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I had broken out into a cold sweat. The sharp sting on my wrist made me realize I was digging my nails into it. Instinctively, I searched the room for Zeno. In any other situation, finding him would have been easy, but here, I was surrounded by vampiric nobility. Rather than attempt to distinguish my would-be savior from others by appearance alone, I tried to look for someone who had an unusual air to him—someone who carried himself with a dreamy yet intense air, who gestured broadly but was visibly closed off. Most importantly, someone who was probably failing to hide how desperately they wanted the occasion to be over.

I found someone who fit the description near the center of the room, but once he broke away from his present conversation, sifted through other nobility, and sauntered toward me, the discrepancy became clear. The person approaching me had an alien air of confidence and charm; he was comfortable in this situation. And while he had the same jawline, nose, and brow, his frame was broader than Zeno’s, and there was a vulpine glint in his eye.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Signorina Bowling,” the vampire said once he was within earshot. I could smell his deep, musky cologne. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

“From who?” I failed to conceal my incredulousness.

The man tossed his head back and let out a melodic laugh. “Why, from everyone, signorina! Who wouldn’t be enchanted by the unusual American who managed to become thebeniaminaof our dear Zeno? I think I’ve heard your lineage and history a dozen times over!”

I bit my tongue when he said Zeno’s name. My silence elicited yet another chuckle from him.

Finally, I asked, “And you are?”

His smooth veneer cracked for a brief moment. I noticed a scar that ran from his right nostril down his chin.

“Ah, I suppose it isn’t fair that I know so much of you, yet you don’t even know my name. I am Barone de’ Medici, Zeno’s older cousin.”

Without warning, he stepped toward me and grabbed my chin. How I had spent so long in Italy without encounteringil bacetto—the air kisses Italians used as a familiar greeting—was an oddity, to be sure, but I certainly wasn’t expecting it.

Even with little experience, I knew Barone de’ Medici’s kisses were atypically . . . intimate. He turned my face from one side to the other, and his lips slightly grazed my cheeks, touching me so lightly I was almost convinced it was an illusion. I had to bury my fists in my dress to avoid the urge to push him away.

When he pulled back, Barone de’ Medici was looking past me with a devilish grin.

“Don’t touch her,” a familiar voice snapped.

Behind me, Zeno was glaring at his cousin so fiercely, it was a wonder the other vampire wasn’t ablaze. Instead, he was utterly dripping with mirth.

The baron ran his hand along my chin to my shoulder, all the way down my arm to my fingertips, where his own lingered. “What’s all this hostility for? I’m just greeting yourbeniamina, dear cousin!”

Zeno gritted his teeth and lowered his voice to a growl. “Words would have sufficed.”

“I’m sorry, Zeno. I didn’t realize I needed your permission for a simple greeting.” The baron’s fingers slid between my own. His other hand hovered near my waist. “Should I beg you to dance with Signorina Cora as well?”

In a rapid movement, Zeno smacked away his cousin’s hands and grasped me by the wrist. “No need, Basilio,” Zeno spat as he dragged me past his cousin. “There are more pertinent people for her to speak with.”

The baron threw back his head to guffaw and called over his shoulder, “You wound me, dear cousin!”

So that was the Basilio Zeno had described to me—the one he spoke of with genuine hurt, the one who had somehow betrayed their friendship in his youth. I looked back, but the swarm of people had already engulfed him.

We wove through the crowd, spinning and turning around couples and small circles of conversation. I only picked up brief snippets of each, but I heard my name and Zeno’s countless times. Now and then I saw Basilio’s head bobbing over the crowd, circling us yet never growing nearer. I got the sense I was staring back at a stallion on a carousel—one that wouldn’t end anytime soon.

“Where exactly are you taking me?” I asked, feeling dazed.

“Away from that asshole,” was his bitter reply. “Beyond that, I don’t care.”

As we wound through a particularly compact group and his grip on me tightened, my wrist began to ache. Once we cleared them, I pulled back my wrist. “Well,Ido.”

The anger vanished from Zeno’s face, and he quickly composed himself. “You’re correct. This ceremony has its raison d’être, and I shouldn’t forget that.”

It was astonishing how instantaneously he could shed all visible emotion. I held my arm in my hand and wondered if I should pair this observation with admiration or apprehension.

Zeno took my hand now, more gently. “Allow me to introduce you to a few opportune individuals.”

As soon as he spoke those words, there was another shift in Zeno. The man I had studied and painted for so many months now transformed into something entirely different. I watched as his movements became more fluid, his gait was lighter. Even the way his eyes raked across the crowd was different.

A stranger appeared before me, a short vampire in his sixties with coiffed, creamy-white hair and wide, scarlet eyes. His name eluded me entirely—I was too distracted by the alien smile on Zeno’s face, the exaggerated Florentine accent and broad hand gestures. They spoke of the weather and wine, and the stranger’s latest trips.

“Oh, dear, how impolite of me! I have yet to introduce mybeniamino. Why, we just had ourritus sanguinousthe other month. Why didn’t you attend?”