Page 77

I meet her eyes in the gold-trimmed mirror before us. "Does it bother you? Preparing your master's former captive for such an honor?"

Her hands pause momentarily on my shoulders before resuming their work.

"You were never just a captive. Not to me, at least." A small smile creases her face. "I've watched him with women before. None lasted. None... mattered."

"And I do?" I challenge, curious about her perspective as one of Dante's closest staff who has witnessed our evolving relationship from the beginning.

"He's different with you," Elise says simply, reaching for a silver brush to work through my damp hair. "More... human."

The statement hangs between us as she continues preparing me for the ceremony. My skin gleams with oil that smells of a scent Elise explained was traditionally reserved for Ravelli brides.

"He wasn't always this dark, you know," she says suddenly, breaking the contemplative silence. Her fingers work braids into sections of my hair, weaving them with thin silver chains. "As a boy, I've heard that he had brightness in him. Curiosity. Even kindness, though he hid it well."

"What happened?"

"This world," she sighs, securing another braid. "It changes people. Takes whatever light they have and slowly extinguishes it. Vito made sure of that with both his sons."

I think of Dante's trophy room, of the straight razor his father gifted him after his mother's murder. Of the calculated cruelty that shaped him into the perfect weapon.

"And now?" I ask softly.

Elise's eyes meet mine in the mirror again. "Now, I see moments of that boy again. When he looks at you."

The door opens before I can respond, revealing another of Dante's household staff, only this one, carries an aura that speaks of years of service. The woman carries a garment draped over her arms with the careful touch typically reserved for sacred objects at museums.

The elderly woman approaches, her dark eyes studying me with an intensity that makes me straighten. There's something about her that commands respect.

"I am Teresa," she says in accented English, laying the garment carefully across a nearby chaise. "I've served the Ravelli family for longer than Dante has been alive. I usually serve Luca Ravelli at the mansion, but today, family takes precedence over loyalty."

Her gaze sweeps over me, taking in every detail.

"It's time," Teresa announces, her voice carrying the gravity of tradition. "The witnesses for the oath have arrived."

Soon enough, I stand before a full-length mirror, barely recognizing the woman reflected back at me.

The traditional Ravelli ceremonial gown isn't white as most wedding dresses would be. It's blood red silk that flows like liquid around my body, the bodice embroidered with black thread in patterns that echo the family crest that remains permanently marked on my inner thigh.

My hair has been partially braided and woven with silver, the rest falling in dark waves down my back. My lips are stained the same red as my dress, eyes lined with dark shadows that makes them appear even more golden than usual.

Around my neck hangs an empty silver vial on a delicate chain, waiting to be filled during the ceremony.

Dante's signet ring gleams on my finger, heavy and strange but somehow right. The cut on my palm from our private blood exchange has begun to heal, but remains visible.

It's a physical reminder of promises already made in private, and now, as I stare back at myself, we will make those declarations public for our witnesses.

"Beautiful," Teresa murmurs, adjusting the dress's train one final time. "A true Ravelli queen."

"Is everything prepared?" I ask, focusing on practicalities to steady my nerves.

This ceremony might be primarily symbolic, but I understand its significance in Dante's world. The public nature of this claiming carries weight beyond mere tradition.

"The guests await in the main hall. Marco has vetted everyone personally." Elise hands me a velvet box as Teresa watches on with a hawk like stare. "Dante asked that you carry this yourself."

Inside rests a ceremonial dagger, its handle wrapped in black leather, blade polished to mirror brightness. The Ravelli crest is etched into the steel near the hilt.

"My gift," I realize, remembering Dante's explanation of the ceremony. Each participant brings something of symbolic value to the ritual. This blade represents my right to both draw and shed blood for the family I'm joining.

I close the box, squaring my shoulders as I prepare to leave the sanctuary of the bath house. But before I reach the door, Teresa steps forward.