Page 24

One day, Luciano,she’d said, her fingers brushing through my hair.You will rule this family with both fire and mercy. But to do so, you must first learn how to bleed for something.

I never forgot those words.

Dante materializes at my shoulder. "Quite the show you're putting on, brother." His fingers dig into my shoulder, grip tight enough to bruise. "Father's impressed. Or concerned. Hard to tell these days with all the tubes in his face."

I don’t react. "Your support is touching,fratellino."

"Just remember—" Nico appears on my other side, completing our trinity of tension. "One wrong move..."

"And what?" I turn, meeting his gaze. "You'll add another body to the family plot?"

That silences them both—momentarily.

The heavy doors at the far end groan as the cathedral fills with guests. The elite of our underworld arrive like vultures circling a fresh kill. I clock them one by one: soldiers from Naples, Corsican arms dealers, Volkov's bratva, the Iranian syndicate from Tehran, the Dutch kingpins, and even two of the Fukuda boys from Kyoto.

Enemies pretending to be allies. Allies pretending they’re not waiting to slit each other’s throats the moment Vito finally croaks.

They came for blood, but they’ll get a wedding instead.

Ravelli style.

"Still don’t buy it," Dante mutters. "This stunt? This bride? It’s not about tradition. It’s a power grab."

"Maybe I just want what our parents always wanted for us," I murmur, barely hiding the venom beneath the smile.

Dante laughs, but there’s no warmth in it. "You mean dead mothers and absentee fathers?"

I ignore him. My eyes scan the crowd, landing on Vito seated near the front.

My father’s hands shake as he grips Dmitri Volkov’s meaty palm. Even diminished—lungs failing, oxygen tube shoved up his nose—he commands respect. The wheelchair doesn’t matter. The decay doesn’t matter.

Power still clings to him like he's the devil himself.

Dmitri towers over him, white hair slicked back, suit creased to perfection.

“A joyous occasion, old friend,” he says in a voice like crushed gravel. “Though I admit surprise at such...hastyarrangements.”

Father’s lips curve, but the smile never reaches his eyes. “You should know by now, Dmitri. When a Ravelli moves, we move decisively.”

Enzo stands behind the chair, hands locked on the handles like they’re an extension of his trigger fingers. The oxygen tank strapped to the back clicks softly, each hiss a reminder that our king is dying—and the vultures know it.

Nico leans closer. “Funny how you’ve never wanted a wife. Never needed one. Until now.”

I fix my cufflinks. Onyx, the same shade as fresh-spilled blood. “Times change.”

The organ begins to play. A slow, haunting prelude that stretches through the cathedral like a warning. The sound of fate, creeping closer.

My brothers step back, their disapproval thick in the air. Matteo nods from the front pew, hands folded over his cane like a bishop presiding over the ruin of empires.

Then, the cathedral doors swing open.

And silence falls like a guillotine.

I face forward, toward the doors. Toward the woman I claimed from the blood and shadows of this city. Mother would hate what I've become. But she made me a promise, and now she's not here to help me.

So I've only got one choice. To do what I do best… and take it for myself.

The heavy cathedral doors swing open, and Bianca steps into view.