Kingdom of the Wicked (Kingdom of the Wicked #1)(94)

I stepped back and admired my work; I looked dangerous. My dress was a deep berry with capped sleeves made entirely from gold scales. It was dark enough to hide blood, but wasn’t another all-black ensemble. I didn’t mind the color—it just felt too much like mourning.

And I was completely through with feeling sad.

Wrath said I had a choice—I could either be a victim or a victor. And, much as I was loath to admit it, he was right. Others would always be out there, trying to knock me down, to tell me who I was or who they thought I should be. People carved words into weapons often, but they only had power if I listened to them instead of trusting in myself.

If my enemies wanted to create doubt in me, I’d believe in my own abilities even more. Even if I had to fake it until it felt real.

I left the Zisa and headed deep into the heart of the city.

I cut a swath around Old Town and headed to Ballarò Market where food stands had been set up around the royal palace. I wasn’t surprised to see the Nuccis already had a small gathering of people waiting for their arancini and panelle. Both fried rice balls and fried salted chickpea pancakes were popular street food.

Domenico Senior blotted his brow with a cloth and passed out a bag of food. I was happy to see him away from Greed’s gambling den. It made one part of my plan easier.

I watched as his line slowly thinned, and people walked away with their bags of food. My stomach grumbled at the sight and smells, and I decided purchasing something was a good excuse to talk. I needed to eat anyway.

“Buongiorno, Signorina di Carlo. What would you like today?”

“Panelle with extra lemon wedges, please.”

The elder Nucci fried the flat pancakes to perfection, hit them with some sea salt, then added them to a paper bag with an extra wedge of lemon. I handed my coins over, and drifted to the side where his awning provided a bit of shade. “How is Domenico Junior?”

“He in trouble?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that, so I pulled one of Wrath’s favorite tricks and ignored it. “My sister had mentioned him, and I’ve heard he’s been spending a lot of time at the monastery. It must be hard on him, losing someone he cared about.”

Domenico Senior’s gaze drifted to the person standing behind me before he passed out an order of arancini, and set another few into the fryer basket. “He’s all right. He left for Calabria this morning to help his cousin.”

I stopped chewing my panelle. Of all times for Domenico Junior to leave home, it was odd that he chose now. I changed tactics. “Have you spent any time in that gambling hall?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t too rude. “I need to find it as soon as possible.”

He shook his head. “Afraid I can’t help you. I heard the guy who runs it left.”

Internally I screamed and cursed the goddess of missed opportunities. I was about to leave when I noticed a strange tattoo inked onto his forearm. A pawprint clutching what appeared to be a fennel stalk. My gaze fell to the side of his food cart—the same symbol was painted there. I’d been wrong. I’d never seen it in my sister’s diary. I’d seen it the day Wrath and I had tried to get close to investigate the murder of Giulia Santorini. My breath caught as it finally clicked into place. Signore Nucci was a shape-shifter.

I swallowed hard, and slowly dragged my attention up. Domenico Senior noticed me staring at his tattoo, and hastily rolled his sleeve back down despite the heat of the day.

His reaction set off warning bells.

I thought back to my sister’s diary. All it had said was Domenico Nucci. There had never been a mention of junior or senior . . .

“It’s you,” I said, dropping my bag of panelle. “Vittoria wrote your name in her diary. It’s never been Domenico Junior. Did you hurt her? Did she find out what you are?”

“It’s not—don’t shout those kind of accusations around. Give me a second.”

Domenico flipped the stand’s sign to closed, and motioned for me to follow him around the corner where there was less foot traffic. I didn’t want to leave the crowds, and he seemed to know that. He stopped where we were still surrounded, but couldn’t be overheard.

“Your sister passed out drinks at Greed’s gambling den.”

My heart beat wildly. Finally, after all this time, I had another hint about what Vittoria had been up to right before she was killed. “And? Did she know what you are?” He nodded. “Did you ever see her with Greed?”

“Yeah. She came to him one night with an idea. They were working on a plan they both felt comfortable with.”

“How did you get involved in all this?” He didn’t seem inclined to respond, so I pulled the knife I’d hidden in my bodice and let the sun glint off the blade. I’d learned a good many tricks from the demon of war. “One way or another I will get my information, signore. The choice is up to you on how we go about it.”

“All right, all right.” He swallowed hard and glanced around. “You know about the benandanti.”

I nodded. Everyone did. “Shape-shifters, in a sense. Their spirits change into animal forms to astral travel four times a year. They also fight in the Night Battles.”

“Well, that’s what the benandanti are. We’re not them, but they have taken on our symbol so we’re often confused. We can physically shape-shift whenever we please. We’re called Ember Wolves. The benandanti are human, we are not. At least not entirely. Most would say we’re werewolves.”