Chapter 3: A Folded Page at the Old Bookshop

Milan's rainy season always carried a damp, clinging chill, as if the very air had been soaked through with the smell of old mildew. Outside the window, the rain fell in silken threads, blurring the city's outline into a watercolor smear. Murky puddles had gathered on the cobblestones, reflecting the hurried passersby under the dim yellow glow of the streetlamps.

When Katerina Grimaldi pushed open the heavy oak door, the hinge let out a creak that echoed down the narrow alley, startling two pigeons sheltering from the rain under the eaves. They burst into flight, wet droplets clinging to their feathers, carving a gray arc through the dim street corner before vanishing into the curtain of rain.

Inside the Grimaldi Antiquarian, the light was dim. A single brass lamp above the counter cast a cone of illumination, the edges of its beam shimmering with floating dust. The air was thick with the sour tang of fermenting old paper, the sharp freshness of turpentine, and the bitter scent of a cup of coffee long gone cold.

These smells wove together into the shop's particular atmosphere of oppression. She moved quickly past the towering shelves crammed with rare editions, her fingertips brushing the yellowed spines—rough and cold to the touch.

She tucked the faintly warm badge and the broken sword fragment inside her coat. The fabric pressed against her skin, and the metal's lingering warmth seeped through, the tingling still lingering on her fingertips as if to remind her that what she'd just experienced was no illusion.

Bianca sat in the rocking chair in the corner, a white porcelain teacup cradled in her hands. Her gaze was calm and sharp, as though she had already known her sister would come. The chair rocked gently with her breathing, its rhythmic creak unnaturally loud in the silent shop.

Bianca didn't rise. She simply lifted her chin slightly, signaling Katerina to come closer. She extended one slender finger and lightly touched her sister's fingertip, still dusted with metal shavings. The faint electrical burn marks flickered in the gloom, like an unhealed wound. Bianca's voice was calm to the point of coldness, utterly without inflection, as though she were merely stating an established fact.

Bianca: "This was no accident. Matteo is testing your limits."

Katerina tightened her grip on the engraving knife, her knuckles going white with the force, the bones creaking faintly. She drew a deep breath, trying to quell the anger churning in her chest, and looked her sister straight in the eye.

Katerina: "The gear structure in the groove is seventeenth-century craftsmanship. That's a clue, not a trap."

Bianca gently blew on the steam rising from her tea, a flicker of something unreadable—sadness, perhaps—passing through her eyes. It was like a dark current beneath thin ice, quickly smoothing over to conceal the sharpness in her words.

Bianca: "The old cases at court are an abyss. Set foot in them, and the disaster they erased back then will repeat itself. The family will never know peace again."

The two faced off among the dim shelves, the air seeming to solidify. Only the distant tolling of a church bell drifted in—heavy, oppressive, each stroke like a hammer blow to the heart. The sound of the pendulum echoed through the empty streets, a strange counterpoint to the dead silence indoors.

Bianca rose. The rocking chair slid backward, striking the shelf behind her with a soft thud. She pulled a yellowed ledger from beneath the counter, its edges brittle and browned, giving off the stale smell of old dust.

Bianca: "Look at the binding on this ledger. It comes from inside Matteo's archive. That proves he's rotten to the core—just another discarded pawn in the game."

Katerina caught the detail keenly, her mind rapidly mapping the intricate web of power within the archive. She thought of the hidden corners her father had mentioned before his death, the fragments of history deliberately obscured.

Katerina: "The archive wouldn't let a ledger with old-style binding leave its walls unless someone deliberately destroyed the evidence. Matteo is just a shield they pushed out front."

Bianca slammed the ledger onto the counter with a dull thud that sent the teacup on the desk trembling violently.

Bianca: "The trust held by Milan's old banks is about to mature. What we need is capital and stability—not a gamble that could destroy everything."

The argument escalated in the cramped space, the struggle between class and interest playing out silently between the sisters. The sound of rain beating against the glass seemed to grow louder, as if providing a soundtrack to their quarrel. Katerina refused to be bound by money's chains. Her eyes held the stubborn ice her father had left her—his last line of defense.

Katerina: "Father didn't die because of greed. He died because he discovered the true history behind the broken sword. I won't let his blood be spilled for nothing."

At those words, Bianca's hands froze for a beat. Then she snatched up a bottle of vintage Barolo from the table and hurled it to the floor. The shatter of glass was sharp and piercing, exploding in the cramped space.

Deep red wine burst outward, splattering across the floor tiles like blood, staining the white pages of the ledger—and stinging Katerina's eyes. The rich tannins of the wine filled the air, mingled with a ferrous, bloody tang.

Bianca's movements were violent, betraying a deep-seated terror and despair. Her hair had come loose, falling across her face, hiding half of it. Only her eyes burned with a feverish light.

Bianca: "History is written by the victors. The weak only get to stay silent. What makes you think you can rewrite the ending?"

In the chaos, Katerina's gaze swept over the wine-soaked ledger—and caught a slip of paper, thin as a cicada's wing, protruding from between the pages. The edges were already beginning to pucker from the wine. Ignoring Bianca's protests, she swiftly pulled it out.

Bianca lunged for it. The back of her hand struck the bookshelf, but Katerina twisted sideways, evading her grasp. The slip of paper stretched between them, its edges already torn, emitting a faint ripping sound. Bianca was panting, her eyes full of terror and determination, her nails digging deep into her palms.

Bianca: "Burn it. It's the only way to preserve the last shred of dignity this family has. You can't let those greedy hands see it."

Katerina finally wrested the paper away. Calmly, she unfolded it and scrutinized the writing in the dim light. Rain hammered against the window, its rhythm urgent and erratic, like a countdown.

Katerina: "Videns Veritatem. 'Seeing the Truth.' That's the codename of the man behind Matteo, the one pulling the strings in the black market. Everything's finally falling into place."

Katerina clenched the paper in her fist and made her decision. No more running. No more hesitation. She would take this commission—even if it destroyed her family. Outside, the rain was beginning to ease, a sliver of gray-white sky showing through.

Katerina: "I'm not doing this for revenge. I'm doing it to restore the truth of that bloody, falsified history—even if that truth drags us all into the abyss."

Bianca was silent for a long time. The air around them grew heavy and still, broken only by the sound of raindrops against the glass. Slowly, she drew a match from her pocket and struck it. The flame lit her pale, composed face, casting deep shadows in its hollows. She held the match to a page of the ledger. The fire licked at the paper, which curled and blackened.

The flames devoured half the ledger, a pungent burnt smell filling the air and driving out the lingering scent of wine. In the flickering firelight, two blurred words emerged faintly from the half-destroyed text, as if in a final struggle.

Bianca pressed the burnt match head into a porcelain dish and looked up at her sister. The old gentleness was gone from her eyes—only a dead, ashen silence remained.

Bianca: "Look at it. Once the word 'Regicide' is exposed, what awaits us isn't salvation—it's utter annihilation. Are you sure you still want to go down this road?"

Katerina stared at the half-charred page, her fingertips gently tracing the broken words, feeling the rough, fragile edges of the paper. The determination in her eyes gradually hardened into cold calm. She drew a deep breath, as if to swallow all her fear and uncertainty.

Katerina: "A contract outlasts a promise. Father sealed his with his life—I have to unseal it myself. Even if it's just half a sentence."

Outside, the rain had stopped completely. Damp air poured through the old wooden window, carrying the smell of decaying old paper. Bianca said nothing more. She slowly retreated, her figure melting into the shadows of the towering stacks of antiquarian books deep in the shop, as if she had never been there at all.

Only the porcelain dish still held a lingering warmth, and the half-charred scrap lay quietly on the cluttered desk, like a wound that would never heal.

Katerina lowered her gaze to the half-page of remnants. The flame was out, but the afterimage of the word "Regicide" still burned against her retinas. She realized that what Bianca had burned was not merely evidence—it was the last thread of warmth and retreat between the two sisters.

That half-page had been deliberately preserved. It was a warning, and at the same time a twisted sort of guidance. Matteo clearly knew Bianca was here—might even know this page existed—and yet he had allowed this near-self-destructive act to happen. Which meant the archive's commission was no simple investigation. It was a carefully designed trap.

She quickly stuffed the remnant into an inner pocket. The cold paper corner pressed against her skin, and every heartbeat seemed to remind her of the danger. Katerina took the lantern from the wall. The flame flickered in the wind, illuminating the dim corners of the shop.

She didn't look back. There was no one behind her now—only the ledger, still lying on the desk, missing a page. The absent part formed a gaping black hole, swallowing the truth of the past.

She pushed open the creaking wooden door. The street was muddy and silent, save for the muffled tolling of a distant bell tower echoing through the empty alleyways. The night was thick as ink, wrapping the city in suffocating darkness. Katerina pulled her thin coat tighter and walked on, her steps firm and quick.

She knew that from this moment on, she was no longer the Katerina who ran from her past. She was a hunter walking the edge of a cliff. Matteo was waiting for her at the archive, and deep in those filing cabinets, the falsified history was opening its bloody maw.

At the end of the street, a black carriage was rolling slowly toward her, its lamps dim and yellow, out of place in the boundless dark. The curtain stirred slightly. A gloved hand emerged, a finger crooking gently around a yellowed letter.

Katerina's pupils contracted sharply. That was the last clue her father had left before his disappearance—never known to anyone, never circulated in public. She stopped dead, her breath catching at the moment the glove was about to close. Ice ran from the soles of her feet straight up her spine.