Chapter 12 #2
Those memories clung to me—beautiful and grotesque, all tangled together in a sick fascination that erupted low in my belly like molten lust.
I wanted him.
No, I craved him.
I wanted to feel him again—inside me, filling me, taking me the way only Balthazar could. Like I was the only thing in the world that mattered while he fucked the sanity out of me.
But I had to be careful. This was a dangerous game.
And I had to win.
I needed to see this through. I needed the upper hand, for once.
After settling me into a room in the east wing of his estate, Signor Zampa stood at the threshold, his silhouette outlined by the soft hallway glow.
“I’m going to gather a few trusted men and take care of the bodies,” he said gravely. “Do not leave this house. Under no circumstances.”
I nodded, meek and obedient.
But inside?
I was pulsing with defiance. And desire.
The moment he closed the door, I heard the distinct snick of a lock sliding into place.
I froze.
The sound jolted something deep within me—something buried in my past. That same cold click from years ago, when my adoptive father locked me in my room to punish me for things I never understood.
I clenched my fists. My jaw. My thighs.
“Of course,” I growled under my breath. “A locked door. How original.”
But then I smiled. Darkly.
“Oh, well. In less than a week, I’ll be long gone.”
I wandered to the window, staring out at the estate grounds. Moonlight kissed the tips of the hedges.
Let him search for me, I thought. Let him burn the world down trying to find me.
I pictured Balthazar’s face when he returned to the bloody carnage we left behind, only to find me missing—vanished. Out of reach. Untouchable.
A laugh escaped my lips, hale and hearty, a sound unbecoming of a lady. But I wasn’t a lady anymore.
Everyone who had tried to tame me was dead.
And soon, I’d be beyond their reach.
Even Balthazar.
Maybe.
The following day, Signor Zampa delivered grim news with a quiet gravity.
“The community has been informed,” he said, slicing bread calmly as he prepared our modest supper. “The Tocino family’s murder has sent a ripple of fear through the city. No one knows who to trust anymore.”
He paused, gripping the knife and wiping his hands with a linen cloth.
“I told the Balìa who’s to blame,” he added. “Let them handle the savagery. I’m glad you came to me when you did, Lady Tocino. This is a tragedy… and I want you safe before the full moon rises.”
“Thank you, Signor,” I whispered, bowing my head as a tear slipped down my cheek. I dabbed it away with my handkerchief—delicate, practiced, convincing.
I hated the charade, but I wore it well.
Feigned grief had become second nature—a performance I delivered flawlessly.
Tears when needed. Quivers in my voice timed to perfection.
It was easier than dealing with the truth.
That I missed the man who had painted my family’s death in blood.
Two days later, I cloaked myself in black and melted into the shadows, slipping through alleyways and hugging the edges of buildings. I couldn’t afford to be seen.
The rumors had spread faster than fire through dry brush—
That I had a hand in the murders.
That I was Balthazar’s accomplice. His mistress. His apprentice.
And maybe I was.
Now, whispers followed me like ghosts. Threats lingered in every corner.
If I showed my face, they’d tear me apart.
My heart pounded as I ducked behind a thicket of trees, watching from a distance as the funeral procession wound through the city like a black serpent.
It was grand. Ornate. A spectacle of grief.
Priests and friars in sweeping black robes led the line of mourners, their hands clasped around golden crosses and relics, their voices raised in solemn prayer.
Somber music echoed through the narrow streets—flutes, trumpets, and low, mournful drums.
A death march.
A symphony for the dead.
The heavy wooden coffins were draped in wreaths and adorned with mementos—pitiful reminders of lives cut short. Glistening black horses pulled the funeral carts through the graveyard, their hooves striking the cobblestones with dull finality.
I stood cloaked in shadow, hidden beneath my long black gown.
The high neckline clung tightly to my throat, as if trying to trap the emotion that swelled within me.
Each passing breeze pressed my sheer mantilla against my face like a veil of mourning, delicate yet suffocating—an invisible cage I could not escape.
My rosary lay cold and unforgiving against my skin, each bead like a frozen tear.
Desperate for absolution I knew I didn’t deserve, I whispered prayers under my breath. The words were hollow, automatic. No penance could save me now. The small wooden cross hanging from my bracelet burned against my wrist, as though touched by hellfire.
A chilly wind cut across my sweat-slicked skin.
The procession crawled forward with ritualistic solemnity, but the weight of it—the grief, the spectacle—pressed down on me until tears blurred my vision. Whether they were real or fabricated, I no longer knew. I was grieving something... but I couldn’t name it.
And then I felt him.
Balthazar.
I knew he was out in the crowd, cloaked in silence, watching. Waiting. The sensation of him slithered across my spine, awakening the dread and longing that lived side by side inside me. Was he here to stop me from returning to Zampa? To punish me for daring to hide?
I bowed, scanning the sea of mourners with furtive glances, searching for his unmistakable form. But he did not emerge. Not yet. The predator remained in the dark.
I longed for the funeral to end so I could slip away with Signor Zampa and return to the safety of locked doors and ancient scripture. The priest droned on, his voice like dust—dry and endless.
Another priest stepped toward the mausoleum where the Tocino family would be sealed in their eternal tomb. He raised his hands and began to pray in a sonorous, almost theatrical voice.
“Almighty and merciful God, we gather here today to commend the souls of our dearly departed Tocino family into your loving and forgiving hands…”
My eyes narrowed behind the protective lace of my mantilla.
“…They have met a tragic end through an act of violence. We mourn lives cut short, the anguish and pain inflicted by this heinous crime…”
I rolled my eyes behind the veil of my shroud. A pious display, polished and rehearsed for the grieving masses. As if prayers could scrub the rot from this city’s underbelly.
“Lord,” the priest droned, “we pray for justice to be served, that those responsible for this crime may be brought to account. Grant wisdom and strength to those who pursue the truth, that they may uncover the fullness of it, and ensure the guilty do not go unpunished.”
Come on. Come on.
“We also pray for the family and loved ones of the Tocino family. Comfort them in their grief, O Lord. Surround them with your tender embrace and grant them solace in knowing their kin now rest in your eternal care. Ease their sorrow, and grant them strength for the days ahead.”
Goodness, enough already.
The words spun around me like gnats, buzzing with empty virtue, stinging at my temples.
“We beseech you, Lord,” he continued, “bring healing to our community. In the face of violence and unrest, instill a spirit of forgiveness and reconciliation. Please help us prevent such tragedies. Guide us to a world where love, compassion, and justice prevail.”
My patience thinned to a brittle thread. His voice grated on my nerves, each word like a drop of hot wax on exposed skin. I clenched my fists, resisting the urge to act on the violent fantasy forming in my mind—a strike to the throat to silence him once and for all.
“Lastly, O God,” the priest intoned, “we pray for the souls of the Tocino family. May they find rest in your everlasting presence. Look upon them with mercy, and grant them eternal life. May their suffering be transformed into glory, and may they bask in your eternal love and forgiveness.”
I was ready to scream. Or laugh—or both.
“...We offer these prayers in the name of your son, our savior, Jesus Christ, who conquered death and offers us hope. Amen.”
“Amen,” I whispered dryly, hidden behind a stone statue of Jesus, my lips twisting in a smirk that held no reverence.
Then—a jolt.
A firm hand clamped onto my shoulder. My breath caught as I whirled around.
Signor Zampa stood beside me, tall and composed, his dark eyes locked on mine. There was a flicker of concern in his expression, but it was quickly buried beneath firm resolve.
“I’ve been looking for you all day,” he said quietly. “Lady Tocino, you need to rest. Let us leave. Now.”
The mask slid back into place.
Tears streamed down my face—perfectly placed. My voice broke on command, trembling with grief as I clutched at his coat.
“Please…” I sobbed, voice hollow and broken, “please take me home.”
The next morning, I found Signor Zampa waiting at the bottom of the stairs like a sentinel cast in stone. His face was drawn tight, his eyes shadowed and severe.
“Lady Tocino,” he said, low but forceful, “there is no time to spare. We must begin studying the sacred scriptures. Now.”
His tone was different—a fervor, a fire that hadn’t been there before. It echoed down the hallway. I hesitated, taken aback by the shift in him.
“Might I have breakfast first?” I asked cautiously.
“Go, go!” he snapped, waving me off. “Time is of the essence. I’ll be in my study.” He turned and disappeared down the corridor.
My heart kicked against my ribs. What had changed?
Why did it feel like we were running out of time faster than the moon could rise?
I rushed through breakfast, barely tasting the food, then hurried to his study, anxiety twisting like a thorned vine.
When I entered, Signor Zampa was already at his desk, smoothing out a fragile, yellowed parchment with shaking hands. The paper crackled as he flattened it, and then—slam. His palm struck the desk with force, making me jump.
His eyes blazed. “Memorize this. Now.”