This wasn’t about him anymore. I had to find Giovanni Zampa.
Then, like venom in a fresh wound, Scarlett’s image surged into my mind.
HisScarlett.
The woman who had carried his child while he demanded my loyalty. My fidelity.
Rage boiled in my gut, white-hot and blinding.
He made rules he never followed. And I paid the price for them.
I forced myself forward, pushing through the crowded streets. I remembered where Signor Zampa once lived. Was he still there? Was he even still alive?
I wandered past bakeries, market stalls, and homes built of sun-washed stone. Narrow alleys veined the village like arteries, and I searched each one with growing urgency.
And then—there he was.
A man stood in the distance, tall and composed, with dark hair and a commanding posture I remembered all too well.
It had to be him.
By some twist of fate—or divine intervention—I had found Giovanni Zampa.
He was tall and lean, with a long silver-streaked beard and a penetrating gaze. His cloak was frayed at the edges, worn thin by time, but he carried himself with a quiet dignity. He stood in the square, scanning the streets with wary eyes, as if expecting someone—or something—to arrive.
Was he waiting for me? Did he somehowknow?
As I stepped forward, his gaze locked onto mine. His eyes widened, his jaw slackened, and he looked as though he’d seen a ghost for a moment.
“Alina?” he whispered, voice sounding like brittle parchment.
“Yes… yes, Signor Zampa.”
He stared at me, breath catching in his throat. “Is it truly you?” His voice wavered with disbelief as he squinted, taking in every detail of my face.
“It’s me,” I said softly. “I need your help.”
“What could an old man like me possibly offer?” he asked, though his tone was gentler now, curious, almost reverent. His back was stooped with age, but his eyes were still sharp, searching mine for answers.
My hands trembled as I stepped closer. “Balthazar is hunting me. I’ve found the Sun Dagger.”
Zampa inhaled sharply, his entire demeanor shifting. He looked around quickly.
“Not here,” he said in a low voice. “We mustn’t speak of this in public.”
Without waiting for my reply, he gripped my elbow and guided me away from the street, down a quiet alley that led to a dim, tucked-away tavern.
Inside, the air was thick with humidity and smoke, laced with the scent of burning herbs and old wood. Light filtered through half-closed shutters, casting long golden slashes across the room. The haze danced through the beams like spirits trapped in air.
It was heavy, cloistered, oppressive.
And yet… familiar. Intoxicating.
It reminded me ofhim. Of Balthazar. Of our nights spent in whispered secrets and forbidden heat.
Back when he still looked at me like I was his whole world.
But that world had shattered. And I was here now, forged from the pieces.
