They echoed in every tavern and alleyway, spun by gossips with eager tongues. Some claimedshehad killed her family. Others saidIhad done it—and that Alina had fled from me, terrified of the man who had bathed her household in blood.
Lies. Poisonous lies.
A knock at the door broke through my thoughts like a dagger through glass.
I rose at once, fury propelling me forward, and yanked the door open, already poised to unleash a torrent of rage?—
Only to be met by the cold steel of drawn weapons.
Three Bargello stood before me—enforcers of the Medici, cloaked in menace. They wore black leather doublets,glistening with oil and stitched with cruel elegance. Their hands rested on maces and daggers that caught the lamplight, weapons more suited to punishment than defense.
Their expressions were carved from stone—hard, unreadable, made for intimidation. Feathered black hats crowned their heads, their cloaks thick and rain-heavy. Their boots struck the earth with purpose, and their gauntlets creaked with every twitch of their fingers.
They embodied the Medici’s reach—silent, brutal, and always watching.
But they didn’t frighten me.
I was no enemy of the Medici—quite the opposite. I was a generous benefactor, a patron whose coin regularly lined the coffers of the Gonfalonier—the very official who oversaw these black-cloaked hounds. These men existed to enforce the law, yes—but also to protect the illusion of order in Florence. A delicate facade I helped maintain.
So, I greeted them politely, as one does when the dogs come sniffing at your doorstep.
“How may I be of service, gentlemen?” I asked smoothly, my voice all civility.
The largest of the three stepped forward, his eyes unreadable beneath the brim of his feathered hat.
“You can come with us, Lord Balthazar. You’re wanted for murder.”
I raised a brow. “Is that so? And on what evidence do you base this accusation?”
They began to list off details—bodies found at the Tocino estate, signs of forced entry, the brutal nature of the killings. I barely listened.
Until one word struck me like a knife to the ribs.
Lady Tocino.
My gaze snapped to the tallest man. “What did you just say?”
A knowing smirk crept across his face like a stain.
“I said,” he drawled, clearly savoring every word, “Lady Tocino has given an eyewitness account of the crime. Claimed she caught you in the act, with your knife in her sister’s throat. Said you were drinking the blood like a vampire.”
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Are you a vampire, Lord Balthazar?”
He grinned, teeth bared.
That little bitch.
What was she playing at, spinning such tales?
Lies so bold even the Bargello were amused?
I bared my teeth in return. “I assure you, fine gentlemen, I am no vampire. See?” I gestured to my mouth. “No fangs.”
I steadied my voice, lacing it with disdainful calm. “And as for Lady Tocino… she’s long been prone to delusions. She lives in a world of fantasy and fabrication. I’ve heard her stories before.”
“Is that so?” the henchman replied coldly, unmoving. His boots planted like pillars, his gaze sharp enough to cut marble.
“She lies,” I said again, firmer this time. “And I must ask—was this arrest warrant sanctioned by Giovanni di Lorenzo de’ Medici himself?”
