”
“Why trust me now? Why let me stay?”
I look at him fully for the first time. His face is drawn. Exhausted. But his eyes are clear. Wrecked. But clear.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But something in me just…stopped doubting.”
He stares back. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t thank me.
Just nods.
The moment sits between us.
I reach over. Grab a clean towel. Without asking, I slide closer. Take his hand.
He doesn’t resist.
I peel the soaked cloth back. His palm is torn across the base.
Long. Deep. But clean.
I dip another cloth in water and press it to the wound.
He hisses.
“Don’t be a baby,” I mutter.
“I’m not,” he growls.
“You flinched.”
“I didn’t.”
“You definitely flinched.”
His lips twitch. Barely. I clean the cut and then wrap it tighter. This time with gauze.
“Where’d you get this?” I ask.
“Clearing patrol. One of Alfeo’s dogs came out swinging.”
“Still alive?”
“No.”
I tie the end of the wrap and pat it once.
“Good.”
He leans back again.
I lean, too.
Our shoulders brush now. I keep The Star in my hand.
He doesn’t ask about it. But I think he feels it. Under everything—blood, ghosts, guilt—there’s a sliver of peace.
It won’t last. We both know it. But for now?
He’s here.
I’m still breathing.
And the card in my hand has turned cold.