Page 40

“Ah…” she breathes. “The dead have arrived.”

The room is filled with Melbourne’s most powerful Dons, dressed sharply, whispers already rippling through them like a virus as they take in our disheveled state. My shirt is stained with Serevin’s blood. His jacket is half torn, his face pale but furious. And yet, we stand.

Vittoria rests one manicured hand on the table, addressing the council like we’re no more than a mild interruption. “You see, councilmen, this is exactly what I was explaining.”

Her voice drips with mockery. “This man, my poor nephew, has fallen into dangerous alliances with the Russian Bratva. We have intercepted communications, evidence of backdoor dealings. Treason, gentlemen. This is why my family—our family—requires full control of all holdings before further disgrace befalls us.”

Gasps ripple across the table as men turn toward one another, nodding, murmuring, eyes widening. I catch words as they hiss through clenched teeth:

“Russians—”

“An alliance?”

“Betrayal—”

I feel Serevin tense beside me, his chest heaving.

“Liars,” he rasps, his voice rough from pain but sharp as a blade. “You dare speak of treason while you sell us out behind closed doors?”

Vittoria lifts her chin with false grace. “Nephew. You’re barely standing.” Her eyes shift briefly to me, narrowing. “And you, dear child, you must be so confused. How unfortunate—he drags you into his treason as well.”

I keep my voice level, but the venom coils under every word. “No, Contessa. I see everything perfectly now.”

Vittoria’s gaze flickers—just slightly.

“Enough,” Serevin growls, staggering forward, wiping the corner of his mouth where dried blood stains his lips. His voice grows stronger with each word. “You wanted my life. You wanted hers. But you won’t have either.”

The men around the table look back and forth—between us, between Vittoria, between the truth and the story they’ve been sold.

But Vittoria—oh, she smiles like a snake.

“The evidence is strong, dear councilmen. You’ll find it convincing enough to protect yourselves from scandal, I’m sure.”

I lift my chin, my voice clear and slicing through the murmurs like a blade.

“I stand here not simply as Serevin’s wife—” I pause, letting their eyes fall on me, “—but as the legitimate daughter of Don Aurelio Accardi.”

A collective gasp breaks across the room like a wave. The councilmen shift, murmur, stiffen. I see it—doubt. Fear. Calculations beginning to churn behind their eyes.

Vittoria’s face twists, her mouth pulling into a strained smile. “Ignore this nonsense!” she snaps, waving a dismissive hand. “She’s desperate, confused, recovering from trauma. You know what she’s suffered.”

I keep my voice steady, but my heart pounds so fiercely that I wonder if they can hear it.

“No, Contessa. I am not confused. Not anymore.” My eyes meet Brother Stefano’s across the table.

He gives me the faintest nod, stepping forward as he produces the aged folder he’d carried here for this moment.

Brother Stefano clears his throat. “Members of the council,” he begins, his voice carrying with the weight of a man who’s kept quiet for too long, “I’ve counseled both families for decades. As Don Accardi’s confessor, I hold documents he entrusted to me long before his death.”

He opens the file slowly, placing the contents on the center of the long table with precision: a certified copy of my birth certificate.

“The child born to Don Accardi through his liaison, later adopted by Don Gaspare D'Angelis to preserve her safety during a dangerous time of internal conflict.” Stefano looks around the table, his voice never shaking. “Fioretta D’Angelis is not simply Gaspare’s adopted daughter. She is Aurelio Accardi’s blood.”

The men lean in. Whispers grow louder. I see eyes dart toward Vittoria, calculating. Recalculating.

One of the older dons—the head of the Morreti family—narrows his eyes at me. His voice is cold but curious. “You make a bold claim, child. Do you have further proof this is legitimate?”

I nod once. “Yes. I have my father's will. Signed. Witnessed.” Brother Stefano hands over the second document—another folder sliding across the table.

“In that will,” I say, locking eyes with each man one by one, “he names me as a direct heir to all properties and routes inherited through the Accardi name. He feared what others might do to me once the truth emerged.”

Vittoria’s voice snaps like a whip. “Lies!” she hisses, slamming her hand against the polished table. “You will not listen to this circus of fabrication. These are forged, coordinated to usurp what belongs to this family.”

I meet her venom with calm. “No, aunt. You’re confusing what belongs to you…with what belongs to me.”

The room falls into a tense silence. The council shifts like wolves sniffing out weakness.

Serevin, though still weak, straightens beside me.

His voice, raspy but strong, cuts into the tension.

“I was once complicit in my aunt’s plans.

That is true. But I have stepped aside. My loyalty stands with Fioretta as the rightful heir.

” His head turns to the council. “I have no claim above her. I concede everything that belongs to her by blood.”

The room erupts in murmurs, voices clashing, power shifting visibly before our eyes.

Vittoria trembles, forcing another sharp laugh that doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’re all fools if you believe this. You know what he’s done—where is his proof to clear these allegations of treason? He’s been accused of conspiring with the Russians!”

Stefano folds his hands calmly. “The alleged evidence of treason was planted—by Vittoria’s orders.

The records of falsified transactions? Destroyed by her men.

But my sources acquired backup documentation before they vanished.

” His voice sharpens like a blade as he delivers the final blow: “She aimed to frame both her nephew and her niece, eliminate them entirely, and absorb both their inheritances under her house.”

“Enough!” Vittoria screeches, but she’s unraveling.

And then—another door opens at the far end of the hall.

Heads snap toward the entrance. Emilia steps inside.

Her face is pale, hair disheveled. Her hands tremble at her sides as she crosses the room under the weight of every accusing gaze. Behind her, Cassian follows, steady but battered. Both stop before the council table.

Vittoria’s face freezes. “Emilia—”

But Emilia lifts her head, finally meeting my eyes.

Her voice cracks but holds. “They abducted Fioretta. Monte and Gustavo…under Vittoria’s orders.

” She swallows, looking at the council now.

“I was part of it. I helped lure her out. I have the recordings and messages to prove it.” She pulls out a small recorder from her jacket pocket and sets it on the table.

The blood drains from Vittoria’s face.

The room explodes into chaos—voices shouting, accusations flying, council members standing, slamming fists on the table.

The Don of the Rossi family—a man with a voice like gravel—rises from his chair. His sharp eyes rake over the room, landing squarely on Vittoria.

“This—” he points to Emilia's recorder on the table, “—and everything we've heard tonight…this is not simply a family dispute.” His voice cuts through the noise like a gavel falling in court. “To kidnap a direct heir of the Accardi line…to conspire with Monte’s house to destabilize Melbourne’s order….” His fist slams onto the table.

“This is tyranny. Treason against our own Cosa Nostra.”

Heads nod around the council table. The tension grows thicker. The men shift in their seats.

Serevin’s grip tightens on my hand. My chest rises and falls, adrenaline humming beneath my skin. I squeeze his hand in return, steady. For once, we are not alone in this fight.

The Don continues, voice low but heavy, his words gaining weight with every breath. “There will be an investigation. The council will rule. But know this, Vittoria—your time lording over this table has ended.”

Vittoria does not flinch at his words. Instead, her face contorts, her lips curling back like a cornered animal. That glimmer of aristocratic composure she wore like a mask for years finally shatters. I see the desperation swelling behind her eyes.

Her hand moves. From beneath her velvet shawl, a small chrome pistol gleams under the council's overhead light.

Gasps erupt. Chairs screech back. But her eyes are not on the room.

They are on Serevin.

“Traitor!” she hisses, her voice venomous, almost primal. “You would betray me for her!”

Serevin barely has time to react, his eyes widening in shock. The gun raises, her finger curling around the trigger. The muzzle points straight at his heart.

But I move before thought can catch up.

My body lunges. The world narrows into a tunnel of sharp breaths and thundering pulses. I shove him back, stepping directly into the line of fire.

The crack of the gunshot splits the air like lightning. A burst of searing heat rips through my side, knocking me off balance.

The impact sends me collapsing into Serevin’s chest.

The room explodes with the thunder of boots. Council guards surge forward in unison. Vittoria tries to fire again, but one of the guards wrestles the gun from her hand, pinning her arms behind her back.

“You fools!” she shrieks, spitting as they wrestle her to her knees. “You will regret this!”

Serevin barely notices the shouting. His arms quickly go around me, catching me as I fall, gently lowering me to the shiny floor as if he's afraid I might break if he moves too fast.

“Fioretta,” he breathes, voice breaking. His palm presses desperately over the wound, as if he can will the blood to stay in.

Emilia drops to her knees beside me, eyes wide and frantic. Tears streak down her cheeks as she chokes on sobs. “Oh God, oh God, no—Fioretta, please—please don't—”

The pain ripples through me, but it's not nearly what it should be. I feel the sharp sting, but there’s something else. Something solid pressing against my ribs. My breathing is sharp, but manageable.

And then I remember.

My breath hitches on a laugh as I glance up at both of them. Emilia’s sobs falter as she stares at my lips moving.

“Bulletproof vest,” I whisper.

For a moment, there’s stunned silence. Serevin stares, his face twisted in a cocktail of disbelief and relief.

Emilia blinks, wipes her wet face with both hands, then lets out a loud, half-hysterical laugh through her tears. She immediately swats at my shoulder. “You bitch,” she sniffles. “You scared the shit out of me!”

I laugh softly despite the sharp ache in my side. “I scared myself.”

Serevin collapses forward, his forehead pressing against mine, his arms encasing me fully now, gripping me like he might never let go again. His breath shakes against my cheek. “I thought—I thought I lost you.”

“You don’t get rid of me that easily,” I manage with a broken smile.

Behind us, the council guards drag a still-screaming Vittoria from the chamber.

But right here—on this floor, in Serevin’s arms, with Emilia sobbing into my shoulder—I know the tides have finally shifted.

The war may not be over. But for the first time, we are no longer losing.