The stone beneath my palm vibrates again, another mechanism shifting behind the wall—a second layer woken by the imprint.
The air thickens.The door feels alive.Listening.
Waiting.
I fold the parchment carefully and tuck it into my jacket, close to my chest—close enough that my heat might keep it from crumbling.
As I rise, the lantern flickers violently, carving fractured shadows across Giovanni’s sigil.
The door breathes.The stone hums.The entire tunnel holds still, like it knows what I’m about to uncover.
And for the first time since entering the underground, the terror crawling up my spine has nothing to do with who might follow me…
And everything to do with what Giovanni locked away.
Giovanni’s Final Words
The parchment is fragile in my hands—thin, brittle, older than the tunnels themselves, maybe. The edges crumble slightly at my touch, flaking into dust that settles on my palms like ash. My lantern flame trembles, as if even it senses this should’ve stayed buried.
I unfold the scrap carefully, breath tight, pulse thundering.
The ink is rusty, almost brown. Time has eaten at the strokes, but the violence in each line still bleeds through. Giovanni didn’t write this calmly. He carved it in with rage.
Four words.
Four words split the surrounding air.
A RIVAS BETRAYED ME.
The whisper leaves my lips before I can stop it. My voice cracks at the edges, trembling like I’m afraid the walls might throw it back at me.
But the moment the sentence leaves my mouth, something inside me breaks open.
My blood runs cold.
My knees almost give.
Because for the first time since I crawled into these tunnels—since I started digging for the truth my father died protecting—I know I’m not chasing ghosts.
He didn’t lie.He didn’t imagine it.He stole nothing from Giovanni.
Someone in the Rivas family did.
Someone close.Someone trusted.Someone Giovanni feared enough to bury the truth behind sealed vaults and dead men’s warnings.
A hand I didn’t notice curls into my hair. I drag it down my face, breath ragged, pushing back the burn behind my eyes.
I press the parchment flat to my chest, right over my racing heart.
Rage hits first—hot, sharp, blistering. It fills my lungs until it hurts to breathe.
Then vindication—a relief so fierce my throat tightens around it.
I wasn't hunting a ghost.I didn't grow up believing lies.My father wasn’t a traitor, despite what everyone called him.
Then fear—cold, creeping, familiar.
A betrayal like this isn’t small.Isn’t petty.It changes everything.
