Chapter 42
Alina
The world exploded around me in color and motion—too vivid, too alive.
The air was thick with the scent of fresh bread drifting from nearby ovens, sweet and tempting like a siren’s call.
People bustled through the narrow lanes with purpose, their chatter rising like a distant chorus.
Warm wind brushed my skin, but the ache in my chest was cold.
This was where I first met Balthazar.
A shudder tore through me at the memory, followed by an unbearable wave of yearning that nearly buckled my knees.
It burned, that desire. Scorching and cruel.
I hadn’t felt it since the moment I left him.
No touch had come close to igniting the fire he did.
But entwined in that hunger was something far darker—terror.
I had betrayed him in the deepest way imaginable.
I had taken another man to my bed—Raul. And I had fled Balthazar without warning, abandoning him to his fury. He’d made it painfully clear—if I ever gave myself to another, his vengeance would be swift and absolute.
Even now, despite the threat, I ached for him. Craved the madness, the danger. But I had to bury it.
This wasn’t about him anymore. I had to find Giovanni Zampa.
Then, like venom in a fresh wound, Scarlett’s image surged into my mind.
His Scarlett.
The woman who had carried his child while he demanded my loyalty. My fidelity.
Rage boiled in my gut, white-hot and blinding.
He made rules he never followed. And I paid the price for them.
I forced myself forward, pushing through the crowded streets. I remembered where Signor Zampa once lived. Was he still there? Was he even still alive?
I wandered past bakeries, market stalls, and homes built of sun-washed stone. Narrow alleys veined the village like arteries, and I searched each one with growing urgency.
And then—there he was.
A man stood in the distance, tall and composed, with dark hair and a commanding posture I remembered all too well.
It had to be him.
By some twist of fate—or divine intervention—I had found Giovanni Zampa.
He was tall and lean, with a long silver-streaked beard and a penetrating gaze. His cloak was frayed at the edges, worn thin by time, but he carried himself with a quiet dignity. He stood in the square, scanning the streets with wary eyes, as if expecting someone—or something—to arrive.
Was he waiting for me? Did he somehow know?
As I stepped forward, his gaze locked onto mine. His eyes widened, his jaw slackened, and he looked as though he’d seen a ghost for a moment.
“Alina?” he whispered, voice sounding like brittle parchment.
“Yes… yes, Signor Zampa.”
He stared at me, breath catching in his throat. “Is it truly you?” His voice wavered with disbelief as he squinted, taking in every detail of my face.
“It’s me,” I said softly. “I need your help.”
“What could an old man like me possibly offer?” he asked, though his tone was gentler now, curious, almost reverent. His back was stooped with age, but his eyes were still sharp, searching mine for answers.
My hands trembled as I stepped closer. “Balthazar is hunting me. I’ve found the Sun Dagger.”
Zampa inhaled sharply, his entire demeanor shifting. He looked around quickly.
“Not here,” he said in a low voice. “We mustn’t speak of this in public.”
Without waiting for my reply, he gripped my elbow and guided me away from the street, down a quiet alley that led to a dim, tucked-away tavern.
Inside, the air was thick with humidity and smoke, laced with the scent of burning herbs and old wood. Light filtered through half-closed shutters, casting long golden slashes across the room. The haze danced through the beams like spirits trapped in air.
It was heavy, cloistered, oppressive.
And yet… familiar. Intoxicating.
It reminded me of him. Of Balthazar. Of our nights spent in whispered secrets and forbidden heat.
Back when he still looked at me like I was his whole world.
But that world had shattered. And I was here now, forged from the pieces.
Signor Zampa gripped my arm firmly and guided me through the inn with surprising urgency. Around us, the soft hum of conversation wove through the room, punctuated by laughter and the occasional clink of glasses against wood.
We navigated between crowded tables, drawing a few curious glances, until Zampa finally stopped and gestured for me to sit across from him at an empty table tucked in a shadowed corner.
I lowered myself into the seat, unsure what to say, tension tightening my spine. I parted my lips to speak, but Zampa raised a finger to his lips. Not yet.
I obeyed.
Moments later, a stout tavernkeeper approached, dressed in a knee-length wool tunic, hose, and worn leather shoes. His steps were uneven, with a slight limp in his gait.
“What’ll it be, Signor Zampa?” he asked, wiping his hands on a stained apron.
“Two tankards of mead, if you please.”
The man nodded and shuffled off, boots scuffing against the timber floor.
“Wait,” Zampa murmured, his voice barely audible, “until he returns.”
When the tavernkeeper reappeared, he dropped the tankards onto the table with a dull thud. Zampa produced a few coins and flicked them toward him without a word. The man grunted, nodded, and hobbled away, leaving us in a hushed bubble of privacy.
We each lifted our tankards. The mead was sweet, its warmth spreading through my chest. My parched throat welcomed it.
Zampa set his cup down, then leaned forward. His voice dropped to a whisper—low, grave, controlled.
“You say Balthazar is trying to kill you?”
The frail man I’d followed down the cobblestone street was gone.
In his place now sat someone else entirely—shoulders squared, gaze sharpened, voice like tempered steel. There was power beneath the surface of him, old and coiled, and in that moment, I understood why he had survived so long.
“Yes,” I answered, my voice trembling enough to sound convincing. Then I told him my story—carefully constructed, each word chosen precisely. I painted myself as the victim of a cruel, unrelenting man—a hunted woman, desperate and afraid.
Oh, I was good at this now.
This performance.
Every day, my lies became more fluid, more persuasive. The truth was a luxury I could no longer afford.
When I finished, Zampa was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, “And how can I help?”
“I’ve been advised to entrust the blade to you,” I said. “I can’t keep it. It’s how Balthazar will find me. It’s a beacon... and I need it gone.”
I reached into my satchel and pulled the dagger free from its sheath. The golden inlays on the stone hilt shimmered under the tavern’s low lamplight. Slowly, deliberately, I slid it across the table to him.
Zampa’s eyes darted left and right, scanning the room. Then, cautiously, he picked it up.
He ran his fingers along the blade’s edge—not carelessly, but with reverence. It was clear he understood the importance of what he held.
“This,” he murmured, “is no ordinary weapon.”
He looked up, locking eyes with me.
“This is power—raw and ancient. More than I can fully comprehend. You’re asking me to carry something that could alter fate itself.”
I didn’t respond.
What could I say?
For a brief, desperate moment, I considered offering myself—using seduction, submission, anything to tip the scales in my favor. But the thought of that bargain with a much older man turned my stomach. So, I waited, every muscle in my body coiled tight, watching his face for a sign. Anything.
He stared at me for several long seconds, weighing not just the blade, but me. And then I saw that flicker of fear, quickly buried beneath a quiet, resigned resolve.
“I will take it,” he said at last, though tinged with the enormity of what he’d just accepted. “I’ll keep it safe.”
Relief surged through me like a crashing wave.
I reached across the table and clasped his hands in mine—a gesture that straddled the line between genuine gratitude and desperate necessity. His grip was firm, warm, steady, and grounding.
For a fleeting moment, I let myself believe that everything might, somehow, be alright.
“Thank you, Signor Zampa,” I whispered. “I’m indebted to you.”
Around us, the tavern thrummed with life—laughter and song rising over the clinking of tankards, the heavy air thick with smoke and sweat. We drained the last of our mead in silence, the unspoken tension between us lingering in the shadows.
Then Signor Zampa pushed to his feet.
“Wait,” I said quickly. “I need to find someone else here in Florence. Do you know a man named Eyan Malik?”
He paused, eyes narrowing. “No, dear. I’m afraid I don’t.”
He glanced around the room, suddenly guarded. “But I’d best be on my way.”
Before I could respond, he slipped into the crowd and vanished, consumed by the pulse of the tavern.
I sat there for a moment, stunned. Alone again.
With no leads on Malik, I made a decision fueled more by instinct than reason—I would go to Raul.
The thought of seeing him again sent a flutter through my stomach. I lifted the tankard for one final sip, but the sweet mead tasted bitter now, churning in my gut instead of offering comfort.
Outside, the sun had begun its descent, staining the sky in hues of crimson and gold. Raul’s estate lay far beyond the edge of town. If I went on foot, I wouldn’t reach him until midnight, and I’d be too exhausted to stand, let alone scheme.
I needed a horse.
In the fading light, I slipped into the shadows near the tavern entrance. A small group of horses stood tethered nearby, their heads bowed, tails swishing lazily. I scanned the area—no guards, no onlookers.
My heart thundered as I crept forward, staying close to the shadows. One of the horses, a chestnut mare with intelligent eyes, met my gaze. I stroked her muzzle, whispering.
She didn’t flinch.
Good.
With swift, practiced hands, I untied her reins, slung myself into the saddle, and dug my heels in. She surged forward, and I rode hard, the wind slicing across my face as I galloped away from the tavern and into the twilight.