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Chapter Twenty-Eight

Francesca

Ancient stone rises around us, arches stretching heavenward like skeletal fingers clawing at God's mercy.

The Ravelli cathedral stands as both sanctuary and sorrow, hallowed ground where Elena Ravelli's blood once stained the steps sixteen years ago to the day.

I study the gothic architecture as Dante guides me forward, his hand steady at my back. Gargoyles leer from stone perches, their weathered faces twisted in silent judgment of the sinners below. Stained glass filters the weak autumn sunlight, kaleidoscope forming colored shadows across worn stone.

The air feels heavy with history. With violence. With destiny.

"Are you ready?" Dante asks, his voice low for my ears alone.

I straighten the black dress I've chosen for this occasion, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles as I scan our surroundings. Marco directs security teams with subtle hand signals, positioning men at every entrance, along the roofline, in thetrees that border the ancient grounds where the man at my side grew up.

Today, there are no second chances. No vulnerabilities.

"Ready," I confirm, my hand finding Dante's as we ascend those fateful steps.

His fingers tighten around mine, and I feel the slight tremor he tries to hide. This place holds his darkest memory—his mother bleeding out while he, a fifteen-year-old boy, was forced to watch.

Forced to move her still-warm body away from view like trash to be discarded rather than a beloved mother to be mourned.

"I've never been back," he confesses, pausing at the top of the steps. "Not since that day. Not to this spot."

I squeeze his hand. "She would be proud of you."

"For plotting to kill her favorite son?" His laugh lacks humor. "Somehow I doubt that."

"Forsurviving," I correct him. "For building something from what Vito broke inside you."

His eyes meet mine, gratitude flickering behind the steel of determination. Then the mask of control slips back into place as he leads me through massive oak doors into the cathedral's hushed interior.

The battle to be here today had nearly broken us. His fury crackling like lightning as I refused to stay behind at the penthouse while he faced this alone.

I study Dante's profile as we move deeper into the cathedral's shadows, remembering how he'd finally yielded last night. Not from my pleading, but from the moment I'd placed his hand over my heart and whispered that we face everything together now.

Inside, the space feels impossibly vast. Soaring columns rise to support ribbed vaults, their patterns reminiscent of intertwined fingers stretching toward heaven. Candles flicker in ironsconces, their light insufficient against the perpetual shadows that cling to corners and alcoves.

At the altar, more candles burn in remembrance of Elena Ravelli, their flames dancing in the draft that whispers through ancient stone.

"Marco has secured all entry points," Dante murmurs against my ear as we move deeper into the sacred space. "Exit routes are established. If anything happens, stay close to me."

I nod, surveying the cathedral's layout.

My mind maps it all in seconds, an instinct honed through months at Dante's side in this world of blood and power.

We're early, but deliberately so. Dante wants to stake his claim on this space before Luca arrives. Wants to stand on the very spot where Elena fell, paying respects his way before his brother makes his appearance.

"There," he says, guiding me toward a discreet memorial near a side altar. "That's where it happened."

A simple plaque marks the spot, elegant script commemorating Elena Ravelli's life without mentioning the violence of her death.

Beloved mother, wife, daughter. Your light endures.

Dante kneels before it, his hand tracing the engraved letters with a respect I've rarely seen him display. Not for his mother. Not for anyone.

His fingers linger on "beloved mother," and something in my chest tightens at the obvious pain still etched into his soul sixteen years later.