“Not enough.”
Marco steps forward, his voice steady but ringing through the chamber.
“She followed the rite—endured what few in this room would have the courage to face. You demanded proof of loyalty? She gave it in blood. You speak of law—then honor it, or admit that it means nothing.”
Dante’s voice cuts in next, colder, harder.
“She has been hidden since the rite because certain Elders acted against the will of the Society. In the shadows, someone ordered her death before the tribunal had reached its decision—without cause, without sanction. They went beyond their power, and in doing so, committed treason.”
He pauses, letting the weight of his next words sink in.
“And worse, in doing so… they conspired to end the life of her unborn child—the prophetic child, whose very existence threatened their corruption.”
The Elders don’t speak right away. The De Luca with the strange eyes studies me like he’s watching a puzzle fall into place.
Marco claims the silence, his words slicing through it like glass.
“The one spoken of in the prophecy—the child who could make or break everything this Society was built upon. Do you truly think the others would agree to having that child killed, knowing it would summon hell upon us all? You’d be inviting civil war… or worse—a quiet, slow-burning revolution that starts inside your own walls. One you won’t see coming until it’s too late.”
He lets the words hang before continuing.
“Maybe that’s how the prophecy fulfills itself—not through power, but through chaos. Through the fire, you spark in your desperation to erase what you can’t control.
“Kill her, or that child, and they won’t just die. They’ll become something else. A symbol. A martyr. And when that happens, this Society won’t just crack… it will burn, crumble, and collapse from the inside out.”
Then the De Luca Elder leans forward, the movement slow, deliberate—as if the weight of his next words could alter the fate of everyone present.
“She may live.”
The room freezes. Even the fire seems to still. My breath catches, and for the briefest heartbeat, a fragile spark of hope dares to form?—
—until the seer’s voice hardens into steel.
“Under terms.”
He lets the silence stretch until it feels suffocating. His gaze sweeps across the Elders, the families, the guards, making certain every soul in the chamber understands what is about to be said.
“Hear me now, for there will be no misunderstanding. She will pledge her loyalty in writing, sealed with her blood and witnessed by this council. The child she carries will be registered under La Mano Nera—bound to us from birth.
“Should either mother or child betray this oath, the sentence will be carried out swiftly, publicly, and without mercy. Their names will be struck from our records, their blood erased from our line, their bodies left as a warning to all who would follow their path.”
A shiver runs through the chamber. Even the most hardened faces shift.
My knees nearly give way beneath me.
But then I see him.
Francesco moves from the far side of the fire, the flames shifting in his wake, painting his face in strokes of light and shadow. Each step is deliberate—a statement in itself—until he stands where the heat curls between us. His eyes lock on mine, steady and fierce, and the world beyond that gaze ceases to exist.
“And our bond—do you still deny it now?”
The De Luca leans back, studying us for a long, oppressive beat before speaking.
“It will be sanctioned,” he says, the words measured, reluctant. “But do not mistake this for indulgence. Love will not shield you from the storms that rule our world. It will be tested—again and again—until you either break… or prove it unbreakable.”
I don’t look away from Francesco.
In this moment, between the ashes and the fire, between the judgment of old men and the blood I spilled, I realize I don’t give a damn about their approval.
