Chapter 13
Balthazar
Isat motionless in my chair, seething in the dim glow of candlelight flickering across the walls of my study. The air was heavy, stifling, and thick with the scent of wax and smoke. Shadows danced across the stone walls like phantoms, whispering secrets I couldn’t bear to hear.
Alina had vanished.
The last time I’d seen her was days ago, slipping like a wraith along the edges of the funeral procession. Since then—nothing. Every lead, every contact, every bribe had yielded the same maddening result: dead ends and cold trails.
And the rumors… gods, the rumors.
They echoed in every tavern and alleyway, spun by gossips with eager tongues. Some claimed she had killed her family. Others said I had done it—and that Alina had fled from me, terrified of the man who had bathed her household in blood.
Lies. Poisonous lies.
A knock at the door broke through my thoughts like a dagger through glass.
I rose at once, fury propelling me forward, and yanked the door open, already poised to unleash a torrent of rage—
Only to be met by the cold steel of drawn weapons.
Three Bargello stood before me—enforcers of the Medici, cloaked in menace. They wore black leather doublets, glistening with oil and stitched with cruel elegance. Their hands rested on maces and daggers that caught the lamplight, weapons more suited to punishment than defense.
Their expressions were carved from stone—hard, unreadable, made for intimidation. Feathered black hats crowned their heads, their cloaks thick and rain-heavy. Their boots struck the earth with purpose, and their gauntlets creaked with every twitch of their fingers.
They embodied the Medici’s reach—silent, brutal, and always watching.
But they didn’t frighten me.
I was no enemy of the Medici—quite the opposite.
I was a generous benefactor, a patron whose coin regularly lined the coffers of the Gonfalonier—the very official who oversaw these black-cloaked hounds.
These men existed to enforce the law, yes—but also to protect the illusion of order in Florence. A delicate facade I helped maintain.
So, I greeted them politely, as one does when the dogs come sniffing at your doorstep.
“How may I be of service, gentlemen?” I asked smoothly, my voice all civility.
The largest of the three stepped forward, his eyes unreadable beneath the brim of his feathered hat.
“You can come with us, Lord Balthazar. You’re wanted for murder.”
I raised a brow. “Is that so? And on what evidence do you base this accusation?”
They began to list off details—bodies found at the Tocino estate, signs of forced entry, the brutal nature of the killings. I barely listened.
Until one word struck me like a knife to the ribs.
Lady Tocino.
My gaze snapped to the tallest man. “What did you just say?”
A knowing smirk crept across his face like a stain.
“I said,” he drawled, clearly savoring every word, “Lady Tocino has given an eyewitness account of the crime. Claimed she caught you in the act, with your knife in her sister’s throat. Said you were drinking the blood like a vampire.”
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Are you a vampire, Lord Balthazar?”
He grinned, teeth bared.
That little bitch.
What was she playing at, spinning such tales?
Lies so bold even the Bargello were amused?
I bared my teeth in return. “I assure you, fine gentlemen, I am no vampire. See?” I gestured to my mouth. “No fangs.”
I steadied my voice, lacing it with disdainful calm. “And as for Lady Tocino… she’s long been prone to delusions. She lives in a world of fantasy and fabrication. I’ve heard her stories before.”
“Is that so?” the henchman replied coldly, unmoving. His boots planted like pillars, his gaze sharp enough to cut marble.
“She lies,” I said again, firmer this time. “And I must ask—was this arrest warrant sanctioned by Giovanni di Lorenzo de’ Medici himself?”
That gave them pause.
Giovanni, the second son of Lorenzo the Magnificent and a rising star within the Medici dynasty and the Church, was no minor figure. Along with his brother Giuliano and the Signoria, he held the true reins of power behind Florence’s illusion of order.
The tall Bargello met my eyes with a stare as cold and sharp as winter steel.
“We act on his and his brother’s behalf,” he said.
“Does that mean he ordered my apprehension?” I pressed. “Did he say, with his own mouth, ‘Go. Seize Lord Balthazar’?”
The Bargello hesitated.
“We follow the Medici’s will. We serve them both.”
“Ah,” I said, curling my fingers around the golden doorknob. “So, the answer is no. Giovanni did not order this. Giuliano did not order this. And neither did the Signoria.”
Silence.
I leaned in. “I am a loyal patron of House Medici—one of considerable means and generosity. Unless you have proof—something more than the fanciful tales of Lady Tocino—I suggest you turn around and walk away.”
They said nothing. So, I delivered the final blow.
“In fact,” I continued, voice sharpened with disdain, “I believe Lady Tocino murdered her family. No one has seen her since the killings. She vanished without a trace. If I were guilty, I would have fled. But she did. You’re hunting the wrong monster, gentlemen.”
The three Bargello exchanged uncertain glances, the faintest tremor betraying their fear.
Still, the tall one straightened, summoning what little courage he had left. “We’ll be back,” he growled. “I doubt a delicate beauty like Lady Tocino could commit such horrors. Especially not against her parents…”
I chuckled darkly. “Try to arrest me if you wish. But I promise—you have no idea what Alina is capable of.”
And then I let it happen.
With a roar that shook the heavens, my form erupted into flames. Fire poured from my skin as my human shape twisted into something unholy—a towering infernal creature, cloaked in smoke and rage, my eyes glowing like twin suns of ruin.
The Bargello screamed. They stumbled back, weapons forgotten, faces frozen in terror. Then they ran—cowards fleeing into the night, minds broken by what they had witnessed.
The flames died as quickly as they had risen, and I stood once more in human form, surrounded by the scorched air of my wrath.
I stalked through the halls of my home, every step fueled by fury.
Alina.
After all I had given her—after all I had done for her—she had gone to the authorities. She dared to betray me.
She would pay.
Unable to bear the suffocating stillness of my home, I threw on my coat and stormed into the night.
The air was bitter, but it did nothing to cool the fire inside me.
Once simmering beneath the surface, my anger now boiled with violent promise. I stalked the streets like a beast untethered, every footstep grinding into the stone with barely-contained rage.
I searched for her everywhere.
Every party, every masked ball, every whisper-filled tavern—I hunted her face in the crowd, listened for the lilt of her laugh in the wind. But there was nothing. No trace. No echo. No Alina.
My fists clenched at the thought of her in another man’s arms. Or worse… free of me. Somewhere far away, forgetting what we were, forgetting me.
Every step I took was stained with betrayal.
She had left me. Without warning. Without hesitation.
She had thrown me away.
I wanted to scream. To set fire to the city. To tear the hearts from every man who dared to glance my way. I longed to kill indiscriminately, to paint Florence in crimson grief, just to feel something other than the hollow ache gnawing at me.
But I didn’t.
I breathed.
Because she was still out there, and I would find her.
No matter how long it took. No matter where she had run.
She was mine.
The full moon loomed above the clouds like a pale eye, unblinking and cruel. It watched as I wandered, desperate and mad, to the one place where shadows still remembered her—
Our place.
The park.
I felt the pull before I even saw it.
A single leaf trembled on the branch of a crooked tree, pinned in the dew-kissed edge, was a scrap of paper.
My heart stopped.
Her handwriting. That delicate, flowery script I knew better than my name.
1666.
It mocked me.
It haunted me.
It invited me.
This was her challenge. Her twisted game.
And I would play.
With fire in my veins and no room for doubt, I turned away from the tree, already planning.
I had one month. One full moon cycle to prepare.
And the waiting… gutted me.
Time slowed to a crawl. Days dragged like iron chains behind me. Each sunrise was a curse. Each night, a torture.
Without her, I was an addict in withdrawal—sick, hollow, starved. My temper became legendary. My kills grew excessive, indulgent. I left behind corpses not for necessity, but for rage. People crossed the street to avoid me. The bravest dared not speak my name aloud.
Let them fear me.
I didn’t care.
All that mattered was her.
And when I reached her—when I tore through time and hunted her down—I would make her pay for this agony.
She would feel every ounce of it.
At last, the night had come.
Bathed in the eerie light of the full moon, I stood alone, uncertainty pressing against my spine. I had no idea if I would arrive in the correct era—no way to confirm if the date on Alina’s note had been true… or just another thread in her web of deceit.
She was clever. Deceptive. Cunning.
Trusting her was my greatest mistake.
But it didn’t matter. I had made a vow I would uphold, even if I had to chase her through centuries. I would find her. I would drag her back from whatever corner of time she thought could hide her. And I would make her pay.
I murmured the sacred scripture beneath my breath, the ancient syllables rasping like blades across my tongue. Then I lifted the dagger, and without hesitation, slit open the palm of my hand—offering blood to the night sky.
The world twisted.
A rush of wind. A great pull in my chest. The stars blinked out.
And then… silence.
I was no longer under the Florence moon.