The gondola slipped through the veins of Venice like a ghost. The city at night was a living painting — all shadows, all whispers.Elena's dress was damp from the mist, the hem darkening as it clung to her legs. She should have been shivering, but her pulse was a steady drumbeat in her ears, keeping her warm.
The man across from her — the one the city seemed to part for — rowed with slow, deliberate strokes. His coat absorbed the moonlight, making him more shadow than man, and every so often the edge of a black feather glinted near his collar.
She leaned back against the worn velvet seat, eyes narrowing."You're not going to tell me where we're going?"
"You wouldn't believe me," he said without looking at her.
"Try me."
The gondola slid under a bridge so low she had to duck. When they emerged, the canal seemed narrower, quieter. The smell of brine was stronger here, the water darker, the walls of the buildings higher — closing her in.
A tall, arched doorway loomed ahead, half hidden by creeping ivy. The gondola slipped inside without so much as a ripple. She blinked, adjusting her eyes to the dark — then realised they were in a tunnel beneath a building. Lanterns burned on iron hooks, their light soft and golden, casting shadows on brick walls that were not Venetian red, but older, greyer, almost Roman in their wear.
"Home," he said simply, stepping onto a submerged stone ledge and holding out his hand.
She hesitated.Every rule of self-preservation she had ever lived by told her not to touch it. But curiosity — dangerous, intoxicating curiosity — made her place her palm in his. His grip was warm, solid, and annoyingly certain.
The air changed as soon as they stepped inside. Gone was the damp of the canals. This place smelled faintly of cedar, burning incense, and something darker she couldn't place — like old secrets pressed into wood.
The entryway opened into a hall that didn't belong to the century outside. The floor was inlaid with black-and-gold marble in swirling patterns that seemed to shift if she looked too long. Tall windows were veiled in heavy silk, and the walls were crowded with paintings — some familiar from museums, others that should have been lost to time.
She stopped in front of one — a portrait of a woman in midnight blue, her gaze sharp enough to pierce skin. Around her neck was a pendant shaped like a black feather."Your mother?" Elena asked.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. "No."
"Then who—"
"Someone who knew how to keep her mouth shut."
She almost laughed at the sharpness, but the look in his eyes stopped her.
In the centre of the hall, a grand staircase spiraled upward, flanked by statues of peacocks — their tails carved so delicately that the feathers looked like they might stir in a breeze. The light caught on the beaks, glinting silver.
"This is…" She searched for the word. "…excessive."
"This is necessary," he corrected, walking toward a set of double doors at the far end. "I collect things that don't belong in the wrong hands."
"Like that mirror."
He stopped at the threshold. "Exactly like that mirror."
Inside was a study — if the term could be used for a room that looked more like a war council chamber. A long table stretched the length of the space, littered with maps, antique weapons, and stacks of weathered leather books. Candles burned in wrought-iron holders, their flames dancing in the draft.
She ran her hand over a dagger with a peacock etched into the hilt. "You keep dangerous things very close to you."
"I keep dangerous things where I can see them."
His tone was calm, but his eyes — dark, assessing — stayed on her as if she were part of the inventory.
She met his stare without flinching. "And what exactly am I, then?"
For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Then, "Undetermined."
Something in the word sent a flicker of heat through her chest.
Before she could respond, a bell rang somewhere deep in the house — low, resonant, nothing like a modern chime. His gaze sharpened instantly.
"They've found us," he murmured.
She frowned. "Who?"
He was already moving, pulling a drawer from the table and retrieving a small, curved blade. "People who'd rather see you at the bottom of the Grand Canal."
"And you?" she asked, her voice sharper now. "Where do you want to see me?"
His lips curved, just barely. "Still breathing."
The lantern light caught in his eyes, turning them to molten gold for the briefest second.
Then he was gone, striding into the hall, his coat swirling behind him like a shadow with purpose.
Elena looked at the dagger still in her hand and, for the first time, wondered if she had just stepped into a war she couldn't leave.