Chapter 15 - The Venetian Mask
Venice by night was a city of breathtaking beauty and sinister secrets, a floating labyrinth perfectly designed to hide monsters.
We arrived via a private speedboat, cutting silently through the black waters of the Grand Canal.
The Palazzo di Morte, an ancient, towering mansion rising straight out of the water, was glowing with golden light.
It was the fortress of the High Commission, heavily guarded and entirely impenetrable by force.
Julian and I had acquired invitations the old-fashioned way—by intercepting two corrupt European bankers in an alleyway and stealing their identities.
I adjusted the collar of my tailored tuxedo, checking the concealed ceramic blades hidden inside the sleeves.
Metal detectors would catch guns, but ceramic was invisible to the security scanners at the door.
We stepped off the boat and onto the marble docks, handing our forged invitations to the armed guards dressed in classical Venetian livery.
The scanner beeped green, and we were allowed inside the grand foyer.
The ballroom was a surreal nightmare of wealth and decadence.
Hundreds of the world’s most dangerous criminals, politicians, and billionaires danced under crystal chandeliers, all hiding behind elaborate, terrifying masks.
"Split up," Julian muttered under his breath, adjusting his silver wolf mask.
"Find the auction room. I will find the security hub and blind their cameras."
I nodded, adjusting my own mask—a plain, pitch-black visage that offered no emotion.
I drifted through the crowd, listening to the hushed conversations in half a dozen languages, searching for any sign of my brother.
As I passed a massive velvet curtain, a cold chill ran violently down my spine.
Standing on the balcony overlooking the dance floor was a man in an immaculate white suit.
He wore a golden mask, completely smooth and featureless.
There were no eye holes.
It was the Blind King.
He stood perfectly still, his head tilted slightly, as if he were listening to the heartbeat of every single person in the room.
Suddenly, his head snapped in my direction.
Even without eyes, I knew he was staring directly into my soul.
He did not raise an alarm or call his guards.
Instead, he turned and walked gracefully through a set of heavy wooden doors leading into the private wing of the palazzo.
It was an invitation.
I slipped away from the crowd, my hand instinctively sliding down to the ceramic blade hidden in my sleeve.
I pushed the wooden doors open, stepping into a dimly lit, silent library that smelled of old paper and expensive tobacco.
The Blind King was waiting for me, sitting behind a massive mahogany desk.
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"Dominic Valenti," his voice was soft, melodic, and terrifyingly calm.
"I have been waiting for you."
