Chapter 3
Alina
Iawoke the following morning with a smile tugging at my lips and cheer blooming in my chest.
I would attend Pietro Costa’s masquerade ball tonight—an evening draped in mystery, masked in decadence, whispered about in the corners of Florence’s most exclusive salons.
I stretched languidly beneath my linen sheets, letting the sunlight span across my skin like warm honey. Slipping into my robe, I tiptoed across the marble floor and crept into Mammina’s chamber.
Her armoire stood tall, a treasure chest of elegance and power. I opened it carefully, inhaling the soft scent of rosewater and silk.
Her gowns were all custom-made, stitched by Florence’s finest hands. And since we shared nearly the same frame, I knew exactly what I was searching for.
A pale gown—white silk, so soft it shimmered like moonlight. It whispered luxury and danger all at once. I pressed it to my chest, heart fluttering, and quietly carried it to my armoire, tucking it safely away.
I descended the spiral staircase, the iron railing cool beneath my fingertips, and stepped into the dining room, where the morning feast was being served.
“Good morning, Papa,” I said sweetly, kissing the edge of his grizzled jaw.
He grunted, his eyes unmoving behind the crinkle of his news sheet.
“Good morning, Mammina,” I offered, rounding the table to kiss her gently powdered cheek.
“Good morning, Fragolina,” she said with a soft smile, using her favorite pet name for me—little strawberry. The sound of it wrapped around me like a gentle scarf, familiar and sweet.
“Eat, eat,” she urged, gesturing to the lavish spread of warm scones, whipped butter, sliced fruits, and flaky pastries perfumed with vanilla and citrus.
I reached for a scone, spreading marmalade thickly over its golden surface. As I bit in, a wave of excitement surged up my spine. Out the window, the morning sun painted the sky in a golden blush. The world felt alive.
Tonight, I thought, everything will change.
Mama gently broke the shell of her soft-boiled egg, scooping the bright yolk with quiet precision. Then she looked up.
“What has you in such good spirits today, my child?”
I swallowed my bite, practically glowing.
“Tomaso has invited me to Pietro Costa’s masquerade ball,” I announced. “And I’m going!”
Silence fell like a guillotine.
Mama’s spoon froze midair. Papa lowered the paper.
Their eyes met mine—cold, unreadable.
“No,” Mama said, her voice sharper than I’d expected. “You are not going to that party.”
Papa folded his news sheet with surgical calm.
“Your mother and I will be attending. Alone,” he said flatly. “That is final.”
“No! You can’t do this to me!” I shrieked, my fists slamming against the table with a force that rattled the cutlery. Rage surged through me like a wildfire. I shot to my feet, chest heaving, barely able to contain the storm building inside.
“You can’t stop me!”
“Watch me!” Papa roared.
He rose from his chair in one violent motion, seized my arm, and yanked me out of the dining room with a grip like iron.
I kicked, thrashed, screamed his name through clenched teeth—but it didn’t matter. His hold didn’t falter.
“You’ll thank me one day,” he muttered, dragging me up the stairs. “I’m doing this for your good, daughter.”
Then, with one shove, I was thrown backward onto my bed, the silk sheets tangling around me like a web.
“It’s one thing to protect your virtue,” Papa said, his voice strained, cracking with conflicting emotions. “It’s another to let you attend a ball of debauchery and shame.”
He loomed in the doorway—tall, unforgiving, the final word carved into stone.
“I’m an adult, too!” I cried, scrambling to my knees.
“You’re sixteen,” he said, softer now, his tone edged with sadness. “You know nothing of the world yet, piccolo uccello.”
His eyes searched mine, and I saw him falter for a heartbeat. The stern mask slipped just slightly. His lips parted as if he wanted to say more, but he didn’t.
That was all I needed.
I struck, words sharp and cold.
“The neighbor’s daughter married at fifteen. I’m already far more mature than she’s ever been.”
Papa’s jaw clenched. Whatever softness had bloomed there vanished like smoke.
“No, my child,” he said. “You are not. And my decision is final.”
He turned, robes flaring behind him like a curtain falling on a stage.
The door slammed.
Click.
The lock slid into place. The sound echoed like a verdict.
I convulsed in a sea of silk and rage, thrashing in the luxurious linens as though they might choke me. I tore myself free, my breaths ragged. My vision swam with red.
I lunged toward the side table, seized the heavy metal candlestick, and hurled it across the room with all my strength.
It crashed against the wall with a deafening, metallic clang, splintering wood and splashing molten wax across the floor.
And then—silence.
I stood there, panting, surrounded by the wreckage of my fury. My chest heaved, my hair wild, and a single truth rose in me like a whisper carried on wind and flame—
I will not be caged.
Every nerve in my body seethed. How dare they? How dare they lock me away like I were some fragile trinket, too delicate to taste the world? I lunged at the door with a guttural sound, more animal than human, and yanked the handle. Locked.
Desperate, I slammed my fists against the wood, screaming into the thick, unmoving air.
When there was no answer—no footsteps, no mercy—I slid down to the floor, shoulders shaking, the fire within me dampened but not extinguished.
I lay in that stillness only for a moment.
Then I rose.
Something shifted inside me. A quiet resolve. The kind that built revolutions and ruins.
I turned toward the armoire. The white silk gown gleamed within, luminous as moonlight, calling to me like a promise. I opened the door with reverent hands, stepped into the gown, and turned before the mirror.
It clung to me like it had been made for me and no one else.
The silk rippled around my body as I twirled, the hem catching the light. I looked like the daughter of nobility and sin, innocence wrapped in rebellion.
Slowly, I removed it again and draped it over its hanger, careful not to wrinkle the fabric. I shut the armoire’s door softly as if the wrong noise might awaken the curse still hanging in the house.
I padded to the window and leaned on the sill.
Below, the vineyards stretched toward the horizon, sun-drenched and shimmering. In the distance, Francesco limped through the vines, his figure shadowed by pain.
I winced. Then I turned my gaze toward the Costa estate. The marble rooftop peeked through the trees, taunting me.
I will be there tonight.
Could I make it to Raul’s house undetected? Perhaps. Maybe I could even convince him to give me one of his father’s poisons—something subtle. Something that would leave my parents sick and unaware while I disappeared into the night.
It was dangerous. Reckless. Delicious.
My eyes scanned the roof’s steep pitch. Slate tiles shimmered in the sun, slick and unforgiving. My heart raced. But the fear only made the thrill sharper.
With a deep breath, I hitched up my long skirt and tucked the fabric into my waistband. My fingers trembled—not with hesitation, but with excitement.
I had always chased the thrill of danger. This was no different.
I knelt on the windowsill. The summer wind licked at my soft skin, a stark contrast to the cool stone beneath me.
I eased the window open and exhaled.
Then, I climbed onto the slate tiles, the sun at my back and the fire of rebellion in my veins.
It was a beautiful day—so beautiful it felt almost cruel. The sun bathed the world in gold, and with each careful step along the rooftop, I felt my chest swell with a strange, wild joy.
It was as if the light had cast some magic over me, boiling away fear and flooding me with a clarity of purpose I had never known.
I could do this.
I would do this.
Even if it meant escaping my own home like a thief in the daylight.
Carefully, I moved across the pitched roof, each step deliberate on the blistering slate tiles. At the edge, I paused, staring down at the garden below. The distance made my stomach lurch. Dizzy, I crouched and pressed my palms against the tiles, grounding myself.
When the spinning ceased, I leaned forward to examine the trellis beneath the windowsill—an old wooden lattice draped in ivy, secured where the stone met the brick.
It looked sturdy.
But I wouldn’t know for sure until I tested it.
Glancing around to ensure no one lingered below, I lowered myself onto my belly, legs dangling over the edge. My toes fumbled for a foothold, and when they met wood, I clutched the rooftop edge and carefully let my weight shift onto the trellis.
It held.
With a breath of relief, I began my descent, inch by inch. The wood creaked softly under me, but it didn’t crack. I moved, the vines brushing my skin, the scent of lavender and earth drifting up.
I paused as I neared the bottom, still a few feet from the ground. I wanted to savor the moment—the air on my skin, the forbidden thrill in my blood.
And then, I let go.
I landed in a whisper.
The grass gave beneath my feet like silk, and for one sweet moment, I felt like a bird who had finally slipped its cage.
But freedom had a price.
And the night was calling.
I didn’t linger.
Hugging the hedges, I darted along the side of the house, my heart pounding in rhythm with my feet. I kept to the shadows, slipping past the garden, the stables, the long gravel drive. When I reached the end of the estate, I turned.
One last glance at the house I had fled—its windows glinting like quiet eyes.
And then I ran.
The journey to Raul’s estate was longer than I’d remembered. My lungs burned, my legs ached, and the sun rode higher in the sky as I finally arrived, breathless and flushed, sweat clinging to my brow.