Page 17

Matteo Greco enters last.

The man is not blood, but almost. Our consigliere for twenty years, salt-and-pepper hair combed back perfectly, hazel eyes missing nothing. Matteo is the quiet knife, the man who cleans our messes and makes our sins disappear beneath paperwork and whispers that eventually go away without consequence.

"Don Vito. Luca." Matteo nods respectfully to each of us, taking position beside my father's desk. His fountain pen—Vito's gift—sits in his breast pocket like a silver promise for years of loyalty.

Father watches from his chair, oxygen hissing, eyes burning with curiosity.

"I've made a decision." I keep my voice level, commanding. "Tomorrow, I will marry."

Silence crashes through the room like breaking glass.

Dante barks out a laugh. "The fuck you will."

"Who?" Nico's question cuts through, precise and to the point, like always.

"A woman who witnessed Malenko's execution." I meet each gaze unflinchingly. "She lives because I permit it. She'll be a Ravelli by sunset tomorrow."

Dante's glass shatters in his grip. "This is bull shit. You're making a play. Using some whore to claim the throne while Father's still breathing."

"Convenient timing," Nico murmurs, eyes narrowing. "Father's illness accelerates, and suddenly you need a wife."

"Our father dying doesn’t matter."

"Oh, I think it does." Dante says. His voice is low, steady. "Like I said, you’re positioning yourself."

I tilt my head, unable to hide the smirk that creeps on my lips. "Am I?"

"You are," Nico mutters. "You think putting a ring on some girl’s finger makes you heir?"

"No." I glance back to Vito who's just watching his son's fight while remaining silent. "But I think showing initiative while the rest of you drink yourselves stupid might."

The tension in the room sharpens. Matteo watches silently, fingers steepled, seeing angles the others miss. Dante steps forward, his eyes tracking me up and down, like he's searching for weakness that doesn't exist.

"We all want the throne," he says darkly. "Don't pretend you're above it,brother."

"I'm not pretending anything."

I approach my father's desk, placing both hands on the dark polished wood.

"Think what you want. Tomorrow, she will be mine. And soon—" I meet Vito's eyes. "The crown will surely follow. Unless you want to name another heir, father?"

My father manages to shift his failing old body in his chair, sitting somewhat upright despite his obvious weakness.

"Luca, as always, you have much to learn." His fingers tap against the armrest, each strike deliberate. "A wife doesn't make a king. A loyal son does."

The words slice clean, but I don't flinch. I've weathered worse cuts from sharper blades.

Dante shifts in his chair, settling back with an ankle crossed over his knee, thick arms folded over his chest. The smirk playing at his lips tells me everything—he thinks the throne is already his. That brute force will win what strategy cannot.

He's wrong.

"Then perhaps," I say, letting my voice carry just enough suggestion, "with my future wife at prime age for conceiving, I'll give you both."

The promise of an even younger heir hangs heavy in the air. If he will not consider me or my brothers, then a grandson delivered by my bride will be in line next.

My father's eyes narrow, calculating the possibilities, weighing bloodlines against time.

"Matteo." Vito's command cuts through the tension. "Make the arrangements for the wedding. Tomorrow, as my son wishes to marry, we will celebrate."