This Vicious Grace (The Last Finestra #1)(18)
She dressed at quarter speed, inching a loose dress up her torso and gently knotting a shawl around her neck to hide the evidence. If anyone reacted when they saw her, she needed to know it was because they didn’t expect her to be alive, not because they were shocked by her injuries.
She chose the two sharpest of the small knives in her kitchenette and carefully slid one inside each of her tall boots.
As she reached the ground floor, a regiment marched past. Boots. So many boots. Each identical to the pair he’d been wearing.
Alessa froze, her muscles seizing in terror. She hadn’t seen her attacker’s face. He could be one of them, still moving through the Cittadella with impunity.
One soldier flicked a quick glance her way and frowned. Alessa couldn’t tell if the woman’s reaction was pity or distaste, but it was enough to snap her out of her trance.
Alessa ran through her plan before opening the door. If Tomo and Renata showed any sign of shock or disappointment when she entered, she would know.
She stepped inside, waiting as the door closed behind her.
Renata gave a little wave and yawned into her espresso.
“Good morning, Finestra.” Tomo pushed his chair back and bowed. “You’re early today.”
“No time to waste.” Forced detachment cooled Alessa’s voice, making her sound abnormally calm.
They didn’t notice. Renata drained her cup, oblivious, and Tomo turned back to his news sheet.
Alessa fought the urge to exhale. To trust. She couldn’t forget. Even if they hadn’t ordered last night’s assassination, they might order the next. Her fortress had always been a cage, but now it felt like a trap about to spring. She’d be a fool to trust anyone in the Cittadella.
She needed someone to watch her back. Someone who defended the weak and didn’t buy into Ivini’s theory. Someone who might be desperate for something only she could offer. Someone who didn’t back down—or step aside—from anyone, especially the Cittadella’s soldiers.
Hope flared, bright enough to burn.
She needed to visit the Bottom of the Barrel.
Nine
Chi ha più bisogno, e più s’arrenda.
Beggars can’t be choosers.
The Bottom of the Barrel wasn’t just a clever name after all.
This part of Saverio—Alessa discreetly covered her nose as she entered the fine establishment—was a breeding ground for unsavory characters. “Fodder,” they were often dubbed. As in, fodder for the scarabeo. Even if she could ignore the stink of fear and sweat—and she couldn’t—the dingy tavern didn’t even have a tone-deaf musician for entertainment. Instead, a crowd surrounded a cage large enough to fit a dozen men.
It held only one.
People shoved their faces against the bars, jeering at the lone figure inside, but he didn’t seem to notice. Bronze, barefoot, and stripped to his waist, he stood facing away from her, lazily gripping the bars. Dark hair, wet with sweat, curled at the nape of his neck, and his muscles were streaked with blood.
Fights to the death were illegal, but betting on fights was common entertainment on the docks. According to Adrick, as long as both combatants were alive when the fight ended, it didn’t count as murder. If grievous injuries caused one fighter to die later … well, that was bad luck.
The crowd roiled and Alessa curled inward, using her cloak like a shield against the jostling bodies. These people didn’t recognize her, didn’t know to fear her touch. It was exhilarating and terrifying.
She was so busy studying the crowd that she stumbled as a wiry, grizzled man shoved his way through, leading a hulking brute. Their eyes were fixed on the cage.
The man inside it rolled his neck, revealing his profile, and Alessa muttered a distinctly un-Finestra-like word. She’d found who she was looking for, but judging from the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd, he was about to get beaten to a pulp.
The uneven lighting cast his features in stark relief. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and lips a braver person might have described as pouty. He didn’t seem the type to pout, though. Or appreciate the compliment. He appeared utterly disinterested, but his eyes glittered. The older man entered the cage, growling and snapping at him, and he merely cocked an eyebrow as though faintly amused.
She, on the other hand, couldn’t breathe.
His lean, bronzed muscles were nice enough to look at, but his opponent’s arms were thick as tree trunks, gnarled with scars and burn marks, and his massive hands could’ve smashed Alessa’s skull. Well, not hers, but anyone else’s.
No one with such smooth, unmarred skin and graceful movements could possibly stand a chance against this massive, battle-scarred brute.
It was going to be a massacre.
The announcer made a dramatic show of ordering the barking hulk to stay back, and turned to the crowd. “We have a challenger! Will the Wolf’s fourth match be his last, or can he bring down the Bear? Who will walk away and who will be carried out?”
The crowd surged forward, waving their bets in the air. There was no escape from the tide, and Alessa didn’t try. She didn’t want to see such a beautiful man reduced to a pile of bloody bones, but she couldn’t look away.
The bell startled her. Stretching onto her toes, she strained to see over the shoulders partially blocking her view.
The big man lunged, leapt back, and lunged again, taunting the young man. The Wolf, they’d called him. It fit almost too well. Poised but motionless, he resembled the shadowy creatures who lurked in the forests on the far side of the island. His lip curled, exposing sharp canines. A wolf, cornered by a bear, refusing to show weakness before a stronger, deadlier opponent.