Chapter 3: Father Comes Clean

The morning mist hadn't yet fully lifted, leaving the alleyways on the edge of St. Mark's Square heavy with a damp, musty smell. It was that distinct, sweet-sharp scent that comes from seawee mingling with limestone over centuries. Bianca clutched the yellowed letter in her hands, her knuckles turning white with the force of her grip. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard it felt like it was trying to force its way up her throat and out.

She stood before the heavy oak doors of the Barberini Manor. The dim light seeping through the crack was enough to trick her eyes, making her almost hallucinate her grandfather’s exhausted face surfacing in the shadows. The clocks inside had stopped ticking; all that remained was the sound of her own ragged breathing, each inhale pulling in a sharp, bitter chill.

She raised a hand, fingers splayed and trembling, and hesitated for a split second before knocking on the door that had been silent for a hundred years.

The bolt slid home with a cold, crisp click, announcing the restoration of a rigid order while sealing out the entire noisy world beyond. Bianca took a deep breath. The air was thick with the smell of aged leather, old ink, and the lingering spice of burnt cigars. It was the scent of Alessandro Rinaldi’s world—dense and suffocating.

No matter what the outcome was, today, this door had to be opened.

The air in the study was as heavy as lead. Alessandro was slowly wiping the Ancient Ring, which was carved with the family crest, with a piece of deer skin. The light cut through the gaps in the blinds, casting dozens of long, thin shadows across the dark walnut desk, resembling links of a restrictive chain.

Alessandro didn’t look up. He just continued his monotonous action. The faint screech of leather rubbing against metal was piercing in the silence, scratching against Bianca’s frayed nerves.

Bianca pushed the door open. The wind brought in a hint of post-rain cold, startling the candles on the table. Their flames flickered for a moment before settling, casting a faint, warm orange glow. Alessandro finally stopped what he was doing. He placed the ring on a velvet cushion and looked up at his daughter.

His gaze was as deep as the water in the canals of Venice, frighteningly still, showing no trace of emotion. Bianca walked up to him and slapped the folded piece of paper onto the desk. The paper slid across the wood with a soft rustling sound, like an ancient spell being broken. Dust motes danced in the beams of light, witnessing this moment of rupture.

“This is the last will your grandfather left you.” Alessandro’s voice was low, carrying an authority that brooked no argument. He didn’t touch the paper. Instead, he pointed at the ring. “But in my eyes, this is a ticket to hell. The name ‘The Brewer’ in this family’s history means destruction, not wealth.”

“Destruction?” Bianca sneered, her sharp gaze stabbing at her father. “Then tell me, why did Grandfather, on his deathbed, hand me the ring with trembling hands and repeatedly order me to find out the truth? If this is really destruction, why leave it to a defenseless daughter?”

Alessandro stood up. His towering silhouette was backlit, the outline blurred and oppressive, like an insurmountable black mountain. He walked to the bookshelf and pulled out a heavy parchment-covered book. The sound of pages turning was like bones snapping, a brittle crack that made one’s teeth ache.

He returned to the desk and slammed the book open, revealing hand-drawn underwater maps inside. The outlines inked on the pages were not the current Venice, but ghost cities sunk beneath the bottom. The winding waterways spread out like veins into an unknown abyss.

“Our family has guarded these secrets for generations,” Alessandro’s finger tapped a blue zone marked as forbidden on the map. “Our rules are clear: do not touch the monastery tombs, do not touch the Water Burial Tombs, and certainly do not touch any relics belonging to ‘The Brewer.’ This is a contract, more enduring than any promise.

Your grandfather broke this rule. That is why his death was not an accident, but a reckoning.”

Bianca stared at the unfamiliar symbols, a chill spreading through her, but it was outweighed by anger. She cut off her father’s words, her voice trembling slightly with agitation. “A contract? If the rules are so sacred, why is Rosa Orsini from the Maritime Bureau investigating the smuggling case where every artifact pulled from the water bears the Rinaldi family crest?

What you call ‘guarding’ is just a cover for greed! The family is facing legal sanctions and public judgment now, and you’re still talking about dead men’s rules?”

Alessandro closed his eyes, his brow furrowed, as if enduring immense pain. After a moment, he opened them, a flicker of weary resignation in his gaze. “Rosa is an idealist. She can’t see the undercurrents beneath the surface. She thinks she’s doing justice, but she’s just muddying the waters. But you’re right—the rules are loosening. Because ‘The Brewer’ has woken up.”

“Woken up?” Bianca pressed, leaning forward, trying to extract concrete information from her father’s cryptic statement.

“The ship,” Alessandro said in a low voice, almost drowned out by the rain hammering the window glass, the droplets making a dull thud. “It carries the family’s entire sin and glory. Your grandfather tried to use it to escape death, but in the end, it consumed him.”

Bianca felt dizzy, staggering for a moment before snapping back to clarity. She snatched the ring from the table, rubbing her thumb over the cold metal surface. The crest carved into it seemed to burn against her skin, producing a real sense of pain.

“I don’t care what it is,” Bianca said, raising the ring as if it were a sword drawn from its sheath, her eyes firm. “I only know this is the only clue my father left behind. I’m going to find out who—or what—they were, and why a family would guard it with their lives. If you want to stop me, destroy it right now.”

Alessandro violently whipped the parchment book away, the loud thud making the candle flames dance wildly, illuminating the deep crevices on his face.

“Destroy it? Do you think this is a toy you can dispose of however you want? The prerequisite for inheriting the family estate is cutting all ties with this ring. Burn it, Bianca. Burn it, and you can return to a normal life in Venice, enjoy social benefits, and get a decent job at City Hall. But if you don’t burn it, you have to stand with me at the gates of hell.”

“I refuse.” Bianca’s voice was terrifyingly calm, as if she had made a final decision. All her earlier fury settled into cold reason. “I would rather lose the family’s protection than stop pursuing the truth. I will not be a slave to your contract, nor an heir to your fear. From this moment on, I and the Rinaldi family, we are even.”

Alessandro froze in place, the muscles in his face twitching slightly, revealing the internal collapse and struggle. After a long while, he pulled a yellowed train ticket from a drawer. It was printed with “Milan Central Station,” the ink faded, as if it had been soaked in rain.

“This is a ticket north,” Alessandro placed the ticket on the desk, the strictness gone from his tone, replaced only by deep exhaustion. “Take it and leave. Go to Milan, go to Berlin, go anywhere you can. As long as you’re not in Venice, you’re safe. This is the last gift a father can give you.”

Bianca looked at the ticket, a complex mix of gratitude and disgust churning in her heart, the two emotions warring violently. She picked up the ticket but didn’t take it with her; instead, she left it on the desk. Then, she turned and walked toward the door, her steps resolute, each footfall heavy and firm.

“I’m moving out tonight.” She kept her back to her father, her voice echoing in the small study with a resolute reverb. “The rain will get heavier. It’ll be perfect for washing away those dirty secrets.”

Alessandro didn’t stop her. He just sat back down, picked up the ring, and stared at it in the dim light, as if looking at a vortex on the verge of control. When he saw Bianca disappear into the shadow of the hallway, he whispered to the empty air, his voice light as a sigh: “The Brewer isn’t a person. It’s a ship.

She’ll understand sooner or later that some things, once awakened, bring no peace.”

Bianca stood at the mouth of the alley. The rain had soaked her hair and clothes, the ice-cold water running down her spine and making her completely sober. She looked back at the tight-closed doors of the old manor, confirming that no lights had come on and no footsteps were chasing her. Loneliness surged like a tide, drowning out every other emotion.

She clutched the Ancient Ring tightly. The coldness of the metal spread from her fingertips to her heart, becoming her only anchor in this moment.

The morning mist rose again, blurring the end of the street. Bianca retrieved the rain-soaked ticket, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it into a puddle on the roadside. She watched the splash break her own reflection in the water. She turned and disappeared into the narrow, quiet streets of Venice, only the soft echo of her footsteps on the stone pavement lingering before fading away.

The mist had not cleared. Bianca did not follow her original plan to board the train heading inland. Instead, seemingly driven by some bizarre impulse, she turned toward the end of the Grand Canal. She stopped at the edge of San Toriano Island, standing on wet, moss-covered stone steps. The ring on her finger shimmered with a cold light in the morning dew, as if it had formed some eerie resonance with the surrounding steam.

A strange vibration came from her palm. It wasn’t her heartbeat; it was a low hum from inside the metal itself. She looked up abruptly and saw a black wooden ship moored on the river, completely unmarked. The hull was ancient, the paint peeling off, looking like a corpse forgotten in the harbor. Yet, on this windless morning, it rose and fell slightly, as if it were breathing.

An unlit lantern hung at the bow. The symbol carved on the lampshade was exactly the same as the blurred inscription inside the ring.

Bianca stared at that ship. Her father’s words that “The Brewer is a ship” were no longer a metaphor; they were a fear made tangible. The water lapped gently against the hull, creating a hollow echo, as if someone deep in the hold was tapping the wood, the rhythm slow and persistent. She tried to back away, but the stone under her feet became unnaturally slick, as if pulled by some invisible force.

The black ship slowly drifted away from the bank, parting the dead-still water. It slid toward her silently, its shadow stretching long, like a black snake leading to an abyss, swallowing the last warmth of the morning light.