Death Bliss
His hand is still resting on the closed ledger, and my hand is beside his, and the storm is building again over the Adriatic, and the chapel holds us both in its cold stone quiet.
After a long moment, Domenico stands. He offers me his hand, the one with the scar across the knuckles, and I take it. His grip is firm and warm, and he pulls me to my feet without effort. The ledger stays on the altar stone between us, closed but not hidden. Not anymore.
“I will walk you back to your quarters,” he says.
“The chapel is not safe after midnight.”
“Neither is the corridor.” He picks up the candle and hands it to me. “And the storm is getting worse.”