Chapter 4
FRANCESCO
My father’s study smells of leather, cigar smoke, and old paper.
Heavy velvet curtains drape over the windows, blocking out most of the daylight and shrouding the room in darkness.
The only light comes from an open window at the far right of the room facing the garden, and the giant projection from my father’s laptop that hums quietly at the front of the room. Pale, flickering images appear on the wall across the dark room.
I sit beside my father at the long mahogany table. My suit feels too tight across my shoulders, and my collar feels stiff against my neck. My fingers itch to loosen my tie and undo a few buttons.
Instead, I drum them against my lap. My father hasn’t said a word to me since we came in, and he hasn’t even acknowledged my return home after two years.
But I see the hint of pride in his eyes.
I’ve fulfilled my duty as a Romano heir.
I’ve been initiated into the Society. That is what matters the most to him.
Emotions aren’t a thing in our family, especially not for men like Dante Romano. So he doesn’t need to recognize what I’ve done. What’s expected is already carved into my bones.
One by one, the Elders appear on the wall before us, six figures stand cloaked in black velvet. As usual, their hoods are up, thick, iron-forged masks covering their faces. The symbol of our society—a serpent wrapped around a bleeding hand—is embroidered over their hearts in deep crimson thread.
Their voices come layered through distortions, metallic and inhuman. Only the titles flashing on the screen tell me which Elder is speaking.
“Congratulations, Francesco,” says Lux Tertius. It’s almost impossible to tell the emotion behind the flat, robotic tone. “You have completed your initiations. You have honored your house.”
I grit my teeth behind a careful smile. I honored my house by spilling innocent blood. Honorable indeed.
“And soon, you will honor it further,” adds Sangius Quartus. “The bloodlines must be preserved. Your marriage to Silvia has been approved and blessed.”
I nod stiffly. My palms press against my sides to hide the way my fingers curl into fists.
This is how it’s always been. Words like blessings, oaths, and bloodlines are tossed around like we’re a bunch of livestock whose sole aim is to breed and multiply.
The Six Elders speak like kings, as if they rule the world.
Well, they do. They rule my world, at least, and that of thousands of others like me.
They speak as if the rest of us are nothing but pawns, useful until proven otherwise.
Even my father bows his head when they speak.
Even Dante Romano, mighty and powerful as he is, treats them like gods.
I glance sideways at him. The expression on his face is unreadable. It’s always been hard getting a good read on my father. It’s one of the reasons I saw him as the most powerful man in the world when I was younger.
He is unpredictable, yet smart and tactical. He can be aggressively violent. He can also be a slow poison. He stands tall among men, feared and respected across continents, but in this room, in front of them, he is small, just like the rest of us.
I force myself to look back at the projection, pretending I don’t feel the familiar tightness creeping up my spine.
None of us knows who the Elders are, not even their own children. As a young boy, when I was first told about the Society and taught their history—our history—I used to wonder if my father was one of the Elders hiding behind that mask.
But when I was old enough to meet the Elders and I had my father right by my side, I knew he wasn’t. He was a common man like me. It made me fear the Society even more if my father, powerful as he is, was a mere subject to them.
Each of the six founding families in the La Mano Nera is represented by an Elder. So whoever is in the Romanos’ seat must be one of my seven uncles—my father’s brother’s—scattered across Italy.
Maybe even my grandfather, old and vicious as he still is. The thought makes my skin crawl. I have no good memory of the man.
“The Society will be gathered here in your home,” says Nero Primo, his voice so distorted it sounds like a choir speaking in unison.
“Your house has been approved to host this sacred event that is your engagement. For now, we trust you will not be needing representatives from any of the other founding families to be in attendance?”
My father clears his throat and answers, “We assure you, we have it under control. The Morettis and the Romanos will be present, along with a few of our friends in high power. No need to extend invitations to keep us in check.”
“There will be no room for mishaps,” another Elder snaps. “On that night, you will stand before the Society and claim Silvia as your wife. Publicly and irrevocably.”
I swallow the bile rising in my throat. Another relic of a suffocating tradition where we are meant to breed children to continue the lineage of blood and sin. I don’t want to bring a child into this world. Unfortunately, I don’t have a choice.
This is the life I was born into, the life I can never escape. My fate was engraved in stone the moment I was born, and as I’ve always known since I became conscious of myself, anyone who dares to defy the path set out for them curses their family’s bloodline to death.
Still, a small part of me, a rebellious and definitely stupid part buried deep within the webs in my chest, badly wants to spit in their masked faces.
The conversation drones on for the next thirty minutes. Formalities are discussed. Schedules are set. Rituals are arranged. I try to pay attention to the conversation about my future, but my mind is not in this room.
I’m thinking about her. About how annoying and quite terrifying it is that I can’t get her out of my head. She’s just a girl. A prisoner turned maid. The daughter of a disgusting traitor.
A traitor like you…
I thought being away for two years would get her out of my system. When I saw her earlier, the feelings I thought I’d buried a long time ago only seemed to rush back more intensely.
Out of the corner of my eye, a movement outside the window catches my attention. I turn slightly, just enough to glimpse through the only open window in the room.
There she is, the object of my thoughts.
Rosalia.
It’s funny how I’ve never called her by her name, but it’s the same name I think about before I go to sleep.
She moves across the courtyard garden. Her arms are full of linens she probably intends to sun-dry, and her steps are determined.
My throat goes dry as I watch the side of her face.
Her chestnut hair is tied back into a neat bun, but I’ve seen how wild it can be when she lets it cascade down her shoulders.
That night… the night she caught me watching her like a hawk. The night I touched her properly for the first, and last, time. I’m mesmerized by the way her skin catches the sunlight, how it makes her glow.
Fuck. This is crazy.
I’m about to pull my head away before the Elders notice I’m distracted when I hear Marco’s distant voice. I turn just in time to see him slide behind her.
Something darkens in my chest as I watch him follow her, probably telling one of his stupid jokes. He reaches out like he’s trying to take the clothes from her, but she jerks away sharply. Satisfaction rolls in my chest, but it turns into something sour as she laughs.
She fucking laughs.
It’s a short sound, but it’s the first time I’ve heard the genuine sound from her throat. And I’m not the one she’s giving what is possibly her first genuine laughter in this household.
I grit my jaw until it hurts.
The feeling that surges through me is ugly, possessive, and primal. Fuck! No woman has ever made me feel this way. This… jealous.
It’s not jealousy, I try to convince myself. It’s discipline. My brother shouldn’t be flirting with the maid, and the maid knows better than entertaining such from her captors. This is about control and order.
But that’s a lie, and I know it.
“Francesco,” Lux Tertius says sharply. “Is there a problem?”
I force my gaze back to the projection and sit up straighter. “No,” I answer smoothly, schooling my features into a calm disinterest.
The Elders pause. Even through their masks, I can feel their piercing gazes and sneering judgment. I don’t look at my father, but I feel him stiffen beside me. He caught it too.
“You are no longer a common man, Francesco,” Sangius Quartus spits. “You were raised not to stumble over the emotions of lesser men.”
The condescension dripping from his words makes my skin prickle.
“Remember your orientation rites before your initiation,” Nero Primo adds, voice cold. “You are a son of the Founders, the future of your house. You must act accordingly. You know what is at stake if you fail.”
“I understand,” I say stiffly.
“On the night of the Gathering,” Sangius Quartus continues, “you will make your claim public. Silvia will be named your wife before the Elders, and the bond will be sealed in blood and law.”
I’ve always known this would happen, yet the reminder settles over me like a dark cloud. I’m thinking about another woman while my marriage ritual is being discussed.
The ritual is something else I’ve always dreaded. Silvia doesn’t mind performing the archaic custom. It’s the way she is—obedient and complacent to a fault. I don’t blame her. We were raised the same way, and I’m no better.
I can’t pretend that I’m looking forward to it, yet I nod because that’s what’s expected of me.
Outside the window, I see Lia disappearing into the house. Her hands are now empty. I wonder if Marco helped her spread the linen clothes under the sun. Surely, he can’t be that stupid.
But I know him. And yes, he is that stupid. Maybe reckless is the better word. Nevertheless, he still does whatever he feels like doing without thinking of the consequences. Sometimes, I envy him in that regard. Other times, like right now, I wish I could knock some sense into him.
I stare after her until she’s out of my eyesight.
The Elders continue their conversation, their distorted voices buzzing through the study like a swarm of insects. They give my father their expectations for the gathering.
I listen, nod when appropriate, and answer when called upon. But inside, I am somewhere else entirely.
By the time the meeting is over, I’m barely holding my anger and frustration in. My father shuts the laptop without a word, and when I turn to leave, he still doesn’t say anything.
I need air. Despite how large the estate is, I feel like I’m still breathing in the scent of her. I need space. I need distance from her and everything else.
But as I stalk through the halls of this towering house, I know the truth.
It’s only a matter of time before I stop pretending I can resist her.