But the blade digs in — just enough to slice.
A thin line of heat trickles down my neck, sliding along my collarbone.
He leans in until his breath ghosts over my ear.
“Don’t worry,” he whispers. “Kings aren’t the only ones who die down here.”
The blade presses closer.
And for the first time tonight—
It's my life hanging in the balance.
12
Pia
Chasing A Deadman’s Clues
Idon’t sleep.Not for a second.Not after watching my father’s face curl into ash.
I sit with my back pressed hard against the icy wall, knees tucked to my chest, knife locked in my grip. The room feels too small. Too quiet. Too exposed. My eyes keep drifting to the window, the floorboard that creaked, the spot where someone stood and watched me break.
Because someone was here.And they know.
They know I lied.They know I’m close.They know I’m not the helpless little stray the Rivas family thinks I am.
My fingers tighten around the knife until my knuckles throb. The blade catches each weak flash of candlelight, sharp enoughto cut through fear — if fear were something solid and not a pulse hammering in my throat.
The church finally settles.The storm above fades into low, distant thunder.Somewhere down the hall, Santino moves — slow, heavy footsteps, worn down by whatever he’s carrying. He doesn’t come back. Doesn’t check on me. He doesn’t hover like he almost did.
Good.I can’t afford him tonight.Not his questions.Not his concern.Not the way he looks at me, like he’s beginning to see the girl beneath the lies.
I wait for his door to close.Wait for the walls to stop holding their breath.
Then I rise.
The ache in my body hits hard — leftover adrenaline, bruised fear, the ghost of Santino’s hands on my skin after he killed for me. My limbs tremble, not from weakness but from overload. Too much emotion in a body already stretched thin.
“Move,” I whisper.
I slide the knife into the sheath at my thigh. My father’s map goes into my coat pocket. Hood up. Shoulders squared. Bare feet silent on warped floorboards as I slip into the hall.
Past the sanctuary.Past the pulpit.Past the altar where Santino once pretended his hands were clean.
The hidden access panel waits behind the velvet drape.Same place.Same tunnel.Different purpose.
Last time, I searched blind — chasing a dead man’s clues with a prayer and a reckless heartbeat.Tonight, I know exactly where I’m going.
I drop into the tunnel.
Cold air rushes up, thick with incense and rot. Torches flicker along the stone walls, throwing jagged shadows that stretch and warp as I move.
But I don’t take the path Santino used.I take the other one.Narrower. Older. Hidden.
The path marked on my father’s coded map — the one he died for — with a symbol the Rivas sons never deciphered.
The passage slopes downward, twisting tighter as it descends. My breath fogs. The walls draw in. Darkness presses close, heavy enough to feel on my skin.
