Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
"It's truth." He sets the seal down exactly where it was. "Do you believe in fate, Kleah Martell?"
"I believe I don't need to answer that question—" I strive hard to regain my footing in this bizarre conversation. "—since I still don't know who you are."
Something that might be amusement flickers across his face—there and gone so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.
"Gabriele Bronzetti." He offers his name like it should mean something to me. When I show no reaction, that almost-smile touches his lips again. "And I'm afraid we have serious matters to discuss."
"I'm pretty sure we don't." I move around the counter, putting solid wood between us. It's not that he's threatening me—he hasn't made a single menacing move—but something tells me I need all the barriers I can get.
"You received no letter?" he asks, his head tilting slightly. "No warning?"
"Warning about what?"
His eyes narrow, just slightly. Then he reaches inside his jacket—slowly, like he doesn't want to startle me—and removes an envelope. Red wax seals the back, unbroken.
The seal catches my eye immediately. It's not one of mine, but I recognize quality work when I see it. A custom design—something like a family crest with an intricate B at its center. The wax is high quality, deep crimson with flecks of gold, melted to precisely the right temperature for a clean impression.
"This arrived yesterday," he says, placing it on the counter between us. "It concerns you."
I stare at the envelope, then back at him. "I don't understand. Why would someone send you a letter about me? I don't even know you."
"The man who sent this knew both of us." Gabriele's voice softens almost imperceptibly. "He's no longer here to deliver his message himself."
Something about the way he says it—the careful neutrality that doesn't quite mask what sounds like respect, maybe even grief—makes me pause.
"Who?" I ask, but I'm not sure I want the answer.
"Open it," he says instead.
Against my better judgment, I reach for the envelope. The wax seal breaks with a satisfying crack, and I withdraw a single sheet of heavy paper. The handwriting is elegant, precise—not a style I recognize.
As I read, the world seems to tilt on its axis. Blood rushes in my ears. Words jump out at me: *danger...sister...Biancardi...protect...blood.*
I look up at Gabriele, finding it suddenly hard to breathe. "This is insane."
"It's the truth."
"I don't have a brother." My voice sounds distant to my own ears. "My parents died when I was twelve. I grew up with my aunt. There's no—this isn't—"
"Your father wasn't your father," Gabriele says quietly. "And the man who wrote that letter wasn't a liar."
I want to laugh, to tell him this is ridiculous. But the certainty in his face stops me. That, and the way he's looking at me—not with pity or mockery, but with a kind of solemn determination that makes my heart beat faster.
Wax, when it cools, reveals its true nature. The bubbles rise to the surface, imperfections become visible, the essence of what it is can no longer be hidden. I feel like I'm cooling now, hardening into something I don't recognize—a different shape, a different purpose than I ever imagined for myself.
"Who are you?" I ask again, but the question means something different now. "Why would you come here? Why would you care about any of this?"
"I made a promise," he says simply. "And now I'm here to keep it."
I shake my head, feeling like I'm dreaming. "What does that even mean?"
He moves then, closing the distance between us in two long strides. I should back away. I should run. But I find myself frozen as he reaches out, his hand hovering just above my cheek without touching.
"It means," he says, voice dropping to something just above a whisper, "that there are people who will kill for the blood that runs in your veins. And I'm the man who will stop them."
The air between us feels charged, electric with something I can't name. His eyes hold mine, unflinching and impossibly deep.
"You're Kleah Martell," he says. "And you're mine to protect."
The words settle over me like a seal pressed into hot wax—immediate, indelible, marking me as something different than I was moments before.
GABRIELE
She stands before me, this woman I've come to find, and she is nothing like I expected.
The intelligence photos had shown a pretty woman with a craft business, living a quiet life in a coastal town. But they hadn't captured the grace in her hands as she worked the wax, or the quiet confidence in her movements. They certainly hadn't prepared me for the impact of her eyes—a mesmerizing shade of hazel, one that photos of her don't do justice at all.
I watch her absorb the impossible truth I've brought her, watch her world reshape itself around this new reality. She doesn't collapse, doesn't try to deny what's in front of her beyond the initial shock. Instead, she processes, adapts, meets my gaze directly despite her fear.