The estate always felt different when Renzo was gone. The air lost its electric, terrifying charge, but in its place sat a heavy, suffocating hollow.
I sat in the library, staring at the same page for twenty minutes, listening to the house breathe.
Every creak of the floorboards sounded like a footstep; every shadow looked like a hand reaching for my throat.
"You're overthinking the plot again, Elara."
I jumped, my pulse hammering against my ribs. Vico stood in the doorway, his posture relaxed, a stark contrast to the rigid, military statues that usually guarded the halls. He didn't wear a suit; he wore a simple black sweater with the sleeves pushed up, looking more like a graduate student than a soldier for the underworld.
"I didn't hear you come in," I breathed, trying to steady my hands.
"That's the idea," he said with a small, crooked grin. He walked over, carrying a glass of water that beaded with condensation. "But I figured you'd been in here long enough to turn into a statue yourself. Drink. You look like you've forgotten how to breathe."
I took the glass, my fingers brushing his. His skin was warm—human. Unlike Renzo, whose touch always felt like ice or fire, Vico felt grounded. Safe.
"Why do you do it?" I asked, looking up at him. "Why are you actually kind to me when everyone else treats me like a ghost?"
Vico pulled out the chair opposite me and turned it around, sitting straddle-legged. He looked at me with eyes that didn't demand anything. "Because I know what it's like to be the only one in the room who didn't choose to be here. Renzo... he's a lot. But you don't have to carry the weight of this house alone, Elara. Not while I'm on shift."
For a moment, the tension in my shoulders snapped. I felt a lump form in my throat. In this house of monsters, Vico was the only one who saw me, not just Renzo's latest obsession.
The Glitch
I waited until I heard Vico's footsteps retreat down the hall before I stood up. I needed to move, to feel like my legs still worked. I wandered toward the back gallery, the glass still in my hand, thinking about that smile. Maybe I could survive this. Maybe there was an ally in this fortress after all.
I stopped near the servant's alcove when I heard a frantic, hushed tapping.
The door was ajar, just a hairline fracture of light spilling onto the carpet. I peered through, expecting a maid or a cook.
It was Vico.
He was tucked into the shadows of the narrow coat closet, his face transformed. Gone was the warmth, replaced by a cold, sharp intensity that made my blood turn to slush. He held a small, cheap-looking black phone—a burner.
"I'm in," he hissed into the receiver, his voice a jagged whisper I didn't recognize. "He's distracted by the girl. Friday night is the window. If the hit is clean, the throne is open."
My heart stopped. My hand shook, the ice in my glass clinking against the rim with a sound that felt like a gunshot in the quiet hall.
Vico's head snapped toward the door. I shoved myself back against the wall, my lungs burning as I held my breath, praying to a God I hadn't spoken to in years that he hadn't heard me.
He was a traitor. The only hand that had reached out to help me was holding a knife meant for Renzo's back.
Now, I had a choice. If I told Renzo, Vico would be dead before sunrise—brutally. If I stayed silent, I was a silent partner in a murder.
Do I save the man who showed me mercy, or the monster who claims to own me?