My breath grows thin.
I don’t want to look.I don’t want to flip another page.
But I can’t stop myself.
I grab the next ledger—hands shaking, grip too tight—and drag it off the shelf. It lands open across my palm, pages fanning out like a deck of blood-marked cards.
The divider title knocks the air straight out of me:
CONFESSION ENTRIES–TO BE DESTROYED
My stomach knots.
Giovanni kept copies of confessions.Not summaries.Not interpretations.Copies.
Blasphemy.Corruption.Leverage.
Every sin he collected was insurance—another loaded gun aimed at the people who trusted him.
I flip the page.
Dozens of taped slips stare back at me, crooked and yellowed, edges stained from fingerprints and time. His handwriting lines each one with tight, ruthless notes.
The air feels colder.
I slide one free.
“Met the King alone the night he died.”
My vision narrows.
Another slip:
“He said he had a plan. I told him I wouldn’t let him follow through.”
A chill crawls down my back.
Not a rival.Not an outsider.Someone he trusted enough to meet alone.
I reach for the next slip, fingers trembling so badly I almost rip it.
“He gave me something. Said it was the key to everything.”
The key.
My hand flies to my pocket—Giovanni’s actual key is still cold and heavy against my thigh.
What the hell did you hand over, old man?
I flip to the final taped slip, but someone ripped half of it clean off. A jagged tear cuts down the center, like someone tried to destroy it before they ran out of time.
Only a single fragment remains.
One name.
ROM—
My breath stops.
