Romeo’s footsteps fade up the staircase, each one lighter than the weight he just dropped on my shoulders. The door shuts with a distant thud, sealing me in with stone, dust, and a man who haunts me more dead than he ever did alive.
My breath comes ragged—too loud in the vaulted dark.My heart won’t slow; it hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to break out of me.
I drag a hand down my face. “Fuck,” I whisper into the stillness.
Giovanni’s sarcophagus looms ahead—marble cold, perfect, wrong. Nothing about my father was this clean. The carved likeness of him—firm jaw, hard eyes, that permanent hint of a smirk—stares up at the ceiling like he’s still judging the whole damn world.
“You did this,” I murmur. “You built all of this and buried the truth under it.”
The words die fast, swallowed by the heavy air.
I step closer, that familiar mix of hate and longing clawing beneath my skin. I want to hit the stone. Rip it open. Demand answers from a corpse.
Instead, I stand there—breathing like I’ve sprinted a mile, head pounding with Romeo’s warning.
If you open that vault, you’ll wish you never did.
I look away, forcing myself to think like the heir instead of the son.
That’s when I see it.
At first, it’s nothing—a tiny oddity in the shadows. A sliver of something that doesn’t belong on old stone and older dust.
A glint.
Metal.
My eyes narrow, pulse kicking harder.
It's half-hidden under the stone bench. It's in the shadow at the base. It looks like it slipped out of a pocket. Or, someone placed it there on purpose. They didn't want it found quickly.
An icy feeling crawls up my spine.
I walk toward it slowly, each step heavier than the last. The closer I get, the colder the air feels—like the crypt itself knows what I’m about to touch and doesn’t approve.
I kneel.
The floor bites into my knees, cold seeping through my slacks. I lean forward, reaching under the bench, fingers sliding across rough stone until—
Metal.
My fingertips brush it first: a cool, solid edge. I close my hand around it, and the weight makes something inside me lurch.
I pull it out.
A key.
Old.Heavy.Darkened with time and touch.
My stomach drops.
It’s not just any key. The symbol pressed into the bow is faint, worn with age—yet unmistakable.
Giovanni’s seal.The lion and the crown.
My father’s key.The missing key.The one Romeo swore was stolen.
My blood runs cold.
