Chapter 17

Recognition.

As it filtered into the depths of the Romano dungeons, the morning light, thin and watery,

provided little warmth and made the familiar shadows stand out more sharply. 

Violet was dragged from her cell for a work detail, a routine task that typically provided no relief from her suffering, even though her body was still hurting and a sliver of hope had been ignited inside her.

But today, it was a chance, a brief window into the wider world outside her cell walls, an opportunity to watch, to look for answers.

 She was tasked with cleaning the dirty flagstones of a long, winding service corridor that was rarely used and led to the kitchen and several storage rooms.

Her senses were assaulted by the oppressive mixture of cleaning products and stale cooking oil that pervaded the air here. 

Raw and chapped, her hands worked mechanically, scrubbing away at the tenacious stains, but her true attention was on the edges, her senses keenly tuned to any movement or conversation that might come her way.

Other servants moved like robots, their heads bowed, their eyes focused on their work, their faces as drawn and terrified as hers.

 They were too cautious to draw attention to themselves or make eye contact.

 The heavy boots of the stern, imposing guards echoed on the stone as they patrolled with a practiced indifference.

 Violet saw Mateo among them.

His broad back was mostly to her, and he moved with the same quiet efficiency, his

presence nearly disappearing into the dull shadow and stone.

 However, the secret kindness he had shown her, the tantalizing hint of a deeper connection, created a magnetic pull that drew her gaze to him. 

A low, murmuring conversation drifted towards her as she moved slowly down the hallway, pretending to be very focused on a particularly stubborn patch of

grime.

Mateo was standing by a recess in the arch, half hidden by a pile of crates, talking quietly to another guard, a big man with a florid face and a loud laugh that he now kept well stifled.

Mateo was quiet and reserved, but Marco, the other guard, was known for being blunt and lacking in subtlety.

Marco complained in a low rumble, "Heard the boss was out late again."

 "An additional

'private meeting,' they claim."

 There was a distinct tone of cynicism and tired resignation in

his voice, "Always these 'private meetings'."

 Mateo uttered an indeterminate sound, his eyes darting along the hallway, a behavior Violet now understood as a subliminal alertness, a continual survey of their environment.

 But even when his gaze flickered toward her, it remained out of her line.

Ignorant of Mateo's close observation, Marco went on, "I think he's got his hands in too many pies."

 Pulling strings for both sides while acting as the puppet master.

 Mateo, it won't

work out. 

You take note of what I said.

 Violet felt her heart thumping violently against her

ribs.

 Both sides?

 The fragmented recollections of her father's whispered conversations and

the double life she had caught a glimpse of through his study's keyhole were echoed by the words.

Desperate to hear more, she gripped the scrubbing brush tighter, her knuckles white, desperate to avoid drawing attention to herself. 

When Mateo finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper, but each word was clear in the silence as he continued to scan the

hallway. 

Marco, he dances on a pin's head.

 He always lands on his feet, though.

He has a method of obtaining favors from the shadows. 

The utterance, so casual, hit Violet like a blow to the body. obtaining favors from the shadows.

 Her father had often used this strange idiom, a cryptic turn of phrase that was always delivered with a knowing smirk, usually when talking about some complex transaction or a subtle manipulation of events.

He had used it with his inner circle, with the men he had complete faith in, with the men who knew the ins and outs of the complicated, secret world he lived in.

 It wasn't a saying that was frequently used or mentioned in casual conversation.

 It was a code incorporated into

everyday speech, a private language.

Violet's mind was cleared of the last traces of sleep when a dizzying realization hit her.

Mateo was more than just a good-hearted guard.

 He had a connection. 

Not only to her father, but also to his covert activities. 

The coded watch, the hidden ledger, and the burning feather symbol all came together to create a terrifying yet thrilling realization.

Mateo was a part of that world, the world that had eventually consumed her father, the world that he had lived in the shadows. 

The extra bread, the clean bandage, and the quiet kindness weren't merely charitable deeds. 

They were signals. 

Recognitions.

 Recognition of a

common history, a tacit pledge of loyalty in a perilous present.

This sudden clarity sharpened her eyes, and she stared at Mateo. 

His typically stoic profile seemed to have a hidden past or new depth.

 The broad shoulders, powerful hands, and cautiously neutral eyes were no longer merely the characteristics of a guard– rather, they

were those of a man who navigated the complex dance between secrecy and power.

He had been close enough to her father to understand the subtleties of their secret world

and to adopt his distinctive phrasing.

 Violet felt a strong desire to talk to him, to ask him to confirm her suspicions, to demand answers. She had to know everything. 

What brought him

here? 

What was his knowledge of her father's demise? 

What exactly did he do in this web of

lies? 

Her hand raised automatically as she took a hesitant step in their direction, a silent

request lingering in the air.

Marco's head jerked up at the slight movement, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. 

"What are you doing, girl?"

 Return to your work!

With a harsh reprimand in place of his usual

cheerful tone, he barked.

 But Mateo didn't look around right away.

His gaze briefly touched Violet's as he continued to scan the hallway. 

They exchanged a

brief, silent message.

 Normally so emotionless, there was a flash of something unreadable in his eyes a warning, a brief glimmer of worry, maybe even a shadow of something like fear.

Without a single word, the chilling caution was communicated through a look that spoke

volumes.

His thin, unsmiling lips appeared to form a silent command– Don't.

 Then, with a suddenness that caused Marco to blink in shock, Mateo pivoted on his heel and left, his footsteps

resounding swiftly down the hallway, leaving Violet motionless, her hand still outstretched,

her heart thumping frantically against her ribs as the burly guard muttered to himself.

 She was filled with a chilling certainty after the abrupt departure and the implicit warning. 

He was aware. 

He was sure of it.

And it was risky, regardless of the secrets he kept or the relationship he had with her father.

More perilous than she could have ever imagined. 

The hallway, which only a few moments before had seemed like a possible path to salvation, now appeared to go on forever in front of her, a dimly lit route that led farther into a maze of unforgiving dangers and secret

realities.

With the weight of her emerging realization, the stale air of the dungeon felt as though it were pressing down on her. 

There seemed to be a lurking danger, a hidden eye in every

stone and shadow.

 She was no longer merely a helpless victim.

She was caught up in a deadly game, and the silent warning from Mateo the man who had once shown her a brief act of kindness now reverberated as a terrifying forewarning of the danger that lay ahead.

 A new, eerie aura now glistened in the picture of her father, a loving,

smiling man. 

Was he a liar or a hero? 

A guardian or a manipulator? 

She became confused

and even more in need of answers as the line became hazy and the questions became

jumbled.

Still raw from scrubbing, her hands trembled from the cold as well as the abrupt, profound change in how she perceived the world and her role in it. 

Her own heart's frantic beat, a drum demanding clarity amid the chaos, was the only sound to break the silence of the corridor.