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Information moves through this house like blood through veins, and my father’s still the heart of it—blackened, rotting, but pulsing all the same.

I shouldn’t be surprised he knows about Bianca. I should be surprised it took him this long to mention it.

“She’s alive.”

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken accusations. The way he's staring tells me he knows I'm withholding something.

He always fucking knows.

"I want you to call everyone." I break protocol. Speak without being spoken to.

It’s a crack in the façade. A step out of line. And we both know it.

Vito’s eyes narrow a fraction. The oxygen machine hisses again as my father's fingers still on the armrest, the gold of his signet ring catching the low light like a blade.

I exhale, slow. Lower my voice, just enough to give respect. “Please, father.”

That earns me a pause.

"I need a full family meeting."

A vein pulses faintly at his temple. "For what purpose, Luciano?"

I meet his gaze directly, feeling the weight of the Ravelli legacy pressing down on my shoulders. The crown he refuses to pass to me, even as death creeps through his veins.

"Because tomorrow, father, you eldest son will marry."

Something flickers across my father's face—surprise, suspicion, perhaps even the slightest hint approval. But it vanishes before I truly capture what it means.

"Who?" The question cuts through the room.

"Someone who will serve our interests." I offer nothing more.

The air in the sanctum doesn’t shift when I finish speaking. My father merely exhales through his tube, a subtle wheeze that sounds too much like laughter.

And then, without so much as a nod, he presses a button beneath the edge of his desk. Somewhere deeper in the house, I know the bell that has just chimed through all the signals.

The summons has been sent.

I wait in patient silence. But it's okay. Let them think this is about strategy. About alliances and appearances. Let them believe I’ve softened.

They’ll see the truth soon enough. They will see everything when I crown her in blood and bury anyone who stands in our way.

Footsteps echo minutes later, heavy through the hallways, but unhurried regardless. The heavy wooden doors behind me groan again, and then they appear.

Dante enters first—my middle brother, all raw power and bloodied violence. Six-foot-five of pure muscle and scars, dressed in a tactical black five-piece suit. His eyes scan the room for threats before landing on me.

The whiskey in his hand doesn't hide the fresh bruises on his knuckles. Someone bled for him today. Someone bleeds for himeveryday.

"This better be fucking important." Dante's voice rumbles like distant thunder as he claims the corner of the room, back to the wall—always watching, always ready.

Nico follows, my youngest half-brother.

Leaner than both Dante and me, he moves like a shadow, his deep green eyes betraying nothing as he sips his whiskey. Nico is the family's quiet weapon. The bookkeeper of our sins.

While Dante's violence is a sledgehammer, Nico's is a scalpel—clean, cold, and clinical.

"Rare to see you summon us all, father." Nico's voice is soft but carries weight. He chooses the armchair farthest from Dante, crossing one leg over the other.