Anche in paradiso non è bello essere soli.
There is no greater torment than being alone in paradise.
Alessa was in a coffin.
Not dead. Not yet.
Adrenaline flooded her veins, sharp and sour, as the air in her lungs went stale.
She woke with a start, swinging wildly. Fingers curled into claws, she struck something warm and hard.
A hiss of breath. In the anemic predawn light, Dante clutched his arm.
“What are you doing?” Alessa yanked the sheets up to her chin. “I told you not to come near me!”
He grimaced, shaking his hand as if scalded. “You were having a nightmare. I thought you were going to hurt yourself.”
“Then you should have let me.” Her words, so similar to Lorenzo’s, struck like a blow. “Don’t ever do that again.”
He shot her a dark look. “Believe me, I won’t.”
At a sharp rap on the door, he motioned for her to stay back and strode around the screen. For all his initial reluctance, he took the job seriously. Too seriously.
Alessa pulled on a robe and followed.
Dante was glaring at the door, a stack of clothing in his arms. “She ran away. The maid, or whoever.”
“Can you blame her?” Alessa asked, innocently. “You’re a bit intimidating. You should smile more.”
He gave her a look.
“If it makes you feel better, they run away from me, too.” She waved toward the bathing room. “You can get cleaned up in there.”
Dante bristled before skulking off.
She hadn’t meant to imply he was dirty in general, but any attempt to clarify would only make it more awkward, so she bit her tongue. If he’d decided to take offense at every little thing she said, that was his problem. She covered her face with a pillow, but managed not to scream into it.
Fingers of dawn crept across the floor as she found the energy to face the day. The Consiglio was probably gathering below, waiting to hear her decision so they could summon her next Fonte, but she still had no idea who to choose. She’d give them a list of those she’d ruled out and let them decide. She was a coward, but at least she’d be a coward who wasn’t responsible for making the wrong choice again.
Dante emerged a few minutes later in a crisp white shirt and military-grade trousers. They were a bit tight, but the Captain had done a fair job guessing his size, and she wasn’t complaining about how they hugged his body. Hard to say whether Captain Papatonis would be satisfied with Dante’s appearance, however. With his sleeves rolled to his elbows, the top button of his shirt undone, and the leather gloves shoved in his pocket, he looked alarmingly attractive, but barely respectable by Cittadella standards.
She gave him a bland smile. “Much better.”
Dante scowled like she’d insulted him again.
The bathing room was humid when she stepped inside, and bits of fabric hung from every hook and rod. Intimates she’d left to dry after hand-washing them. Not silky, fine items, even, but practical, everyday underthings.
Nice work, Alessa.
He couldn’t possibly fail to be impressed by her haughty Finestra-ness after bathing amidst her most boring underthings. She ripped everything down and stuffed it all into a drawer.
Strain had left her paler than usual, her eyes overly large, and her hair hung in limp tendrils instead of her usual flowing waves, curly on humid days. She looked nothing like a valiant savior, which felt about right, but was unacceptable.
Getting clean was a start, but Dante was on the other side of a door with no lock, and if for some reason he opened it, she’d be completely exposed. He couldn’t touch her, with or without her consent, but still. He’d see her.
She grimaced at her reflection. Not like he’d have any interest in doing so.
After bathing, she picked through her cosmetics. Today called for extreme measures, so after dabbing sheer gloss on her lips, she slashed inky black across her lids, smudging until she resembled an avenging angel. No one would see her weakness beneath so much smoke and shadow. This look wasn’t for impressing anyone else, but for herself alone. For courage.
After her face, she began concealing her neck’s bruises, but every brush of her fingers hurt as she applied layers of cream and tinted powder.
At least the traditional white gown for meeting with the Consiglio was loose and flowing, so it would conceal her training clothes underneath, and she wouldn’t have to return upstairs to change before her daily session.
To Renata, combat training was stress relief. To Alessa, state-sanctioned torture. The pain of getting dressed left her woozy; lifting a sword might break her.
The low neckline slid off her shoulders as she stood, fumbling to get the last satin button behind her neck through a loop that seemed intentionally too small, and a ragged sob of pain slipped out.
“You okay?” came Dante’s voice.
It was one thing to cry in front of a stranger in an alley, but they were in the Cittadella, and she was the Finestra. Or at least, she was trying to be.
“I’m fine.” Her voice cracked. Traitor.
“You don’t sound fine.”
“You’re my bodyguard, not my nanny.”
A lengthy pause, footsteps, and the stutter of chair legs against the floor.
She picked up a ribbon, wincing as the small movement sent a bolt of pain across her collarbone. What was wrong with her? Had she forgotten how to accept kindness?
She thought she’d sampled every flavor of loneliness, but this one was new. She should have felt less lonely, not more, but like a flame appears brighter in the darkness, her isolation cut even deeper with a stranger filling spaces usually left empty.
Gritting her teeth, she worked until a long plait lay down her back, but before she could tie it, the braid unraveled. Tradition be damned, the Consiglio could accept her hair down.
She stepped out, casually adjusting her position so it didn’t look like she was holding a pose.
Expression blank, Dante was sitting at the table, flipping a knife into the air, over and over, so fast the blade blurred silver.
He raised his eyebrows at her transformation.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. Some tasks are still painful.”
Dante caught the knife and stood it on its tip. When he lifted his hand, it stayed upright, precisely balanced. “I could help.”
“No. You can’t.” Gods only knew if there was anyone who could help her, but it wasn’t him.
Alessa pulled on her gloves, pausing to straighten one twisted finger. “Keep the armband on at all times, especially when you aren’t with me.”
“Why wouldn’t I be with you?”
“I won’t need protection when I’m with my mentors.”
Dante bit one end of the armband’s fabric to tie it around his bicep, speaking through gritted teeth. “You trust them?”
Did she? She hadn’t when she’d escaped to the city and begged a stranger to protect her.
“Of course,” she said, well aware she’d taken too long to respond.
He plucked an apple from a fruit bowl, polishing it against his shirt, his expression inscrutable. “Got anything else to eat?”
Alessa worried her lip. She wasn’t much of a breakfast person, usually just popping into the kitchens for an espresso and a biscotto in the morning. “There’s bread and cheese. I could call for something more substantial if you’d prefer—”
“No. That’s good.” He glowered like she’d offered to hit him, not feed him. Grumpy, grumpy.
Dante rattled around the kitchenette, opening and closing cabinets as though he’d lived there for years. Despite being a stranger, an interloper, and a marked man, he didn’t think twice about asserting himself and taking up space. Now that she thought about it, most men didn’t. Some people stepped aside, and others stood their ground, as if they had every right to exist.
Maybe she deserved to claim her small patch of space too, not because of her title, or even because she’d earned it. Just because.
It shouldn’t feel like a revelation.
Dante’s knife clicked against the plate as he shaved off a slice of cheese, followed by the crunch of bread—the sounds were soothing, but disorienting after so many silent meals.
“So,” Dante finally said, with the air of someone pulling a tooth. “How long’s it been since you’ve touched anyone in a non-murdery way?”
“It’s not murder. And I don’t know.”
He looked skeptical.
She fetched a glass of water and dropped into the seat across from him with a long sigh. “Four years, ten months. And a few weeks.”
“Who’s counting, right?” He nudged the plate toward the center of the table. “What’s your plan this time?”
Alessa plucked a paper-thin slice of parmesan, which melted on her tongue in an exquisite rush of salt and fat. “Pray?”
“That’s not a plan.”
It also wasn’t the truth. She hadn’t prayed in years. Not since the gods first turned their back on her and let Emer die. Oh, she said the words, took to her knees in the temple and cast her sights to the heavens. She even spoke to them at times. But she didn’t pray. Prayer meant extending your soul like an open hand, trusting some invisible recipient to take hold. Whenever she extended her hand, death was placed in her grasp.
No, she didn’t pray.
“Saving Saverio isn’t like finding a new method for solving math problems,” she said.
“Are there different methods?”
“Believe it or not, yes. My teachers were never impressed that I got all the right answers but couldn’t explain how, but I did always get the right answers. This, however, isn’t long division, and my plan is the same as every Finestra’s before me.” She raised her glass.
A smile tugged at his lips. “How’s that working for you?”
An inappropriate laugh burst free, sending water splashing over the rim. “Obviously not great, or my Fonte would be sitting there, not you.” She traced her fingers through the spill, drawing shallow rivers that dried faster than she could replace them.
“Maybe you should try something else, then.”
“Wonderful advice. Thank you for that.”
“You think it’ll work this time?”
“It has to.”
“Doesn’t mean it will.” He looked so matter-of-fact, like he wasn’t tossing the possibility of Saverio’s annihilation at her right before she had to make a life-or-death decision.
“Thank you for your vote of confidence.” She pinched her lips together, inhaling through her nose. “I have faith.”
“In what?”
“In … In the gods?” Divinely ordained warriors weren’t permitted to doubt.
“If you’re waiting for the gods to save you, you’re doomed.”
“That’s blasphemy,” she said, unable to put much feeling into it.
“Kill me, then. No one will miss me.”
She gave him a long look. “I’d rather not. I like that carpet, and it would be a real nuisance to get your blood out of it.”
An almost-smile softened his features. “You’re a strange girl.”
“I’m not a girl. I’m a Finestra.”
As she rounded the final corner of the stairs, Alessa’s heart plummeted at the sound of Tomo and Renata’s voices echoing from the antechamber outside the temple.
She never went against them. Or anyone, for that matter. People gave directions and she took them. No exceptions. She didn’t even know how to argue with them, much less win.
Tomo and Renata should have been mere backup by now, offering occasional advice to Alessa and her Fonte. But since Alessa was still alone, and the military was frightened rather than respectful of her, they took on more responsibility than they otherwise would, and her guilt deterred her from being more of a nuisance than she already was.
Not anymore.
“Finestra?” Tomo called out.
“I’ll be right there.” She unlocked the gate at quarter speed.
She could hand Dante some coins and send him toward the nearest exit. Tomo and Renata would never know, and everything would go back to how it was before.
When a woman threw a dagger at her head.
When Tomo and Renata casually discussed murdering her.
When a man tried to crush the life from her body. A man who might be walking the halls of the Cittadella right now.
She could send Dante away and accept her fate … or she could stall.
“Lock it behind me, then go,” she whispered, tossing him the key.
Dante caught it in one hand. “Go where?”
“Anywhere. Just keep the armband on.” She made shooing motions, but he merely tilted his head like a baffled dog. She’d assumed the wolf nickname was a compliment, but perhaps not. “I’ll meet you upstairs when we’re finished.”
“What do I do until then?”
“I don’t know. Whatever you want.” She had no idea what guards did or didn’t do. She nursed resentment when they shrank away from her, but rarely thought about them otherwise. Dozens of people who marched around the lower levels every day barely intruded in her thoughts. For someone who hated feeling invisible, it was an uncomfortable realization.
“Go make friends with the other guards or something,” she said.
He curled his lip in disgust. “I’ll sniff around for a bit and figure out who to watch out for.”
“Good idea.” Her stomach clenched at the memory of heavy boots and unforgiving hands.
“The Consiglio is waiting, Finestra,” Renata called. “I hope you’ve made your decision.”
If you can’t change the rules, who can?
“I have,” she said, then louder. “I have made a decision.” She hoped they hadn’t heard the waver in her voice.
Dante stared at her so intently she feared he could see right through her.