Chapter 64 The Lock And The Key
I waited until the grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway chimed three times. The deep, mournful gongs vibrated through the floorboards, signaling the witching hour.
It was the time when the fortress finally settled into a deceptive peace, when the guards’ eyelids grew heavy, and the ghosts of the old castle began their nightly patrols.
I sat on the edge of my bed, fully dressed.
I had shed Lucrezia’s ridiculous red gown hours ago, peeling it off like a second skin I was desperate to burn.
In its place, I wore black leggings and a thick, oversized cashmere sweater I had found in the closet.
The clothes were comfortable, but my skin was still crawling. I felt like I had a target painted between my shoulder blades.
You have until dawn.
The text message from the unknown number burned in my mind, a digital brand searing into my memory. They had the audio.
They had the recording of me loading the gun that killed Jose. If Dante heard that tape, the fragile protection I had earned would shatter instantly.
It wouldn't matter that I saved Jasmine. It wouldn't matter that I was a victim of circumstance. In Dante’s world, betrayal was a black-and-white offense, and the punishment was always red.
I looked at the door. It was a heavy slab of oak, locked from the outside by Enzo.
Dante thought he was keeping me safe. He thought he was locking the princess in the tower to protect her from dragons.
He didn't realize he was locking me in with the smoke while the house burned down around us.
I walked to the door and knelt down on the cold stone floor. The keyhole was an old-fashioned brass mechanism, sturdy but simple.
My father hadn't taught me how to balance a checkbook or how to love, but he had taught me the value of being unseen.
I had spent half my childhood locking myself in closets to avoid his drunken rages, and the other half breaking out of rooms when he tried to trap me.
I pulled a bobby pin from my hair, one of the dozens the stylist had jammed into my scalp to create the elaborate updo for the dinner. I straightened it out, my teeth scraping against the metal as I peeled off the rubber tip.
I slid the wire into the lock.
I closed my eyes, visualizing the tumblers inside. Tension. Pressure. Lift.
My hands were sweating, making the thin metal slip against my fingers. I wiped them on my pants, my breath hitching in my throat.
Click.
The sound was soft, barely a whisper in the silence of the room, but to my ears, it sounded like a gunshot. I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I waited for footsteps, for the shout of a guard, for the heavy turn of the handle from the other side.
Nothing. Just the silence of the stone.
I turned the knob slowly. The latch disengaged with a smooth, metallic slide.
I opened the door a crack and peered out. The hallway was a cavern of shadows, lit only by the dim sconces spaced twenty feet apart. The air smelled of beeswax and old dust.
It was empty.
I slipped out, closing the door softly behind me. I didn't lock it back; I didn't have the skill to re-engage the deadbolt from the outside. If anyone checked on me, the game was up. I had to be fast.
I moved down the corridor, sticking to the darker side of the wall. My socks muffled my footsteps on the cold stone.
Every creak of the floorboards sounded like a betrayal.
I reached the intersection that led to the main staircase and heard the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of heavy boots.
A patrol.
I dove into the alcove of a large bay window, pressing myself flat against the heavy velvet curtains. The fabric smelled of rain and centuries of dust. I held my breath, counting the beats of my heart.
Two guards walked past. They were talking in low voices about a card game, their flashlight beams cutting through the dark.
They didn't look at the alcove. They were looking for external threats, assassins scaling the walls, rival soldiers breaching the perimeter.
They weren't looking for the girl who was supposed to be asleep in the master suite.
I waited until their footsteps faded into the distance before I moved again.
Dante’s study was on the ground floor, past the library. I descended the main staircase, skipping the third and seventh steps, the ones that groaned under weight.
I moved like a ghost in my own home, a skill I hated that I possessed.
The double doors of the study loomed ahead.
A sliver of golden light spilled from underneath them, cutting across the dark hallway floor.
My stomach dropped. He was awake.
Of course he was awake. He was Dante Caravelli. He probably hadn't slept a full night since he took the throne. The man ran on caffeine, violence, and sheer force of will.
I froze, my hand hovering over the brass handle. I couldn't go in there. If I walked in while he was awake, I couldn't search for the safe. I couldn't get the combination.
Figure it out, the text had said.
I could turn back. I could go to my room, pack a bag, and try to run in the morning. but where would I go? I had no money, no passport, and Rinaldi’s men were everywhere.
The only way out was through.
I took a deep, shuddering breath. I reached up and messed up my hair, pulling a few strands loose to frame my face. I pinched my cheeks to bring blood to the surface.
I needed to look frantic. I needed to play the part of the broken, traumatized girl he already believed I was.
I pushed the door open.
The study was warm, smelling of woodsmoke and expensive whiskey. Dante was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, bathed in the glow of a green banker’s lamp.
His jacket was discarded on a chair, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms.
He looked up instantly. His hand moved toward the drawer, where the gun was, before his eyes registered my face.
"Lilith?"
His voice was rough, a low rumble of exhaustion and irritation. He didn't look happy to see me, but he didn't look like he wanted to kill me, either.
His gaze swept over me, taking in the oversized sweater, the leggings, the bare feet.
"I... I couldn't stay in there," I stammered, hugging my arms around my chest. I made my voice small, injecting a tremor that wasn't entirely fake.
"The door... it was locked."
Dante leaned back in his leather chair, the springs creaking. His eyes narrowed, grey and sharp as flint. "I know it was locked. I locked it. For your safety."
"I panicked," I lied, stepping further into the room.
"I woke up and the room was pitch black and the door wouldn't open and I thought..." I let the sentence hang in the air, letting him fill in the blanks with the trauma of the attack.
"I thought I was back in the basement. I thought they had come back."
It was a calculated manipulation. I was using his own savior complex against him. I knew he saw himself as a protector, despite his ruthlessness.
Dante stared at me. The silence stretched, heavy and thick. For a moment, I thought he was going to call Enzo and have me dragged back upstairs.
But then, his expression shifted. The hard line of his mouth softened, just a fraction.
His gaze dropped from my eyes to my lips, then back up, a slow, lingering look that made heat flare in my chest despite the fear.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, dragging the skin down.
"You picked the lock," he stated flatly. It wasn't a question.
"I used a hairpin," I admitted. "I had to get out. I couldn't breathe in there."
He looked at me, really looked at me, assessing the trembling in my hands. He saw a terrified girl seeking refuge. He didn't see the spy coming to cut his throat.
"You are a menace, Lilith," he muttered, but the venom was gone from his voice. He picked up his glass of whiskey and took a sip, his eyes never leaving mine.
"If you are going to stay, sit down. I have work to finish. If you make a sound, I am sending you back."
"Thank you," I whispered.
I walked over to the leather Chesterfield sofa in the corner of the room, curling my legs up underneath me. I wrapped the sweater tighter around my body, trying to stop the shaking.
I had made it inside the lion's den. Now I just had to wait for the lion to sleep.