Page 81 of Brutal Crown

I struggle to grasp how fast everything happened. I still feel a dull pain in my jaw from where he grabbed me yesterday. He was on the verge of killing me. Now he’s welcoming me into his family?

Someone raises a glass. “To the future Mrs. Romano,” a man says, and this time I recognize him—Don Giovanni Moretti, head of one of the allied families. Silvia’s father.

Another round of applause follows, stronger this time. My lips spread into a small, controlled smile. I may be wearing someone else’s skin, but at least now I understand the rules of the game.

“Preparing for two of your sons’ weddings at the same time must be tough,” Don Castellano jokes, and everyone laughs, the tension finally breaking.

But I notice not everyone is laughing. A few faces remain serious, thoughtful. They’re the ones who understand what this really means: that the old rules are slowly changing, that the Romano family is willing to adapt while their rivals clingto tradition. I’m not just Marco’s fiancée. I’m a message. A warning. A symbol.

Marco leans into my ear just before we leave. “You did well,” he says, and I nod.

But I know I did nothing—except survive being turned into a political statement.

As we walk out, I catch sight of Francesco’s empty chair at the family table. He should have been here for this. He should have heard the Elder’s explanation, should have understood why this is happening.

But maybe that’s exactly why he stayed away.

Later that night, I’m seated at the dining room with some of the Romanos. It’s just me, Marco, Dante, Zia Clara, and Elio, who I’m surprised is present, especially since I’m here.

Francesco is still nowhere to be found. I try my best not to think about him or about the fact that I don’t fit in.

It’s easy to pretend like I belong here. Smiling when I need to. Speaking when spoken to. But my back is too stiff, and I’m not breathing properly from the tension.

And it doesn’t help that Zia Clara can’t help but open her mouth.

“Isn’t it strange,” she says, slicing her steak without looking up, “how quickly some people go from mopping floors to sipping our wine?”

My knife clatters softly against the plate. I feel Marco tense beside me. He opens his mouth to speak, but I quickly cut him off.

“Strange?” I repeat, tilting my head. “No, what’s strange is thinking your snarky little comments bother me. Try growing up for a change and acting your age.”

Elio chokes on his drink. Marco coughs into his napkin.

Zia Clara’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth.

Maybe it’s anger, or exhaustion, or pent-up frustration, but I don’t stop. “If you want to be bold, Clara, be bold. Do exactly what you want to do. You want to slap me? Do it. You want to call me a poor whore? Say it while looking into my eyes. Otherwise, keep your mouth busy with food. That’s the only thing you’re good at.”

The silence that follows is long and almost uncomfortable.

But then, Dante nods. It’s like a subtle flick of approval, or maybe a warning. Maybe I’m playing with fire. Maybe I said too much too soon. I’ve only been engaged to Marco for about twenty-four hours, after all.

Zia Clara sets down her glass a little too hard on the table. No one says anything to defend her, and for the first time today, I’m happy.

The night airis chilly as I walk past trees and into the woods, with Marco and two other guards waiting behind us. When I reach the gravestone, I collapse on my knees. There’s no name on the grave, no sign that it belongs to anyone important. The grass is overgrown, as if no one ever comes to visit.

Because no one has.

It’s my first time visiting my father’s gravestone since he was killed. Marco arranged it for me. It was my first request of him—and will probably be my last.

My throat clogs up as I pull out my father’s ring from my coat pocket. The last piece of him I still have. For a long moment, I just stare at the soil. Then I press the ring into the earth and cover it with my palm.

“You were never perfect,” I whisper. “And maybe you knew this would happen. Maybe you even made it worse by trying to fix it.”

The wind rustles through the trees.

“But I’m not perfect either.” I sniffle a tear before continuing. “I’m having a child and making a family with the same people who killed you. The guilt will never stop eating me up, but I can’t think just for myself anymore. I have to take advantage of any door of opportunity I get to keep my child safe, even if it means dining with the devils.

“I will be a mother soon, and I will make sure my child has a good home, a roof over their head. I will make sure my child never feels the kind of loneliness I felt as a child.