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"I'll let you know my decision."

Marco materializes from the shadows at a subtle gesture, escorting Nico from the wine cellar. When their footsteps fade, I remain seated, staring into the deep red of my wine as memories of Elena's blood against cathedral stone blur with the vintage in my glass.

Francesca finds me there an hour later, still contemplating the past and its hold on my present.

"How did it go?" she asks, sliding onto the chair Nico vacated.

"He gave up his operation. Smart choice." I push the second glass toward her. "Try it. Bordeaux, 1982. A good year for the French."

She accepts, sipping with appreciation. "And his soul? Did he surrender that too?"

"That remains to be seen." I study her face in the cellar's subtle lighting, her beauty only enhanced by shadows. "He wants us all to attend Elena's memorial tomorrow. At the cathedral where she died."

Wariness enters her expression. "The three Ravelli brothers, together at last?"

I nod, watching that wonderful mind at work. "And your thoughts?"

She smiles, knowing how I can read her like no one else. Trust her word, her intelligence, her opinion, like no other.

She shifts forward on the chair. "Well, don't you find it strange that Nico is so insistent about commemorating Elena? She wasn't even his real mother."

"I thought the same, and said as much. But… he's right. She was the only mother he knew," I respond, echoing Nico's words. "She treated him as her own, even knowing he was the product of my father's betrayal. Elena never distinguished between her blood sons and him."

Surprise registers in Francesca's eyes. "That's... unexpectedly compassionate, Dante."

"Elena was capable of great kindness," I admit, the confession strange on my tongue. "She was a good mother to all of us, even those who weren't her flesh and blood."

"Unlike our fathers," Francesca observes quietly.

"Unlike our fathers," I agree.

She reaches across the table, her fingers finding mine. "Are you going to go? To the cathedral?"

I turn my hand, capturing hers, feeling the strength in her delicate fingers. Strength that carries her own wounds, her own losses.

"I think I am."

Her eyebrows rise. "To reconcile with your brothers?"

A dark laugh escapes me. "No. To honor the only person in that family who… I now think… was the only one who ever truly loved me." I squeeze her hand. "And to remind Luca that the throne he sits on was built on her blood."

"Will you tell him about your plans? About our strike against his crown?"

I consider this, weighing the satisfaction of watching fear dawn in my brother's eyes against the strategic advantage of surprise.

"No, but I trust he's aware," I decide. "Let him have one last day believing he's secure. Tomorrow for Elena's memory. The day after... for mine."

Francesca's eyes hold mine, understanding exactly what I'm not saying aloud. "The culmination of everything we've been working toward."

"Everything," I agree, bringing her hand to my lips. "One brother to honor. One brother to destroy."

"And the third?" she asks.

"To stand witness," I reply.

Her eyes gleam with the promise of violence, of justice, of ambition fulfilled. "To Elena, then," she says, raising her glass. "May her memory guide your hand."

"To Elena," I echo, clinking my glass against hers. "And to the queen who will sit beside me when it's done."