Page 116 of Brutal Crown

We fall silent again. But it’s not empty silence, it hums. Not with want or lust. Something deeper. Graver. Like standing at the edge of something you can’t name but know will change you forever.

He rises slowly, rounds the table, and kneels in front of me. Not grandly. Not ceremonially. Just quietly. As if kneeling might undo all the damage time has done to both of us.

Then, forehead to forehead, he leans in until we’re breathing the same air.

His hands don’t touch me. He doesn’t kiss me. Doesn’t pull me in or make any promises he can’t keep. And still, the ache in my chest feels unbearable. All I want is to climb into his arms andstay. But we can’t afford to want things like that.

We’re just two souls leaning toward each other, aching for a future we’ll never get.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “For all the ways I let them take you from me. For every time I didn’t fight hard enough.”

I close my eyes. His words tear something open in me. My throat tightens. I don’t let the tears fall, but they burn behind my eyes.

“I know,” I whisper. “I know.”

When I leave his study, the firelight clings to me and follows me down the corridor like a ghost I can’t shake.

But for the first time in a long time, I’m not lost. I’m certain.

The thing between us… It’s real. It’sreal.

And maybe,just maybe, that will be enough to survive what comes next.

30

FRANCESCO

Centuries ago, the founders of La Mano Nera learned a brutal truth: Power couldn’t always be bred. Sometimes, it had to be taken. But as the Society grew, they realized that outsiders, by their very nature, could never be trusted. Their blood was unclean and the loyalty they showed was uncertain. And so, the Rite of the Heart was created.

It wasn’t just meant to welcome new members or protect the Society. It was designed to break them—outsiders with no inherited claim to this world. Those not born into the bloodlines had to earn their place, prove their worth, and be stripped of everything before they could belong. It was a purification. A punishment. A beautifully staged illusion of choice.

It exists for one reason: to force submission under the guise of sacred tradition and make outsiders useful. Loyal. Contained.

It is rarely invoked because there are other, less hectic methods to initiate members of high social status. It is only under extreme circumstances, when an outsider possesses something the Society deems too valuable to discard. Political leverage. Devastating secrets. A bloodline that could purify—or poison—their future.

And in Lia’s case… a child. Not just any child, but one whispered about in old texts. A child foretold to reshape the Society. Strengthen it. Possibly even destroy it.

The Rite has taken many forms over the centuries. It changes with each Elder’s will. Sometimes it’s fire—bare feet over burning coals. Sometimes it’s torture through steel—a ceremonial blade pressed to the skin for unimaginable pain. Sometimes it’s waterboarding, deprivation, or psychological torture. Sometimes all of the above—depending on the individual and how badly they want in.

The rules are simple here: Endure the pain. Swallow the screams. Survive it alone.

Only then does the Society consider her broken enough to be remade. Only then is she permitted to stand as a match for a man like Marco Romano.

At the end of the ritual, she must speak her vow—and she must choose him.

To the Society, it’s tradition. To them, it’s loyalty. To everyone else—it’s anything but a choice.

But maybe there is no choice here. Not really.

There is only fire. And whatever is left of her when it’s done.

And today—unfortunately for Rosalia Ricci—this ancient horror is being brought back to life. And she is the one who must walk it.

The hallways in the temple are dark, as usual, only illuminated by black candles positioned high above the stone walls. My shoes crunch against the ground, my footsteps steady, my heartbeat the opposite. I haven’t even stepped into the ritual room yet, but I already feel like coming here was a bad idea.

It’s torture, really—watching Lia choose another man. And yet, in some cruel corner of my mind, I imagine a different ending. One where I’m the one standing there. Where shechooses me. But it’s not real. It never was. And the thought alone makes the ache worse.

Because I know exactly what would happen if she did.