Page 4 of A Betrothal So Bloody

“Your father’s name?”

“Giuseppe de Torelli.”

“Your siblings’ names?”

I smile, spotting the trick. “I have no siblings. And such, why an advantageous marriage is my urgent duty to my mother and father.”

Catarina looks at me intently, but a tight smile makes an appearance. “Very good.”

She trusts me, I think with a swell of pride. I wouldn’t be here if she didn’t.

I shift restlessly as we pass through the arched wrought iron gate, flanked by torches. The villa towers four stories high, more like a fortress than a home. Wasteful. I know D’Agonisto is far from the only one to live in such splendor, but I wrinkle my nose nonetheless.

I run through my strategy again like a mantra. There are a few ways to force a vampire to reveal their nature, apart from catching them in the act of feeding on someone like a cask of wine. A splash of holy water is always an obvious tell, with acrid, singeing flesh at first contact. However, it’s hardly the best solution in a public situation, and at times difficult to out-maneuver these creatures’ dexterity, should they dodge the attempt altogether. If it hits, you best be prepared for a vicious fight then and there.

The more common and preferred method by many Corvus slayers is to goad them into attacking by drawing blood. Some of these beasts are so desperately hungry, freshly spilt blood is irresistable—prompting velveteen disguises to drop as animalistic instincts take over.

If dinner goes exceptionally well and all else fails, I might try to ascertain for an absent heartbeat—though, this is a long shot. Vampires don’t tend to be the cuddly sort unless feasting. I would practically have to have my head resting against his chest.

Then again, maybe I would get lucky, and this monster will be as much of a lewd idiot as many men so often are.

Catarina and I have already agreed on another obvious tactic—to slice a finger during the meal and test his resolve toward fresh blood.

The carriage lurches to a halt, and I reassert the comforting outlines of the silver blades concealed in my deep pockets before opening the door. A single servant greets us, helping Catarina and me dismount before leading us inside the heavy oak doors.

“Welcome to the honored home of Signore D’Agonisto. Was your journey pleasant, signorina?” he asks. He’s an older gentleman, clean-shaven and posturing proudly in his pressed tunic. Plain clothing, but clearly well-maintained.

The hushed air inside the entrance hall carries the smell of polish and stone. A broad staircase sits at the back, spiraling toward the upper floors. It’s so quiet, I’m immediately unsettled. Where is everyone? I recall Catarina’s report, but the absence of the usual household staff milling about makes hairs rise on the back of my neck.

“Very, thank you,” I answer, exchanging a warm look with Catarina—my “aunt” for the evening. “The olive orchards are glorious at this time of year. Signore D’Agonisto must be so pleased to have such fruitful land.”

I flash a wide smile while I scan him, and I know Catatrina is studying him, too. This man doesn’t have the dazed, fanatic look of a thrall—desperate to serve in return for the false promise of one day receiving the dark gift themselves. His lack of pallor indicates good health, with no indication of scarring on the neck. He glows only with the pride of someone who cares greatly for his duties.

“Indeed. We hope you’ll see the harvest come autumn,” the servant says, taking our cloaks and beckoning us onward. “May I offer you something to drink? Perhaps some wine or a bit of water?”

“Are you alone?” Catarina asks. “That is—I’ve heard that your master runs a small staff, but… it must be difficult to manage an estate of this size.”

The servant’s face flickers for a moment, his gaze suddenly shifty, before he regains his hospitable demeanor. “There are few of us these days, yes. Signore values his privacy and simplicity above all else, as you may have heard.”

I glance upward at the intricate oil lamps that climb up the walls, casting warm light on the elegant busts displayed on pedestals. Tapestries, though musty, hang in grand swaths along the stucco walls to display biblical epics.

“I would hardly call this simple,” I remark, more to myself than to the servant.

“Who could be faulted for loving beautiful things?” A rich, low voice rings out behind me.

I freeze, turning to find a man descending the stairs. My mouth falls open slightly—I can’t help it. He’s the kind of beauty sculptors fantasize about immortalizing in marble.

“Ah, Signore D’Agonisto,” the servant greets warmly. “The Signora Cenci and her niece have arrived for you.”

Shit, he’s even younger than I anticipated; he can’t be past his mid-thirties. I shoot Catarina a quick glare out of the corner of my eyes—why didn’t you mention he looked like a goddamn fallen angel?

His golden hair hangs in a mop of effortlessly tousled locks to his chin and catches the candlelight, framing his face like a halo. He has a boyish look about him, giving him the air of someone both effortlessly approachable and untouchable at the same time. I notice his lips are curved in a faint smile as he watches me, seeming to relish my embarrassment rather than feel insulted by my comment. By the time his boots touch the final stair, I’m surprised to realize I’m holding my breath.

My posture straightens as he crosses the hall toward us. He’s broad-shouldered and lean under clothes that are curiously simple for someone of such ranking. He’s nothing like the portly nobles I saw roaming the city earlier. D’Agonisto walks with a graceful ease, blurring a dangerous line between quiet confidence and arrogance.

“What a pleasure to see you again,” Catarina calls out, injecting a girlish excitement into her voice that I’ve never heard before.

“And you, signora.” The nobleman kisses her hand in greeting.