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When you can't trust in angels, you turn to the devil for a pact.
Alessandro Steno is Venice's living legend. Trying to wash old blood off his hands, he hunts the city's...
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Alessandro wanted to punch the policemen. The moment he emerged from the cold of the cell they swarmed around him like mosquitos. He waved them away, but they wouldn't stop congratulating their spectacular officer. What a spectacular case. Solved in such a spectacular way. Just as expected from such a spectacular man. What an honor he had chosen to not become a rich, snobby merchant like his rich, influential father. What a heroic decision.
The edges of his rings dug deep into his skin, fingers curled into a tight fist. He hadn't solved a case — he had lied and an innocent boy had died. He hadn't joined the police out of the righteousness of his heart — he had taken the only path left for him.
He hated it, fingers itching. He didn't deserve their admiration. None of it. There it was, the red fury reaching for his heart. He battled it down. It was an old fight, he long knew how to wrestle it back into the twilight between consciousness and subconsciousness.
Alessandro breathed in, squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. He wore his confidence as a shield.
He stepped into his superior's office. The moment their eyes met he had fight the urge to yank the other out of his chair. He wanted to punch the smiling man even more than the men outside – but he wanted to do that every time they met. One punch, just one. But Alessandro knew that nothing would be able to tear him away if he ever started.
Every single day a drop of anger fell into his heart. One day it would spill over.
The black goatee and watery blue eyes that never seemed to blink made his blood boil. Alessandro did not have the time to really punch him, because the moment their customary staring match was ended by Alessandro dutifully opening his mouth, the door banged open. One of his men, choking on his own breaths, hastily stuttered something about a strange death. A man had killed himself on Saint Marcus' square. Alessandro was needed. Right now.
The last of the seven. It had to be.
Alessandro had never been this delighted about bad news. Thank god, a corpse. Any excuse was good enough. He would go with his pet hamster dying if he had to. He didn't have a pet hamster.
The poor man attempted to follow Alessandro, but the officer waved him away. "Rest." He looked like he needed it.
Giacinto was leaning against the wall outside the gate, arms crossed casually as he waited. When he spotter Alessandro, his eyes narrowed for a split second. As if he could see the emotions churning Alessandro's insides or read the messenger's report in his eyes.
The Greek didn't ask where there were going, just followed Alessandro for the second time today on their chase of death.
Funny, how all would run from death and they ran after it. How long would it be until they carelessly impaled themselves on the reaper's scythe?
