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"Ms. Castellano," she says, her tone a warning. "There is something you should know."

I pause, waiting.

"This ceremony... it binds more than your blood," she explains, voice dropping lower. "In the old traditions, it ties your soul to the family line. Forever."

"Are you warning me to run?" I ask, surprised by her sudden concern.

"I'm warning you that once done, there is no turning back." Her eyes hold mine steadily. "Not in this life or whatever comes after. Only death will release this oath."

I consider her words, thinking of the journey that brought me here.

"I made my choice the night I put a knife to his throat and still couldn't kill him," I tell her, conviction strengthening my voice. "I belong with him now."

She nods once, opening the door to the corridor beyond.

"Then it's time."

The penthouse's main room has been transformed into a sacred space. Marble floors gleam beneath the light of hundreds of candles. The air is thick with incense and anticipation.

Witnesses stand in a circle around a central altar—a stone slab draped in black silk embroidered with the Ravelli crest in blood-red thread. I recognize Marco, Vincent, and Sophia among Dante's inner circle. Even Vladimir stands among them, representing the now-fractured Volkov connection, but an important witness nonetheless.

But my attention fixes immediately on the man who stands at the altar's head.

Dante is dressed entirely in black, the severity of his attire broken only by a crimson tie that matches my gown perfectly. His dark hair is slicked back, emphasizing the sharp angles of his face.

He looks dangerous, powerful. Every inch the king preparing to finally claim his empire.

My heart pounds beneath the silk of my gown as I begin the processional walk toward him. No music plays. Ravelli tradition demands silence during this approach. Only the soft hiss of candle flames and the whisper of my gown against marble break the stillness.

When I reach the altar, Dante extends his hand. I place mine in his, feeling the strength of his grip, the calluses formed by years of violence, the missing finger that symbolizes his sacrifice for power, forthismoment.

"Are you certain?" he asks, voice low enough that only I can hear. "There's still time to change your mind."

"I've never been more certain of anything," I reply, matching his quiet tone.

His eyes darken, pupils dilating with a hunger I've come to recognize and crave. He helps me to kneel on the cushion beside his own, both of us facing the altar as Marco steps forward to begin the ceremony.

"We gather to witness the blood oath between Dante Ravelli and Francesca Castellano," Marco intones, his voice carrying through the silent room. "A binding of souls, a merging of bloodlines, a union of power."

I feel the collective gaze of the witnesses surrounding us. These dangerous men and women who form Dante's inner circle. People who've watched me evolve from captive to queen. Who will now serve us both.

Marco continues, reciting ancient words in Italian that speak of loyalty until death, of blood ties that transcend mortal bonds, of power shared never divided.

"Now you will present your offerings," he commands, completing the traditional opening.

Dante places a small wooden box on the altar. From within, he withdraws a silver chain bearing a vial identical to the one around my neck. The set is complete—matching pendants to hold our mingled blood as eternal reminder of tonight's oath.

I open the velvet box, removing the ceremonial dagger that represents my right to both draw and hold power within the Ravelli hierarchy.

I place it on the black silk, blade pointed toward Dante in symbolic offering of both loyalty and warning.

"The blade is offered," Marco acknowledges. "The vessels prepared."

He nods to Dante, who takes the dagger from the altar, testing its edge with his thumb. The metal catches candlelight as he turns to face me fully.

"With this blood," Dante begins, voice deeper than usual with emotion he rarely displays. "I bind you to my line, to my name, to my power."

He takes my right hand, turning my palm upward. Our eyes lock as he presses the blade to my skin, reopening the cut from our private exchange. Blood wells immediately, bright crimson against pale flesh.