The chapel was darker than she remembered. The candles' dim light made lengthy shadows on the cold, hard floorboards. As she pushed the massive wooden doors open, they creaked beneath the weight of quiet. She couldn't breathe when she saw him.

Matteo lay on the floor, his back against the altar, and his hand was over his chest as if he were trying to keep the pain inside. His clothes were messy, and the blood stains on his collar ruined his typically neat look. It was new, too new.

He was going to die.

Celia's heart halted, then raced against her ribs as she ran to him, out of breath. She crouched next to him, and her hand shook as it hovered near his shoulder. Matteo's face was pale, and a thin layer of sweat covered his forehead. His eyes were hazy but yet attentive.

"Matteo," she said in a voice heavy with emotion she wouldn't admit to. "What happened?"

He had difficulty lifting his head, and his respiration was shallow. He opened his mouth, but another cough came out, thick and rough. His eyes met hers, and for the first time, Celia realised how weak they were. She hadn't expected that, and it scared her.

"Don't call anyone," he said in a voice that was hard to hear over his coughs. His hand stretched and grabbed her wrist with unexpected strength, bringing her closer. "I can't let them know. Not yet.

Her head was spinning. It wasn't simply about having power. It wasn't about getting even or having power. He was afraid. But what are they afraid of? His foes? His own body?

She pledged, "I won't call anyone," even though her emotions shouted against it. "But you need aid. You,

"No," he said, interrupting her. His hold was tighter for a minute before it loosened. "I don't need anything... just finish this." Before it's too late.

Celia's breath got stuck in her throat. This was not what she had planned. She didn't think he would break down like this.

His eyes closed as swiftly as they had opened. Matteo leaned into her, his body heavy and hot.

Celia's hands were cool against Matteo's hot flesh as she helped him sit up. His body shook in her grasp, and his breathing became more irregular and complex. She could feel the fever inside him, the heat of his body, and the weight of his illness crushing against her.

She looked at him for a time. He was the guy she had pledged to kill, but now he was just a broken man who couldn't conceal the truth any longer.

She murmured, "You should be dead," and her voice sounded strained.

Matteo laughed, but it was a harsh, low sound. "I told you I'd die before you could kill me," he continued, his voice gruff and full of irony. "You always thought it would be you, didn't you?"

Celia didn't say anything. Her heart was racing, and the truth of the situation seemed like a heavy weight on her chest. She had come here to kill him, to do what her uncle had told her to do. But now that she saw him like this, as a shell of the guy who had been her nemesis for so long, she didn't know how to feel.

Matteo's eyes opened again, and he looked at her. His pupils were big, and his face was pale, but something in his eyes made her halt. Something human.

"Don't look at me like that," he said, his lips twitching with a small smile. "You came to kill me." I'd rather you do it now.

But she didn't. She wasn't able to. The knife was still in her dress, close enough to grab. It would be pretty straightforward. So easy.

Celia clutched him tighter, and her fingers brushed against his skin. He had a high fever, and at that point, she could have sworn there was something else behind what he said. Maybe guilt. Or something more serious that she wasn't ready to deal with.

Matteo's body became slack all of a sudden, and his head fell on her chest. His breath stopped.

He had lost consciousness.

And all she had left was the weight of his life, which slipped through her fingers like sand.

She sat there, still holding him, her head spinning with worries, questions, and fears. The only sound after that was the faint thump of her heart, which was beating but unsure of what to do.

Celia's fingers curled around the cold steel of the knife. She was breathing normally, but her heart was pounding in her chest. Matteo's body was limp in her arms, and his skin was hot and sweaty. She had almost done it all. To get the revenge she had promised herself. But the truth was more complicated than that.

She heard it when the blade was still pressed against his chest, just a breath away from his heart—a faint shuffle of footsteps, light but purposeful. A faint shadow filled the doorway as the door creaked open.

Leo.

The youngster stood there, staring at each of them with wide-open, dark eyes. His eyes moved back and forth between the bloody shirt on Matteo's body and the shiny blade in Celia's palm. He didn't say anything. He stayed still.

Celia's fingers shook as she carefully lowered the knife, but she wasn't scared. It was more than that. A change she couldn't quite put her finger on.

The room felt smaller and more claustrophobic as Leo's gaze held her captive. His quiet said more than anything else she had ever heard. He didn't feel scared. He wasn't anything, yet he was still. Not moving enough.

"Leo..." Celia muttered, but the moment's heaviness made it hard for her to be heard. The boy didn't say anything. His eyes stayed on her, and Celia felt stuck in an unseen web.

Matteo's faint breathing was the only sound that broke the silence between them. Then, as if the scene's weight had called him, Matteo's eyes fluttered open and his lips parted with a straining gasp.

Leo blinked, and his eyes got slightly smaller as he watched.

Matteo's voice was rough, and getting his words out took a lot of effort. "He's the only thing that keeps me here."

Celia stopped moving. His remarks were so introductory, but they meant so much. And as she looked at Leo, she understood that this child was the only thing that kept her connected to this mess. The child, who was innocent in all of this, had inadvertently become the link between retribution and pity.

Even if Matteo's body was getting weaker in her arms, he was still imposing in the room. Celia kept the knife close by, buried under the pillow. The coldness of the knife reminded her that she still had to make a choice. Matteo's comments hung in the air like a storm about to break.

Matteo muttered, "Promise me you won't tell anyone." His voice was harsh, and his breath was shallow.

Celia's fingers moved. She was used to secrets and lies that served a higher cause. She had lived in the shadows long enough to know that some things were best off hidden. But this was not the same. This enemy, this guy, this dying ruler was something else. She had come here to kill him so that he would have to pay for Adrian's death.

But what now?

He was telling her to be quiet now. To keep him safe. And keep Leo safe.

Matteo looked at the door. "If they discover my illness, they'll come for Leo." You know what I mean, right?

Celia looked at him, and the weight of his gaze made her feel heavy. She did get it. He wasn't simply asking her to be quiet; he was telling her to. He wanted her to keep his secrets safe, as if they were her own. Even though he was feeble, he still had a lot of power.

As she thought about what he said, her heart raced. She didn't believe him. Not all the way. Not yet. But Leo, the youngster, was still a part of this—a piece of her.

She nodded, which was a simple, silent assent.

"I won't tell anyone," she whispered gently, her voice full with something she couldn't identify. It wasn't kindness or hate. It had changed in the time she had spent looking at Matteo and Leo.

But when she turned to go, she saw the blade again. The knife that had promised so much. The one that could end it all with one quick move. But for now, it was still buried under her pillow.

The estate was quiet as Celia walked through the halls. The silence wrapped about her like a heavy blanket. She had to keep looking and moving. It was evident what Matteo wanted: to be quiet. Keep Leo safe. But there were too many questions and mysteries in her head for her to ignore. And she had known for a long time that the only way to stay alive in this world was to find out the truth before it found you.

The library was behind rows of dark wood and dusty shelves in the back of the mansion. She had passed it a hundred times, but something about it drew her in tonight. It wasn't simply the antique volumes on the walls or the faint smell of leather and ink. It was the sense that there was more here, something Matteo had left behind.

She came in quietly, and the floorboards creaked under her weight. The chandelier overhead gave off very little light, but Celia's eyes were already used to it. She walked across the room with a purpose, running her fingers over the spines of books as she looked for anything unusual—the Rinaldi files. There are mysteries about Matteo hidden somewhere in this room.

When she got to the rear corner, her foot hit something. A board on the floor that isn't tight. She bent down, and her breath caught in her throat. The boards moved easily when she touched them, and a little, worn diary was tucked underneath. Celia's heart beat as she took it out. The cover was faded, and the pages were old and brittle.

She opened it slowly and looked over the first few paragraphs. Matteo's handwriting was neat and controlled, with each word carefully chosen, like a man who never leaves anything to chance.

The first entry was written months ago, and as Celia read it, she felt a shudder run down her spine. This notebook was more than just a list. It was a hidden map.

A map that will finally show her the truth.