Page 112 of Brutal Crown

I have been sold the biggest lie for my entire life.

The Society is not strong. It’s never been.

It’s afraid. Weak. Covered in gold and rotting underneath.

More people know the truth than I thought, yet no one has moved against the Elders because no one has dared. Because it would mean declaring war on men even my father fears.

But I will.

I know now. The only time they kneel is at the Reckoning Ceremony. It’s the only time the whole Society watches. The only time even the gods of this world have to bow.

That’s when I’ll strike.

Until then, I act the part of a dutiful son and loyal Romano.

But every day, I am counting down the hours. And when that day comes, I will not just expose them.

I will burn them to the ground.

29

LIA

The gown is heavy on my shoulders. The satin material hugs my frame, showcasing my delicate curves. Streaks of silver line the bodice, catching the light with every movement I make.

I look like a Romano bride already.

“Do you like it?” asks the private designer standing behind me.

I nod absentmindedly, running a hand over the soft material and staring at my reflection in the mirror.

It’s a little too much, especially since this is just the engagement ceremony dress. But I’m not shocked. The Romanos take their engagement ceremonies seriously, maybe even more so than the actual wedding.

My room is filled with people. It’s a bit too early for so much activity, but there’s a Romano wedding to plan, so that does not matter.

Maids pin the curls of my hair into place while someone—a member of the planning crew, maybe—rambles on about flower arrangements and guest lists. One of them rushes past the open door, calling out for imported orchids and crystal place cards.

Everyone in this house has started treating me like I’ve already married into the family. A Romano bride. A mother-to-be of a Romano child. A pawn who has accepted her place.

Some bow their heads when they pass me in the hallway. Others, mostly the older women, watch with cold smiles and murmured prayers. I’m not sure if they’re praying for me or cursing me.

No one dares say it out loud, but I see it in their eyes: I’m still one of them. A maid. A prisoner. The only difference is that I’m donned in expensive clothes and closer proximity to my masters.

Marta is the only one who doesn’t treat me differently. She hasn’t since the news of my pregnancy broke out. She still calls me by my first name, still jokes with me when she can, and still cares about me like I’m her ward. That makes me comfortable.

By evening, I feel like I’m sleepwalking through the corridors. The hallways seem like they are shining too brightly. The chandeliers seem to burn like interrogation lights. Just when I try to slip away to get some air, a butler appears in front of me, informing me that Dante wants to see me.

Dante’s studyis darker than the rest of the house. The walls are the color of walnuts, and the fireplace at the center of the room has no fire. Books line the shelves in neat, obsessive rows. He sits behind a massive mahogany desk like a judge about to sentence someone already condemned.

I try to ignore the fact that it’s just me and him. Alone. No Francesco. No Marco. No guards hanging around. That has never happened before.

I close the door behind me and turn to look at him with a rigid expression on my face.

“Sit, Rosalia,” he says, gesturing to the chair across from him.

I cross my arms. “I’d rather stand.”

He watches me for a long beat, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Something flickers behind his eyes, but it’s gone too fast to read.