Her lips parted in alarm. “Mio Dio,” she whispered, hastily making the sign of the cross. “He’s not here.”
Her eyes looked past me, scanning the road as if expecting someone—or something—to appear.
Disappointment settled in my chest like a stone. Another dead end. No closer to finding the dagger. No closer to finding my wife. No closer to Malik.
“Cecilia!” A male voice came from deeper inside the house. “Who’s at the door?”
Hope surged through me. Maybe it was Giovanni. Maybe she lied about his whereabouts.
Cecilia hesitated. “I don’t know, Signore,” she called over her shoulder.
A man in his late forties stormed into the small room behind her, his presence filling the space. The room was cluttered with mismatched furniture, but I focused on him. His expression was hard, unreadable.
He reached for Cecilia’s shoulders, gripping them tightly as he whispered something in her ear.
She nodded hurriedly and scurried away, disappearing down the hall without a glance back.
“Who are you?” he demanded, stepping forward.
His hair was thinning on top, leaving a brownish fringe circling hisskull. A bulbous nose dominated his face, perched above thin, cracked lips. Something about his presence felt hardened, worn by time and experience.
“I’m Roman Alexander. I’m here to see Giovanni Zampa.”
His eyes flicked past me. “Is that man with you?”
I glanced over my shoulder. Tristan sat slumped on his mule, looking bored. “Yes. He’s my manservant.”
The man’s gaze snapped back to me. “And who are you?”
I resisted the urge to sigh. “I already told you. I’m Roman Alexander, here to see Giovanni Zampa.”
His expression darkened. “My father is dead. He was murdered six months ago. What do you want?”
A beat of silence stretched between us. Murdered. That explained the tension that clung to this place.
“Might I ask your name?” I finally asked.
“Vincenzo. Vincenzo Zampa.” He cast another glance past my shoulder as if expecting danger to creep up behind me.
I forced a nod. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Vincenzo.” I extended my hand.
For a moment, he hesitated. Then, reluctantly, he clasped my hand in a firm shake. “What do you want with my father?”
I paused, considering my words. Should I tell him about the dagger? About time travel?
Finally, I relented. If Vincenzo knew something, I needed that information.
“It was my understanding that your father studied time travel.”
Vincenzo’s face drained of color. “Don’t ever say such things!” He seized my sleeve in a vice grip and yanked me inside, slamming the door shut behind us. “Such thoughts are treasonous.”
I held my ground. “Treasonous to whom? To you?”
“No,” he hissed, running a hand across his bald pate as if the action could steady his nerves. “To the people who killed my father.”
I blinked, trying to piece together his story. We stood in the cramped foyer, the dark-red tiles beneath us scuffed with age. Shadows pressed in from the dimly lit hallway beyond.
“Do you know anything about the whereabouts of the Sun Dagger?” I asked carefully. “I was told Giovanni had it. That he would be happy to hand it over to me.”
