This Vicious Grace (The Last Finestra #1)(47)

Alessa blinked at the familiar logo obscured by her thumb.

“The Finestra doesn’t have a family,” she said softly.

“Right,” Saida stuttered. “Of course. I know that. I just thought—”

“Wait,” Kaleb said around a mouthful of pastry. “Your brother’s Adrick Paladino?”

Alessa’s throat tightened. “Like I said, the Finestra doesn’t have—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Kaleb waved a hand in annoyance. “The Finestra springs, untouched, from Dea’s holy loins. Got it.” He licked a smudge of powdered sugar from one manicured fingernail, squinting at her. “You don’t look anything like him. Well, maybe the eyes.”

There was no point clinging to her divine origin story if they refused to play along. “I wasn’t aware you even knew Adrick, much less his eye color.”

Kaleb went slightly red. “He’s everywhere. Can’t avoid him.”

Saida looked like she’d start whistling if she could. She handed the box to Dante. “You two can share the rest. Come on, Kaleb. There’s bound to be a battle for the shower before cards, and I’m not going last this time.”

“Pssht,” Kaleb scoffed. “If we aren’t training tomorrow, I’m leaving now.”

Saida chased him out the door. “We’re in the middle of Chiamata!”

Kaleb’s voice echoed down the corridor. “Switch to Scopa, then. Josef and Nina are practically sewn together, they can play as a pair.”

Dante picked up the box of sweets and held it out, but Alessa demurred, toying with her necklace, a small silver pendant on a delicate chain. “You can go, too, if you want. I know you didn’t plan on being stuck with me for so long when you took this job.”

Dante gave her a funny look. “It’s not a big deal.”

Like probing a sore tooth to see if it still hurt, she couldn’t resist pressing him. “You sure? I bet parties get pretty wild this close to Divorando.”

“Do I seem like a party guy?”

“I have no idea what kind of guy you are. All I know is Dante isn’t your real name, and that you read a lot of books, punch strangers for money, memorize proverbs in the old language, and claim to be a terrible person without providing a lick of evidence to back it up. You, NotDante NoLastName, are a complete mystery to me.”

He sat forward. “And you can’t stand mysteries, can you?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, here’s a truth for you. I don’t enjoy most people, so I don’t enjoy most parties.”

“Shocking. I used to love parties. And people. When they weren’t scared of me.”

On second thought, a mouthful of sugar was exactly what she needed.

Ignoring her outstretched hands, Dante continued his methodical perusal of the assorted pastries. “I’m not scared of you.”

She raised a victorious fist. “One down. Victory is mine.”

Chuckling, he popped a puff pastry into his mouth.





Twenty-Three


Lupo non mangia lupo.

Wolves don’t eat wolves.

DAYS BEFORE DIVORANDO: 20


Back in her suite, Alessa debated aloud what to wear for her portrait session the following day, while Dante ignored the topic entirely, lounging in an armchair with yet another book.

She tore through her closet, pulling down armfuls of ruby silk, silver taffeta, and violet lace, and hung a half dozen gowns she’d worn once or not at all from the privacy screen between her bed and the main room.

After some very loud throat-clearing on her part (and one small but heartfelt foot-stomp), Dante looked up long enough to log his vote by grunting in the general direction of a crimson dress. She didn’t bother asking for his input on jewelry or shoes, but arranged her picks beneath the dress so she wouldn’t have to rummage in the morning.

Wandering back toward the sitting area, Alessa picked up the small, leather-bound book he’d left open on the side table and ran her finger over the words inside the cover.

Per luce mia.

“Is this for me?”

Dante glanced over and bolted upright. “No.”

“Sorry.” She jerked her hand away. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No. It’s fine.” His cheekbones darkened. “You can look at it. It’s in the old language, though.”

Alessa opened to a page at random. “O mangiar questa minestra o saltar della finestra,” she read, stumbling a bit. “Something about ministers … jumping out windows?”

“Minestra is soup. Eat the soup or jump out the window. It means take it or leave it.”

“Ah,” she said, closing it. “I’d begun to wonder if you’d memorized a book of ancient proverbs, and voila, here it is.”

“More than one, actually. The holy man who took me in after my parents died made me read the Verità every day. It was big enough to hide other books behind it.”

“Oh.” She chewed her lip. “How long did you live with him?”

“Too long. Took me three years to get away.”

“That’s awful.” She wanted to ask more, to understand what he’d been through, both during his time in captivity and the years after, but instinct told her a true friend would change the subject.