Chapter 40 The Crypt
The next morning, the nightmare seemed like a distant memory, though Jasmine was clingier than usual.
She refused to let go of Dante’s hand during breakfast.
"I want to show you something," Dante said to me after we ate.
"Is it a dungeon?" I asked lightly.
"Close," he replied.
He led us down past the main floor, down a winding stone staircase that seemed to cut directly into the bedrock of the cliff.
The air grew cooler, smelling of damp earth and old stone.
"This is the foundation," Dante said. "The oldest part of the fortress. Built in 1702."
We emerged into a vaulted chamber lit by electric sconces that flickered slightly. It was a crypt.
“What is this?”
Stone sarcophagi lined the walls, carved with weeping angels and lions.
"My ancestors," Dante said, his voice echoing.
Jasmine held his hand tighter, looking at the stone faces with wide eyes.
"Are they sleeping?" Jasmine's little voice asked.
"Yes, tesoro. They are sleeping for a long time."
He walked us through the history of the Caravelli bloodline. He didn't sanitize it. He pointed to a cracked tomb.
"Caravelli. Died fighting the French navy." He pointed to another. "Matteo. Poisoned by his brother."
"Nice family," I murmured.
"We are survivors," Dante said. "We do not claim to be saints."
He stopped in front of a newer tomb at the end of the row. It was pristine white marble.
Isabella Caravelli.
He stared at the name. The silence stretched, heavy and respectful.
"She loved this place," he said softly.
"She used to say it was the only place the noise of the world couldn't reach her."
I looked at the date on the stone. She had died five years ago.
"I'm sorry," I said. And I meant it.
Dante turned away from the grave, breaking the spell. "Come. There is one more thing."
He led us to a heavy iron door at the back of the crypt.
He pulled a key from his pocket, an old, heavy iron key, and unlocked it.
The door groaned open.
Inside was a small room. It wasn't a tomb. It was an armory. But not for modern weapons.
The walls were lined with antique swords, muskets, and daggers.
In the center, on a velvet pedestal, sat a small, ornate wooden box.
"What is that?" Jasmine asked, stepping forward.
"That," Dante said, picking up the box, "is the origin of our family."
He opened it.
Inside, resting on red silk, was a dagger.
The handle was encrusted with rubies, and the blade was dark, damascus steel.
"Legend says my great-great-grandfather used this to defend this rock from a hundred men," Dante said.
"He was alone. They had cannons. He had this."
"Did he win?" Jasmine asked.
"He died," Dante said simply. "But he took fifty of them with him. And his son kept the rock."
He looked at me.
"The lesson is not about winning, Lilith. It is about holding your ground. Even when it is impossible."
He handed me the box.
I looked down at the dagger. It was beautiful and deadly.
"Why are you showing me this?" I asked.
"Because you asked about the ring," he said.
He held up his hand. The heavy gold signet ring caught the light.
"Look at the pommel of the dagger."
I looked closely. Embossed on the steel was a symbol. A lion holding a key.
It was the same symbol on his ring.
"The crest," I whispered.
"Yes," Dante said. "The Lion creates the law. The Key opens the door."
My breath hitched. "The Key."
"The intruder mentioned a Key," Dante said, his eyes locking onto mine.
"If your father had something to do with the Caravellis... if he stole something... it would be related to this symbol."
He took a step closer to me. The space in the armory was small.
"I am showing you this because I trust you now," he said.
"If there is a secret, we will find it together. I am opening the archives of my family to you."
It was a massive gesture. He was letting me into the sanctum.
"Thank you," I said.
He reached out and took the box from my hands, placing it back on the pedestal. His arm brushed mine.
The contact sent a jolt of heat through me that had nothing to do with the cold crypt.
"Papa, I'm cold," Jasmine said, tugging on his pants.
Dante looked down, blinking as if waking up.
"Of course," he said. "Let's go up. Donatello is making lunch."
We walked back up the stairs.
But my mind was racing.
The Lion creates the law. The Key opens the door.
My father didn't just owe money. He was involved in the mythology of this family.
And as I walked behind Dante, watching the muscles of his back move under his shirt, I realized two things.
One: I was getting closer to the truth than I ever imagined.
Two: I was falling for the enemy.
And I didn't know which one terrified me more.