Chapter 26 – Tiziano
The body slumps against the dumpster where I left it, throat cut, blood soaking the pavement in a dark, spreading stain.
My old clothes—stolen from me days ago—hang loose on the stranger’s cooling body, making him look like me, Tiziano Valtieri, at least enough to fool anyone who finds him.
The streetlamp’s dim light glints off the blood, turning it a deep, glossy red.
I know the hunters will come soon, sniffing for me, and this scene is my ticket out.
“You’re taking my place tonight,” I mutter to the corpse, my hands steady, my breathing controlled. Every move I make is deliberate, part of a plan I’ve rehearsed in my head a hundred times. “You’re my escape.”
I kneel beside the body, dipping my fingers into the warm, sticky blood.
It’s still fresh, dripping onto the cracked pavement, pooling around my boots.
I smear it along the collar of my old jacket, streaking the sleeves, crafting a story the hunters will believe.
The stains need to look desperate, like I fought for my life and lost. I press harder, making sure the blood soaks into the fabric, my fingers trembling slightly from the pressure, not fear.
“This has to work,” I say under my breath, my fists clenched, my eyes darting to the alley’s shadows. “Just long enough for us to get clear.”
I scuff my boots in the alley’s dirt, leaving deliberate marks—arcs and drags that suggest a struggle that never happened.
The pavement is littered with cigarette butts, broken glass, and grime, the kind of place where someone like me might die.
Each step I take is calculated, placed where the hunters will see it, where it’ll convince them I bled out here.
The corpse’s face is a mess, torn and bloodied, impossible to recognize. I made sure of that, a brutal necessity to blur his features and make this lie easier. No one will question it when they see my clothes, my name, and assume it’s me.
“Freedom’s got a price,” I mutter, my resolve hard and unwavering. “But it’s not my blood tonight.”
“It’s for her,” I say louder, Vespera’s face flashing in my mind—her gray eyes fierce, her strength the reason I’m kneeling here, covered in someone else’s blood. “Everything’s for her.”
“Damn right,” her voice from last night cuts through my thoughts, firm and unyielding, like she’s standing beside me, holding me accountable.
Vespera watches from the alley’s edge, her presence steadying me, grounding me in this chaos.
Her gray eyes are sharp, tracking every move I make, every smear of blood I leave.
She’s silent, her arms relaxed, her coat slipping slightly to reveal one shoulder.
Her stance is calm but alert, ready to act if something goes wrong.
“You’re keeping me focused,” I say, pausing to meet her gaze, feeling its intensity like a lifeline. “You’re why I’m not screwing this up.”
“You better not,” she replies, her voice low and steady, a challenge laced with trust. “I’m counting on you, Tiziano.”
Her silence earlier today, when we planned this, spoke louder than words. It was a vow we didn’t need to say out loud. Now, her words settle in my chest, sparking hope beneath the weight of what I’m doing.
“You know what this costs,” I say, my voice rough, my fingers slick with blood that isn’t mine. “You know I’d pay it a thousand times for you.”
“I know,” she says, her tone softening, her eyes flickering with something vulnerable, a rare glimpse beneath her tough exterior. “And I’m in this with you.”
She steps closer, her boots quiet on the wet pavement, her shadow merging with mine in the dim light.
She hands me a clean black shirt, crisp and new, a symbol of the man I’m about to become.
Her fingers brush mine as she passes it over, warm and intentional, a touch that cuts through the cold knot in my chest.
“Don’t pull away,” I say, my throat tight, my skin tingling where her hand lingers. I want to freeze this moment, hold onto her warmth. “Not yet, Vespera.”
“Not yet,” she murmurs, her eyes locking onto mine, gray and fierce, hiding a tremor I sense more than see. “I’m right here.”
The air smells of copper from the blood, mixed with the faint burn of bourbon from a broken bottle nearby and the stale smoke of the city. My shoulder aches, an old injury flaring under the strain, but it’s nothing compared to the weight of Vespera’s gaze, her trust, her presence.
“They’ll be here soon,” I say, flexing my hands, the clean shirt rough in my grip, ready to cover the blood and the past. “They’ll find him, think it’s me, and we’ll get our shot.”
“Let them,” she replies, her voice sharp and final, a promise that she’s all in. “Let them chase a dead man.”
I pull the shirt on, the fabric sliding over my skin, hiding the stains, transforming me into someone new. The alley feels smaller now, the silence heavy, holding the world at bay. It’s just us, just this moment, and the lie we’re building together.
“You’re not weak,” I say, watching her, seeing the fire in her stance, the determination in her eyes. “You’ll hold down the bar, keep things running while I’m gone.”
“And you’ll come back,” she says, her voice fierce, a command and a plea all at once. “You better, Tiziano.”
The pavement is slick under my boots, blood pooling where I stepped, a vivid map of the lie we’ve crafted, brutal and convincing. The streetlamp flickers, casting uneven shadows that seem to watch us, witnesses to our plan.
“I’m doing this right,” I say, scanning the scene, checking every smear of blood, every footprint, every detail. “It’s tight, enough to fool them.”
“It has to be,” she replies, her tone hard, but her eyes softer, trusting me to make this work.
The smell of blood lingers, sharp and metallic, blending with the bourbon and smoke, a reminder of what I’m leaving behind. My hands are steady, but my chest aches, the cost of this lie pressing against my ribs like a bruise.
“I die tonight,” I say, my voice raw, a vow to her, to the plan, to the blood I’ve spilled. “For us.”
“You’re not dying,” she says, stepping closer, her hand gripping my arm, fierce and grounding. “You’re disappearing. There’s a difference.”
“For us,” I repeat, her words sinking in, tying me to her, to the bar, to the life I’m stepping away from. “I’m not gone, not while you’re holding things together.”
Vespera’s hand lingers on my arm, her touch a reminder of why I’m doing this. “You’re taking a hell of a risk,” she says, her voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “But I know you. You’ll pull this off.”
“I have to,” I say, my voice steady despite the weight in my chest. “If I don’t, there are still people who will come for you. For the bar. For everything we’ve built. They are in the shadows, waiting.”
She nods, her face sharp, her eyes searching mine. “Then don’t mess it up,” she says, a faint smile tugging at her lips, a flicker of warmth in the tension. “I’m not running that bar alone forever.”
I manage a small laugh, the sound rough but real. “Deal,” I say, my hand brushing hers, a brief, grounding touch. “I’ll be back before you start redecorating the place.”
Her smile fades, but her eyes stay locked on mine, fierce and unwavering. “You’re not just doing this for me,” she says. “You’re doing it for you, too. For a chance to live without looking over your shoulder.”
I swallow hard, her words hitting deeper than I expect. “Maybe,” I admit, my voice low. “But you’re the reason I’m fighting for that chance.”
She steps back, giving me space to finish, but her presence still anchors me.
I check the scene one last time, making sure every detail is perfect.
The bloodstains are chaotic, the footprints tell a story of struggle, and the body wears my identity like a mask.
It’s enough to buy us time, to let me slip away and start over.
“You’re my hope,” I say, my voice softer, my hands still, holding the shirt like it’s a piece of her. “You’re why I’m not afraid.”
“And you’re mine,” she replies, her gray eyes fierce, unbroken, a light I’ll carry with me no matter where I go.
Shouts erupt at the alley’s mouth, harsh and jagged, slicing through the dawn’s thick fog. Boots pound wet pavement, heavy, urgent, the sound bouncing off grimy brick walls. Metal clinks—a belt buckle, maybe a holster. Radios hiss and crackle, static spitting into the gray morning air.
“That’s him!” a man barks, his voice raw, certain, pinning me to the shadows as I crouch low behind a stack of crates.
“He’s down—gone. Christ,” another mutters, quieter, stunned, buying the lie I’ve staged by the dumpster, the body sprawled in a pool of dark blood, clothes torn to match mine.
“They think it’s me,” I whisper to myself, my pulse steady, my body still, every sense locked on their voices. “They see Tiziano Valtieri, dead, and that’s enough.”
“Keep it together,” Vespera’s voice from last night echoes in my head, her words sharp, steadying me. “One slip, and it’s over.”
I duck under the rusted fire escape, flattening myself against the wall, breath trapped in my chest. The fog curls around me, cold and heavy, hiding my shape in its damp haze. The brick under my palms is rough, icy, grounding me as I strain to hear.
“There’s four of them,” I murmur, counting voices, their words tangled, chaotic. “Maybe five.”
One lingers too close to the dumpster, his boots scuffing the pavement near my handiwork. “He’s messed up bad,” he says, voice low, uneasy. “One of ours do this?”
“Looks like a hit. Throat’s cut clean,” another replies, colder, assessing, believing the story I’ve carved into flesh.
“It’s clean enough,” I say under my breath, lips tight, eyes fixed on the fog’s edge where their shadows shift. “Real enough to fool them.”
“Real enough to get us out,” Vespera’s voice from last night cuts through my memory, sharp, certain.
“Shit. Who do we tell?” the first man asks, panic creeping into his tone, a crack I’m banking on.