Chapter 30 Francesco
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 she chooses 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.
They’d break her for loving me.
And I’d never forgive myself for being the reason they turned her into ashes.
The grand doors to the room at the end of the hallway are thrown open.
Inside, I see a few Society members, all dressed in black cloaks marked with symbols of La Mano Nera.
I brush a hand over the front of my coat and take a deep breath in, a sorry attempt at trying to calm myself down.
The scent of incense and smoke gets thicker as I get closer to the door.
Just before I step in, I catch a streak of white at the corner of my eye.
I turn just in time to see Marco tugging Lia behind a large pillar.
They shouldn’t be seen together, especially not right before the ceremony. It’s bad luck, kind of like a bride shouldn’t see her groom before she walks down the aisle. But this is far darker and more twisted.
My legs lead me toward their direction before my brain catches up. I walk carefully, trying to be discreet, and lean against a nearby wall. From my position, I can see the back of Lia’s head and Marco’s side profile, but they can’t see me.
“…you can fake it,” I hear him saying. His voice sounds hushed and urgent; I strain my ears to hear more. “…don’t make a mistake that might cost you your life, Lia. This is the real deal! It’s the most important rite we have to complete before we can be bound together.”
She doesn’t answer him. Her gaze stays fixed on the stone path wall before her.
My throat tightens.
I want her to say something. I want to know what she’s thinking behind those eyes of hers.
Most importantly, I want to drag her away from all of this, rip this entire ceremony apart, and throw it in the Elders’ smug faces. But I stay still. Watching. Because this is her moment. Her battle. This is when she chooses what she thinks is best for her.
“You don’t have to mean it,” I hear Marco saying.
“Just… walk the path, say the words, and we can figure it out later. They’ll spare you if you obey.
And I’ll carry it for both of us, Lia. I swear.
Just… don’t fight them.” He brushes a strand of hair behind her ear.
“It’s painful, but you’re strong, Stellina.
I know you can do it. I know you’ll make me happy. ”
My hands clench into fists. I grit my teeth and step into the room before I do something stupid.
The room is long and rectangular, lined with old stone, and colder than it should be, save for the middle, where a path of burning coals glows like a wound.
The red heat pulses up from the center of the stone aisle, casting dancing shadows on the walls and flickering across the golden masks of the Elders seated on their thrones.
They say the fire is symbolic. That the pain purifies the union. That devotion is proven through the endurance.
I say it’s barbaric.
The Rite of Hearts is supposed to make her choice look noble and voluntary, as though this isn’t a sentence disguised as a ceremony. But everyone here knows the truth.
This isn’t about love. It’s about obedience and submission to power.
It’s meant to break the outsiders—like metal heated until it’s malleable, bendable, ready to be shaped by force.
In Lia’s case, she’s not just an outsider. Her blood carries the stain of rebellion and betrayal. So to marry into a name like Romano, a name that sits among La Mano Nera’s highest thrones, she must walk the fire.
Literally.
The path of burning coals is meant to be walked on.
Marco is the first to walk in. Entering from the opposite end of the room, he steps forward and positions himself before the coal path. He’s dressed in ceremonial black, his arms loose at his sides, his jaw clenched. From across the room, I recognize the fear in his eyes.
I feel the exact same way.
The six masked Elders sit silently on raised thrones just beyond Marco. Other prominent Society families form a semicircle along the edges of the room. We are all standing. No one is allowed to sit in the presence of the rite except the Elders.
I stay near the back, near the last marble column beside the door.
I’m still close enough to see everything but far enough to protect my sanity.
I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I stand too close.
I don’t know why I came. Maybe I wanted to make sure she went through with it.
Maybe I needed to know she’d survive—even if it meant watching her give herself to him, to them.
Or maybe… some part of me just couldn’t stand the thought of her facing it alone, even if she doesn’t know I’m here.
Lia is led into the room barefoot. Her dress is white, almost translucent under the overhead light. She doesn’t flinch at the heat rising from the coals. She doesn’t blink as the guards position her directly in front of the path.
She already knows what’s expected of her.
The moment you’re chosen for the Rite, there’s no way out.
The knowledge alone is considered a threat.
If she doesn’t walk, she dies. If she walks and refuses the match—well, no one’s ever done that before.
But I imagine the outcome would be the same.
They don’t offer second chances. They don’t handle defiance well.
And yet… I want to see her defy them.
Not because I want her dead. God, no. But because some fucked-up part of me needs to know she’s still her. That even after they break her, burn her, bleed her, there’s something in her that refuses to bend.
She can’t win. But maybe she can survive without surrendering.
Or maybe the prophecy will shield her.
A flame bearer starts a low chant, and in a few seconds, everyone follows. The soft, echoing Latin hum fills the room. The walls and the pillars seem to carry the sound.
Nothing comes out of my throat.
Lia doesn’t flinch when a guard steps forward to remove the binding from her wrists. The moment the ropes fall away, she steps forward in steady steps.
The chants become louder.
Her foot hovers above the first glowing coal.
I grit my teeth without meaning to.
The first step lands with a soft hiss. Flesh against fire. Her face doesn’t change, but I see her fists clench.
The second step draws blood as a jagged stone cuts open the arch of her foot. A smell rises in the air. It is sharp, metallic, revolting—the unmistakable scent of burning blood and skin.
The third step is slower than the last two. The humming turns into a steady thrum behind my ears. A few people look away. Most stare harder and hum louder.
She stumbles on her fourth step, but she steadies herself. I barely notice I’ve stepped closer, past the pillar now, my fingers digging into the stone as if I could stop this somehow.
“She won’t make it,” someone whispers behind me.
But she keeps moving.
Another step. And another.
Her body jerks with the pain, but she doesn’t cry out. Her jaws are clenched tight, her hands balled into fists at her sides. Her knees buckle slightly after the sixth step. There is more blood now, the crimson drops sizzling on the blackened coals behind her.
I’m breathing through my mouth now, barely holding myself from rushing over there and taking her away.
I would walk this path a million times in her place if I could. I would lay my life down to save her from this… evil.
The chant rises again. The air is thick now, smoke and heat curling into my nostrils, pressing against the skin.
My heart pounds harder than I can regulate. I dig my fingernails into my palm. I tell myself to stay still. Don’t move. Don’t show any emotion. I remind myself of how much worse the situation would get if I tried to interrupt the ceremony.
My jaw is locked so tight it aches.
She’s not going to make it.
But she keeps going.
I’m not the only one who has a hard time watching. Marco has taken a half step forward, his hands twitching like he wants to catch her. Rivulets of sweat pour down his forehead. I see the wet outline on the neck of his cloak.
But like me, he knows the rules. No interference. She must finish this alone.
By the time she reaches the final stone, her legs collapse beneath her. She falls hard, her knees slamming into hot stone. A quiet gasp rolls through the crowd, but she doesn’t scream or cry in pain.
I want to run to her. I want to carry her out of this place and damn the consequences.
But Marco beats me to it.
He’s at her side in seconds, catching her before she crumples completely. His hands hold her firmly as he cradles her in his arms. He exhales a relieved breath as she looks up at him.
On her knees before him.
Something rips through me. A soundless, brutal tearing.
The chanting stops. The entire room holds its breath.
The rite is done. She chose him. She walked through hell for him. All that is left is to say the words, to claim him in the presence of the oracle of the Society.
And I don’t think I can wait to hear it.
My body turns before I make the choice. My feet move before I can fully register it. I force my trembling hands into my pockets as I push the door open behind me and slip into the hall.
I bite down so hard on my tongue, I taste blood. My eyes blur, and everything in the hallway seems to be spinning.
I was wrong about everything. Wrong to think we still had something. Wrong to think I mattered at all.
I want to believe I was just a mistake she made—a slip in a moment of loneliness. A body to warm her before she accepted the life that’s always been waiting for her.
Maybe that’s all I ever was. A breath between choices. She’s going to choose him. She always was. Even when she let me touch her.
Even last night, when she looked at me like maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t a monster. When we talked to each other in the quiet, under the candlelight of my study.
But if she wasn’t going to choose him, then why walk? Why bleed for a ritual designed to shatter her, only to reject the match at the end?
She wouldn’t. No one would. And that’s what guts me. Not that she’s choosing survival. But that survival doesn’t include me.
But some desperate, pathetic part of me still wants to believe this isn’t over. That what we had, that charged, broken, beautiful thing between us wasn’t just a fever dream we both woke up from.
It felt real. It was real. I know it.
You don’t look at someone the way she looked at me and just forget.
But reality doesn’t give a fuck about feelings. And the truth is that it’s over for us. Maybe it was always going to end like this. Maybe I was the one deluded enough to think it wouldn’t.
The image burns behind my eyes—knees raw, smoke curling around her frame, her eyes fixed on him while he held her—sears itself into the back of my skull as I walk down the corridor. Her body wrecked and shaking.
But not for me. For him.
She made her choice. And whether I respect it or not… it doesn’t change a damn thing.