The Mosaic

Chapter 59 | Mise-Èn-Scene

Mise-Èn-Scene: arrangement of the scenery, props, lighting, etc. on the stage of a theatrical production

It was easier than ever.

Like one knew a distant friend from the slope of their handwriting and the faint wisps of a perfume lingering on their letters, he knew the Reaper from the brushstrokes of blood following a quick blade and the wicked artistry hidden and twisted in mortal sculptures.

Like a maze once walked, the path becomes familiar. Serial killers were dangerous, with Alessandro following their dark descent over and over again, their paths might become too familiar...

It was harder than ever. His eyes kept straying, expecting a flash of black. Like someone who put weight on a loose stone and fell, ground suddenly pulled from beneath them, he waited for a snarky comment, an observation hidden in a crude joke, and stumbled into the silence when none came.

His hands curled into fists. Alessandro had always worked alone. A partner was useless. He just wasted time explaining to them what he saw. He worked better alone.

But Giacinto saw things he didn't, showed him another side. He didn't slow Alessandro down – on the contrary, their competitiveness spurred him on. And the few times Alessandro had to stop and explain, he found he didn't mind.

Right now, Giacinto looked every bit the traitor. Giacinto—enough!

Alessandro almost swayed by the force of his anger hitting him. He battled it down, froze it over, played pretend one more time.

He divided the scene by three – de Vito, the boy, the stranger hanging from the cross. Puzzle. Inward from the edges. He strode to the boy.

He had been dumped face down in a pool of sunlight near the altar like an old doll. He couldn't be older than ten, his cheeks still a little chubby even though he was a bit too thin overall, nose turned up slightly like that of a mouse. A small street rat. Someone who wouldn't be missed.

He didn't appear harmed, no bruises or cuts marring his skin, except... Alessandro forced his eyes over the naked legs, pale, soft thighs smeared with drying blood.

The image of Giacinto grinning at the band of dirty, too thin street kids back in Venice let his anger flicker to life again. They had looked at the Greek with big, starry eyes. He would never do this.

Except if this had been an excellent set up, Giacinto playing Alessandro like a trump card, turned over at the perfect moment. Alessandro grit his teeth -- he couldn't read Giacinto. He could've been playing him the entire time.

The angry flames licked at memories of the Greek grinning at Alessandro over their chessboard.

Their? The anger sparked in joy.

Giacinto and Alessandro laughing breathlessly in the hallway, hair sticking in all directions after their wrestle.

This time, when Alessandro forced the ice over him, it physically hurt. If his anger reached those memories, it would burst ablaze and rip Alessandro apart in the explosion.

He narrowed his eyes – he couldn't spot the boy's trousers nearby. His shirt was dirty and wrinkled, but not torn in struggle...

This was too planned, too specific – someone had drugged the boy and stripped him elsewhere, yet brought and raped him on the altar. Why?

He brushed a finger through the blood on the inside of his thigh, as gently as he could with the anger boiling white hot inside of him. Alessandro yanked his hand back as if burnt. The skin was still revoltingly warm under his fingertips. The thin, broad smears of blood were starting to dry... 15 minutes ago.