Chi ha più bisogno, e più s’arrenda.
Beggars can’t be choosers.
The Bottom of the Barrel wasn’t just a clever name after all.
This part of Saverio—Alessa discreetly covered her nose as she entered the fine establishment—was a breeding ground for unsavory characters. “Fodder,” they were often dubbed. As in, fodder for the scarabeo. Even if she could ignore the stink of fear and sweat—and she couldn’t—the dingy tavern didn’t even have a tone-deaf musician for entertainment. Instead, a crowd surrounded a cage large enough to fit a dozen men.
It held only one.
People shoved their faces against the bars, jeering at the lone figure inside, but he didn’t seem to notice. Bronze, barefoot, and stripped to his waist, he stood facing away from her, lazily gripping the bars. Dark hair, wet with sweat, curled at the nape of his neck, and his muscles were streaked with blood.
Fights to the death were illegal, but betting on fights was common entertainment on the docks. According to Adrick, as long as both combatants were alive when the fight ended, it didn’t count as murder. If grievous injuries caused one fighter to die later … well, that was bad luck.
The crowd roiled and Alessa curled inward, using her cloak like a shield against the jostling bodies. These people didn’t recognize her, didn’t know to fear her touch. It was exhilarating and terrifying.
She was so busy studying the crowd that she stumbled as a wiry, grizzled man shoved his way through, leading a hulking brute. Their eyes were fixed on the cage.
The man inside it rolled his neck, revealing his profile, and Alessa muttered a distinctly un-Finestra-like word. She’d found who she was looking for, but judging from the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd, he was about to get beaten to a pulp.
The uneven lighting cast his features in stark relief. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and lips a braver person might have described as pouty. He didn’t seem the type to pout, though. Or appreciate the compliment. He appeared utterly disinterested, but his eyes glittered. The older man entered the cage, growling and snapping at him, and he merely cocked an eyebrow as though faintly amused.
She, on the other hand, couldn’t breathe.
His lean, bronzed muscles were nice enough to look at, but his opponent’s arms were thick as tree trunks, gnarled with scars and burn marks, and his massive hands could’ve smashed Alessa’s skull. Well, not hers, but anyone else’s.
No one with such smooth, unmarred skin and graceful movements could possibly stand a chance against this massive, battle-scarred brute.
It was going to be a massacre.
The announcer made a dramatic show of ordering the barking hulk to stay back, and turned to the crowd. “We have a challenger! Will the Wolf’s fourth match be his last, or can he bring down the Bear? Who will walk away and who will be carried out?”
The crowd surged forward, waving their bets in the air. There was no escape from the tide, and Alessa didn’t try. She didn’t want to see such a beautiful man reduced to a pile of bloody bones, but she couldn’t look away.
The bell startled her. Stretching onto her toes, she strained to see over the shoulders partially blocking her view.
The big man lunged, leapt back, and lunged again, taunting the young man. The Wolf, they’d called him. It fit almost too well. Poised but motionless, he resembled the shadowy creatures who lurked in the forests on the far side of the island. His lip curled, exposing sharp canines. A wolf, cornered by a bear, refusing to show weakness before a stronger, deadlier opponent.
The Bear lowered his head to ram.
The Wolf glanced down to study his fingernails.
Alessa pressed her tongue between her teeth so she didn’t cry out.
At the last moment, the Wolf stepped aside, and the other man barely avoided crashing into the bars.
Their dance continued until the Bear landed his first blow, his fist smashing into the Wolf’s jaw.
The Wolf dragged a hand across his chin and shook it, splattering blood across the floor, then landed a punch to the big man’s gut, but the next blow he took sounded like it cracked a few ribs. Alessa bit down on her knuckles.
The Wolf slammed a fist into the big man’s cheek and looked about to land a second hit when someone smashed a glass against the bars, sending glittering shards over him. The Wolf flinched and turned away, one hand to his eye. The crowd booed, and the announcer called for a time-out.
The Bear ignored the call. His opponent’s back was turned, and he slammed his fist into the Wolf’s lower back.
He dropped.
Alessa wasn’t the only one who gasped. The room seemed to hold its collective breath as the Bear stalked over to nudge the Wolf with his foot.
Alessa squeezed her eyes shut. She shouldn’t have stayed. She didn’t need another death to remember.
The crowd cheered, and she opened her eyes to see the Wolf struggling to his feet, shaking his head to clear it.
The Bear glowered at having his victory lap cut short. “Hit me, pup!”
“Hit him,” Alessa whispered, the plea echoed by others as they realigned their loyalties, exchanged new bets.
The Wolf cocked his head as if he’d forgotten why he was there, and the Bear launched himself again, only to meet an uppercut that snapped his head back. Stumbling, unsteady, the Bear shook himself, but the Wolf’s next punch came too fast. Another. And another. The big man spun, upright but bent, his back vulnerable.
“Hit him!” the crowd screamed, vibrating with anticipation for the moment the Wolf would take his revenge and deliver the type of blow that had felled him. Instead, the Wolf stepped back, arms loose at his side.
The Bear took a few halting steps and dropped to his knees.
The Wolf lifted his head.
The Bear bowed his.
Alessa remembered how to breathe.
The crowd roared, equal parts elation and disappointment, but the Wolf didn’t preen or savor his victory. He accepted a towel and used it to clean his face, blood staining the grungy fabric.
The gate opened, and he disappeared into the crowd.
It took an age to make it across the room, and she’d almost given up on finding him when she spotted the Wolf.
“—fifteen, not twelve.” He slapped a bloody hand on the bar. “Four matches, plus a bonus for being undefeated.”
The barkeeper glared, pausing his efforts to polish the scarred surface with a rag even dirtier than the wood. “Minus three for last night’s room and board.”
“For sleeping on the floor of the pantry? You can’t be serious.”
“Minus—”
The Wolf cursed. “At least give me a whiskey before you empty my pockets.”
“Sure, if you want to sleep in the alley.” The barkeeper looked over at Alessa as she settled herself on a stool. “What’ll it be?”
“Whiskey, please.”
“Good, decent, or cheap?” The man’s covetous smile revealed a graveyard of gray teeth.
“Good, please.”
His gaze lingered on her gloves as she counted out the price, and she grimaced inwardly.
In the city, covering your wrists implied you had something to hide. But here by the wharf, where so many bore the marks of exile, some preferred to keep the specifics of their crimes a secret. For once, wearing gloves didn’t automatically mark her as different, just another stranger ashamed of her past. But black leather as thin and smooth as satin didn’t belong in a place like this.
After carefully measuring a finger’s worth of amber liquid into a glass, he slid it her way, not bothering to hide the tattooed coins on his left wrist. Thief.
Alessa swirled the glass, watching the whiskey hug the sides, and inhaled the sweet heat before she took a sip. It wasn’t the best she’d sampled, but it wasn’t the worst. She snuck a glance from under her hood as the Wolf took the stool beside her. He’d pulled on a shirt but not buttoned it, and he was no less intimidating than before, scowling as the barkeeper served everyone but him. He smelled of fresh sweat, which should have been revolting, but wasn’t.
“I’ll buy his drink.” Alessa pulled two shiny coins from her pocket. “Your finest, please.”
The Wolf’s dark eyes flicked to her face. He accepted the glass, downed his drink in one swallow, and slammed the empty glass on the counter with a grunt she assumed was thanks. He, too, made no attempt to hide his mark.
Crossed knives circled by the seal of Saverio. Killer.
She shivered.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, eyes forward.
“Why is that?”
“If I figured out who you are, someone else will, too. And most people in here want to see what happens if you die.”
“And you?” She held her breath. “What do you want?”
He stood. “I don’t care either way.” Throwing a threadbare satchel over one shoulder, he strode away.
She closed her eyes.
In a city full of people who feared or plotted against her, ambivalence might be the best she could hope for.
He knew how to defend himself, so he could defend her, too. Maybe not out of loyalty or devotion, but everyone had a price.
Alessa tossed a few more coins on the counter and abandoned her barely touched glass. The barkeeper would probably pour it back in the bottle as soon as she left, but that wasn’t her problem.
He was already halfway down the street, thumbs hooked on his belt, when she made it outside.
The door slammed behind her, plunging the alley into silence. Without looking back, he pulled his hands free. Moonlight glinted off wicked blades held lightly, a warning to anyone who might think to follow him.
“I’d like to hire you,” she called out from a safe distance behind him.
He sheathed his knives. “No.”
“But I need your help.”
“Sorry.” His low refusal was just loud enough to carry back to her as he started walking again.
“You don’t seem sorry.” She tried to catch up to him.
“Fine. I’m not sorry. Not interested, either.”
“I’m trying to save Saverio.”
“Saverio can fall into the sea for all I care.”
Her gut twisted. Because he’d sneered at a street preacher, she’d decided he was on her side. Assumed he’d care whether she lived or died because he defended a little girl. She was so naive.
She shook it off. “I need protection until I have my next—my final—Fonte.” She wracked her brain for something, anything, to get him to stop walking. “I’ll pay. And provide lodging and food.”
He didn’t even break his stride. “I’m good.”
Alessa gaped. “Good? You’re good? Fighting for scraps and drinking watered-down whiskey instead of food, shelter, money, and safety?”
“I don’t want safety.”
She jogged after him, too indignant to be cautious. “Everyone wants to be safe.”
“Not me.”
“If people are wrong and I’m killed, everyone will die.”
“Quit wandering around here, then.” He sounded entirely unconcerned.
Alessa’s steps faltered, and the distance between them grew as he neared the end of the alley, taking her last shred of hope with him.
“Please,” she said, her voice cracking.
He stopped and shook his head like he was annoyed at himself.
Alessa pushed her hood back, tugging the neckline down and lifting her chin. By now, her bruises had turned a sick greenish purple. “I need your help.”
He turned, and his gaze dropped to her throat, lingering.
“You have an army. You can—” He glanced around the quiet streets and strode toward her, lowering his voice to a rough growl. “You can kill with a touch. You don’t need me.”
“But I do.” It was easy to let fear and helplessness well into her throat, to let her voice go thick with unshed tears. “A man tried to kill me last night, and my guard helped him escape.”
In for a bite, in for a meal.
She clasped her hands below her chin and let hot tears rolls down her cheeks. They were an indulgence she couldn’t afford in the Cittadella, but if wolves had a weakness for damsels in distress, she wasn’t above playing the part.
If it even was a part.
“I don’t know who to trust or who’s working for whom anymore. I need someone who works for me. To watch my back. Temporarily. Just until I choose my next Fonte. I know I can do this,” she lied, “but not if I’m dead.
The moonlight cast blue glints in his hair as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Temporary?”
“We may all be dead in a few weeks. Everything’s temporary.”
He cocked an eyebrow.
“Sorry. Gallows humor is all I have left. If you help me, I’ll get you a spot in the Fortezza.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose
“Please?”
He cast an exasperated look at the sky, and she knew she’d caught him.