Page 117

"Let's begin," Luca decides, noticing his wife's discomfort, but unaware of the man beside him and his plan to execute him. His hand slides to Bianca's lower back, supporting her with a gentleness that seems at odds with everything I've heard about him. "Nico knows where to find us."

With slow steps, he guides Bianca toward the small memorial plaque where fresh flowers already await.

To my surprise, Luca produces candles from within his jacket, setting them beside the flowers. His movements speak of ritual repeated annually, perfected through repetition and devotion.

"I light one for each year she's been gone," he explains, though no one has asked. "Sixteen flames for sixteen years without her guidance."

I watch Dante's response carefully.

The expected mockery or dismissal doesn't come. Instead, he observes his brother's ritual with uncharacteristic restraint, his jaw tight with emotion.

"She would have hated what we've become," Luca says suddenly, striking a match to light the first candle. "What he made us into."

The "he" requires no clarification. Vito Ravelli's ghost haunts this space as surely as Elena's.

"On that, we agree," Dante responds, his voice low but carrying in the ancient cathedral's perfect acoustics.

As Luca lights each candle, a strange quiet descends.

Not peace—never that between these men—but something adjacent to it.

A momentary ceasefire in honor of the woman who loved them both.

I study the brothers side by side, noting the similarities I hadn't observed before. The same jawline, the same intensity, the same coiled power beneath civilized veneer.

In profile, with shadows playing across their features, they look almost identical. Like two versions of the same man, only carved by very different hands.

Bianca shifts again, her discomfort becoming more pronounced by the minute. A brief grimace crosses her face before she can mask it.

My eyes narrow, watching her more closely.

The way she breathes, the subtle shifting of her weight, the hand that never leaves her belly. These are all signs I recognize from the pregnant women I've known.

Labor. Early stages, but unmistakable.

I catch her eye, silent understanding passing between two women who know their place in this moment. She gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head. a request for discretion, for time.

I honor it, returning my attention to the brothers.

"You were always her favorite," Dante says, the admission clearly costing him. "Even as a child, I knew that."

Luca's laugh holds no humor. "Is that what you believed? She protected you, Dante. More than me. She saw the darkness Vito was cultivating in you and fought against it every day."

"Then she failed," Dante replies with no remorse.

Luca's gaze drops to the candles, their flames steady in the still air. "No. You're here, aren't you? Some part of you still honors her. Some part of you remembers who you were before Vito twisted you into his weapon."

I watch Dante carefully, seeing the conflict that battles behind his carefully controlled expression.

"Did you know Father added his own memorial? Just last year… even before he died?" Luca asks, gesturing to a small, ostentatious plaque on the adjacent wall. Marble and gold, where Elena's is simple stone. "Vito Ravelli, Patriarch and Visionary," Luca reads aloud, his voice dripping with disgust. "As if he deserved to rest beside her after what he did."

Dante moves to examine it, his finger tracing the elaborate carving of the Ravelli crest above Vito's name.

"He made us enemies when we should have been brothers," he says, the words emerging as if pulled from somewhere deep and wounded.

Luca studies him, genuine surprise flashing across his features. "Yes," he agrees quietly. "He did exactly that."

"What kind of man writes his own memorial?" Dante questions, shaking his head.