Page 143 of Brutal Crown

I know the Romanos have years of bottled emotions and secrets between them. I’m glad to see they’re beginning to address some of it.

“I loved you,” he says quietly. “I still do, in a way. But love is not enough reason to keep you chained to a life of misery forever. In fact, that’s not love.”

I shake my head slowly.

He smiles faintly. “You were never meant for me. You were always his.”

Another tear slips down my cheek, and he brushes it away with the back of his knuckle.

“You don’t need my permission, but… you have my blessing. To love him. To fight for him. To wait for him. To be with him.”

I don’t realize I’m leaning toward him until his arms wrap around me. I close my eyes and let myself fall into the warmth of his embrace.

“Why does this sound like a final goodbye?” I sniff, burying my face in his shoulders.

He pulls away from me with a smile. “I definitely need some time away from everything to work on myself and heal before thinking about loving someone else. But some things still need to be settled.”

A grim feeling settles over my chest again. “Right.”

The Reckoning.

But when Marco presses a kiss on my forehead, I feel better. Momentarily.

“Get enough rest,” he says, rising to his feet.

I manage a smile. “I will.”

He walks to the door, pausing once to look back.

“I hope the baby has your eyes.”

I chuckle, and then he’s gone.

And for the first time in a long time, my heart feels a little lighter. Not because everything’s okay, but because I know where my heart is.

And I feel a little more certain about the future.

38

FRANCESCO

The wind howls through the crumbling stones as I step onto the hallowed grounds of the old cathedral. It stands like a skeletal monument, its walls cracked, its glass windows stained with time. Yet, the building is still cloaked in reverence… and dread. At the top of the hill, the moon casts a silver blade across the broken stone path, and for one suspended breath, it feels like the world holds still.

This is the night of the Reckoning.

My boots crunch over gravel as I approach the ancient gate, already slightly ajar. I arrived earlier than everyone else, parked my car far from the entrance, and decided to walk down here instead. Inside the gates, torches line the vast walls. The atmosphere is heavy and tense, with generations of blood rites, oaths, and the ghosts of men too powerful to be named lingering in the air.

I stand at the gates in silence, my gloved hands clasped behind my back as I listen to the gravel crunch beneath the arriving cars.

One by one, they emerge from the dark.

Long black cars pull up the path, their headlights slicing through the fog. I watch in silence as the doors open. The Altieris first, all in black cloaks and darker eyes. Then the De Lucas come in, smelling of old money, their presence oozing contempt. The Vescovis arrive in tailored suits of charcoal gray, their matriarch draped in silver. The Salvatores are cold and clinical as usual, their eyes darting across the space, assessing everyone else. Then the Morettis step out, stone-faced and slow, like men who carry the whole world on their shoulders.

And finally, the Romanos.

My father leads the family, his figure rigid in a ceremonial black cloak trimmed in dark crimson. The family crest is stitched over his heart. They approach the entrance, and I join the crew without a word, falling into step behind my father. Marco walks beside me, unblinking and unreadable. His face is stripped of warmth, and his mouth is set in a hard line. Elio lingers behind them, his steps steady, his gaze flicking toward me and then away.

We all walk into the cathedral hall, and each family takes their place. There are no seats, just designated standing stones carved into the floor, etched with ancient symbols. Every family has their quadrant. Every member knows where they belong.