Page 15 of The Capo & the Curator

My gaze drifts to a heavy steel safe tucked into the desk's knee well. Reaching beneath the desk's edge, I find the hidden keypad embedded there and key in the sequence from the journal, holding my breath as the tumblers within whir to life.

The safe cracks open with an anticlimactic hiss, and I tug it open the rest of the way, bracing myself for whatever revelation awaits inside.

What I find is... underwhelming, to say the least.

Just a nondescript manila envelope, the contents tucked within utterly innocuous to the naked eye. But the weight of it in my hands is profound, the gravity of its secrets undeniable.

Exhaling a measured breath, I tear open the seal and carefully withdraw a sheaf of yellowed documents. Blueprints and schematics, by the looks of them, the images faded but still decipherable. Beside them is a slim leather-bound journal, the spine cracked and pages brittle with age. Curiosity piqued, I flip it open and am greeted by a spidery scrawl in what appears to be Italian—my grandfather's unmistakable hand.

As my gaze skims over the opening lines, a strange sense of unease prickles along the nape of my neck. There are references to secret societies, ancient brotherhoods, and something called the Arcadian Cipher...

I've uncovered the next critical thread of the mystery, that much is certain. But as I continue poring over the delicate pages, the revelations about my family's sordid history seem to pale in comparison to the profound sense of emptiness that washes over me.

Because none of it—not the coded journal, the crumbling villa, or these cryptic documents—matters without her.

The realization slams into me with the force of a physical blow. Christ, what have I done?

Pushing away from the desk in a burst of explosive momentum, I surge to my feet and begin pacing the confines of the chamber like a caged predator. My hands fist in my hair, every muscle tensed as if bracing for impact.

How had I let things spiral so catastrophically out of control? One moment of weakness, one foolish impulse to put distance between us in a misguided attempt to shield her, and now the one good thing I've found in this wretched life has slipped through my fingers.

The thought ignites a searing blaze of fury in my core, the inferno of my anger directed inward for once. At my arrogance, my pride, and that deeply entrenched belief that shutting Evelyn out was the only path to keeping her safe.

Safe from this world that's all I've ever known. The darkness and brutality that are as natural to me as breathing.

I should've had more faith in her resilience, in the unshakable strength that's drawn me to her. Instead, I'd fallen back onto that well-worn mask of cold indifference, lashing out in the only way my stunted emotional range knows how.

By cauterizing the wound before it could fester, no matter how deeply the blade cut in the process.

A harsh exhalation escapes my lips as the truth settles over me, immutable and inescapable. I'm in freefall, the ground rapidly vanishing beneath my feet.

And Evelyn is the only one who can save me.

Chapter 10

Evelyn

The library's hushed sanctuary offers little solace today.

I trail my fingertips along the spines of the leather-bound books lining the shelves, trying in vain to lose myself in their well-worn ridges and faded gilt lettering. Normally, I find comfort in the weight of history cradled in my palms, a tangible connection to those who came before.

Not today, though.

Because no matter how deeply I immerse myself in my work, I can't escape the lingering specter of Dante Romano. Or the gaping wound his abrupt dismissal has torn open, leaving me feeling raw and exposed in ways I've never known.

"Hey, Evelyn?" Maggie's voice drifts across the quiet stillness, tinged with concern. "You've been staring at that same shelf for the last twenty minutes. Everything okay over there?"

The gentle inquiry jolts me from my aimless reverie. I turn to find my assistant curator watching me with a furrowed brow, her eyes swimming with worry behind her cat-eye frames.

Plastering on what I hope is a convincing smile, I give a dismissive shake of my head. "Just zoning out a bit, I guess. Sorry about that."

Judging by the dubious arch of Maggie's brow, my attempt at nonchalance isn't as convincing as I'd hoped. Undeterred, she sets aside the ancient manuscript she'd been cataloging and leans back in her chair, pinning me with a pointed look.

"What's got you so preoccupied you can barely focus on your precious books?"

A bitter pang lances through me at her gentle teasing. Books have always been my most treasured companions, but this time, the stories that have ensnared me are of the flesh and blood variety. Messy and unpredictable, fraught with complexities.

Unbidden, my thoughts drift back to Dante and how he'd stormed into my carefully curated world and upended everything, sending me hurtling down a rabbit hole of danger and adrenaline and...

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