Page 108

A small stone table has been placed beneath Elena Ravelli's favorite olive tree, draped in black silk. Maria has prepared traditional mourning food, the same recipes she tells us Elena served when ancient Italian families lost their patriarchs. Wine from grapes grown on the villa's slopes fills crystal glasses, and she passes them out as the memorial commences.

"In our world," Dante begins, raising his glass as we form a circle around the photograph, "death comes without warning. Without fairness. Without mercy."

Antonio stands beside me, his hand gripping mine.

He is the Castellano heir now, the last male bearing our family name.

"Antonio Castellano Sr. was not my friend," Dante continues. "He was not my ally. But he created something worthy of respect. A dynasty built from nothing. A legacy that won't be forgotten." His gaze turns to me. "Most importantly, he created the woman who now stands as my queen. For that alone, he has earned a place in Ravelli memory."

I struggle to maintain composure as Dante raises his glass higher.

"To Antonio Castellano Sr. May his enemies find no peace. May his legacy endure. May his blood be avenged. Tenfold."

"Tenfold," Antonio and I repeat in unison, raising our glasses.

As darkness falls completely, lights illuminating the garden in a soft, ethereal glow, Dante and Maria tactfully withdraw, leaving Antonio and me alone with our complicated grief.

We sit on a stone bench, the night air carrying the scent of jasmine and rosemary. Neither of us speaks for long minutes, the shared silence more comforting than words could be.

"I hated him, you know," Antonio finally admits, voice barely audible. "For the expectations. The pressure. The impossible standards."

I nod, understanding perfectly. "I hated him for selling me."

"He was terrified, Francesca," Antonio says, turning to face me fully. "When the Volkovs threatened our family, he saw everything he'd built crumbling. He made the only choice he thought he had."

"By trading his daughter?"

"By securing an alliance the only way he could." Antonio's hand finds mine again. "I'm not excusing it. I fought him on it. Threatened to leave if he went through with it."

This is news to me. "You did?"

"Of course I did. You're my sister." His voice cracks slightly. "When you disappeared from Vienna, I thought... I thought I'd never see you again. That you'd become another casualty of our world."

"Instead, I became a Ravelli," I say softly, a gentle laugh escaping. "Father hated that, you know?"

Antonio studies me in the dim light. "You love him, though. Truly love him."

It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes. I do."

"I'm not judging, but… how? After everything he did? The way he took you—"

"He gave me choices…eventually," I admit. "He saw me as more than property. More than a political tool. He seesme, Antonio. The real me. Not the mask father taught me to wear."

My brother's skeptical expression softens. "I've watched him with you this past week. The way he looks at you when he thinks no one notices." He shakes his head slightly. "I've never seen anyone look at you the way he does. Like you're everything."

"He's a good man," I say, surprising myself with how naturally the words come.

Antonio's laugh holds no humor. "He's a monster, Frannie. We both know that. But..." he pauses, choosing his wordscarefully, "I can see he's a man who would burn the world for you. That's about as good as it gets in our lives."

We lapse into silence again, contemplating the strange twists of fate that have led us here.

Two Castellanos under Ravelli protection, our father's blood cooling in Milan.

"What happens now?" I ask eventually. "With the Castellano organization? With father's territories?"

"Now we join forces," Dante's voice comes from behind us as he approaches, two tumblers of whiskey in hand. "If you're amenable."

He offers the drinks, taking a seat on the stone wall opposite our bench. In the garden lighting, with shadows playing across his features, he looks every inch the king poised to claim his throne.