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“Iucundissima somnia.” Sweetest dreams. And then he was gone.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“I was thinking of making cassata for tomorrow’s dessert.”
Mamma turned to me, her expression worn, but hopeful. Somehow I managed to hide the swift emotional punch from registering on my face. The sponge cake with sweet ricotta layers was a favorite of both mine and Vittoria’s. We used to request it each year for our birthday and Mamma never disappointed us. She’d roll out a thin layer of marzipan, covering the whole cake in the sweet paste before decorating it with brightly colored candied fruit. I loved how that slightly chewier upper layer contrasted against the soft deliciousness of the wet cake hidden inside.
I wasn’t sure I could ever eat it again without feeling crushed by a wave of sadness, but refused to dampen my mother’s spirits. When I smi
led, it was genuine.
“That sounds delicious.”
My mother shuffled over to the dry goods cabinet, seemingly exhausted again from her brief spurt of conversation, and pulled out a bowl, filling it with sugar and all the supplies she needed for the cake. Today was a bad day for her. I watched her, then went back to removing the sarde a beccafico from the oven. I inhaled the fragrant scent of stuffed sardines.
Nonna’s recipe called for golden raisins, pine nuts, and breadcrumbs in the stuffing, then she’d drizzle melted sage butter and thyme over it before finishing it off with large bay leaves to separate the fish while it baked. The result was a symphony of flavors that melted in your mouth and stuck to your ribs.
I’d no sooner set the fish on a platter when my father stepped into the kitchen, waving around a folded note. He expertly swiped a piece of stuffing that had fallen out, and I shook my head, but smiled all the same. My father was always very helpful in the kitchen, sampling each new recipe for quality purposes. Or so he kept claiming.
“Salvatore dropped this off for you, Emilia,” he said around a mouthful of food. “Said your friend asked him to deliver it right away.”
Mamma wore a rosary like other humans, and I imagined she’d be kissing it later, uttering novenas if she ever found out who my “friend” really was. I hastily snatched the note before she could. “Grazie, Papà.”
My father pulled a stool over and started loading a plate, drawing my mother’s attention. I used the distraction to hurry into the corridor and read the short message.
Piazza Zisa and Via degli Emiri. Eight in the evening.
I didn’t recognize the careful, neat penmanship but it dripped regal arrogance and made my stomach twist. The address he’d given was Castello della Zisa. La Zisa was a sprawling Moorish palace that mostly sat in ruin now. The king who’d had it built was called Il Malo—“the bad one”—so it was more than fitting the demon prince had taken up temporary residence there.
I refolded the note, shoved it down my bodice, then made my way back into the kitchen. I’d have just enough time to finish dinner service and hurry over to the palace before dark.
I crept into the abandoned castle from the rear garden, and roamed around several desolate yet ornate rooms before finally circling around to the main entrance and finding another note tacked to the front door—the last place I’d expect a secret meeting location to be posted. I stared out across the lawn at the reflecting pool, and shook my head.
Subtlety was an artform lost on the demon, apparently. Though I supposed when he was the biggest, baddest predator around, he had little to fear.
Roof
I inwardly sighed. This palace had been built in such a way that cool air filtered through it like an ice box, but of course a creature from Hell would be happiest in the scorching heat. I was dripping with sweat, and spitting mad by the time my foot hit the last stair.
I marched across the roof, determined to flay the demon alive, and halted.
Wrath lay stretched out on his back, hands laced behind his head, soaking in the last rays of the sun as it hovered above the horizon in the distance. Light gilded his profile and he turned his face toward it, smiling at the warmth. He hadn’t noticed me yet, and part of me was relieved.
His expression was serene, a look I hadn’t seen from him. Though his body was relaxed, an undercurrent of alertness remained that made me believe he could spring up and attack in less than a breath. He was like a serpent, laying in a patch of sun.
Lethal, beautiful. Wholly untouchable.
I wanted to kick him for being so dangerously breathtaking. His head snapped in my direction, his gaze capturing mine. For a minute, I forgot how to breathe.
He slowly took me in. “Did something happen on the way here?”
“No.”
“Then why do you look confused?”
“I thought you couldn’t bear daylight.”
“Why is that?”
