Marcellious and I drained the last of our drinks and slid our tankards toward her. Without a word, she gathered them up and hurried away.
Costa’s expression grew distant as if gazing into the past. “A long time ago, I was married,” he said, his voice quieter now. “My wife brought me great happiness. We had a beautiful child together.”
I frowned, watching him carefully.
Why was he telling us this? Was he drunk?
Costa’s scowl deepened. “Even though my wife brought me happiness… I loved someone else.”
A shadow crossed his features, his fingers tightening into fists.
“But she loved a monster.”
A chill prickled down my spine.
The only monster I knew went by the name of Balthazar.
A furrow of pain deepened between Costa’s brows. “Our son—my wife’s and mine—we lost him.” His jaw tightened. “He was killed. I loved him more than anything. I tried everything to erase the pain, but nothing worked. It was unbearable.”
The barmaid reappeared, shoving her way through the crowd. She set three fresh tankards on the table, waiting expectantly.
Costa tossed a few coins onto her tray without looking. She scooped them up and disappeared.
Lifting his mug, he took a deep swig, draining half of it in one go. Then, unexpectedly, a strangled sob tore from his throat.
“So much pain.” He swayed slightly in his seat, his eyes distant. “Losing a child is hell. You can’t understand it unless you’ve lived it.”
Didn’t I know it?
I said nothing.
“But my lover…” Costa’s gaze turned glassy. “She returned to me.”
He closed his eyes as if reliving the moment.
“She was the love of my life. I always knew she would come back. And when she did, I knew I had found a way to ease the pain of losing my son.”
His eyelids snapped open, and his piercing gaze locked onto mine.
“Do you want to know what I did?”
I blinked, masking my unease. “Of course. Marcellious and I are always up for a good story, aren’t we?”
Marcellious snorted. “We live for stories.”
Costa, lost in his world, ignored the sarcasm.
“My lover wanted to poison her child—the one she bore,” he said, his expression bending into something cruel and bitter. “I loved her. I would have given her the world. But she chose him instead.”
A vein pulsed in his neck, his anger simmering beneath the surface.
I tried to piece together his story, but something felt missing—something crucial.
“What was your paramour’s name?” I asked carefully.
Costa’s eyes narrowed, studying me.
Then, with a breath, he spoke.
