Chapter 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.
I glance toward the altar, where the marble stone glows faintly under the torchlight.
The Sanctum looks at the middle, and a ceremonial basin sits at the center of the Sanctum, mounted on a raised slab surrounded by six standing pillars.
Its pale silver, together with that of the dagger beside it, gleams beneath the moonlight and fire.
At the far end of the room, above all of us, the Elders take their seats on raised stone daises, watching from their thrones. Their robes are black, lined with gold. Their faces are half-lit, watching everything.
I let my eyes trail over all six of their faces.
This is the only rite in which all six lay themselves bare before their subjects.
Ermanno. Giulio. Alfonso. The three I know from our last meeting. Their faces are like the stone walls behind them, evil carved into every line. The others were unknown until tonight.
The fourth Elder is the youngest amongst them all. He looks to be in his late forties or early fifties, around my father’s age. His brown hair is braided tightly against his skull, and his fingers keep tapping repeatedly against the armrest of his throne.
The fifth Elder appears to have a hunchback, probably because he’s wrapped in several layers of black wool. On his neck is a rope hung with relics and bones of past leaders.
The sixth is a man with pale skin and mismatched eyes. One blue, one clouded white. He never blinks.
A De Luca Elder. A seer.
They watch us all from their elevated positions, like predators watching their prey.
We wear our black cloaks over our suits, but our hoods are down. All identities are bare tonight. Every man must face the blood unmasked.
The Reckoning begins.
One by one, each heir steps forward.
I inhale slowly and walk forward.
The young heir to the Altieri family stands at the front of the line.
His eyes are sharp with fear and something else.
He slices his palm with the ceremonial dagger and lets the blood fall into the basin.
Another follows. Then another. A trail of red, each oath sealed with a drop of lineage and legacy.
When it’s my turn, I step up to the stone, my heart pounding within my chest.
I remove my glove and take the dagger without flinching.
I feel the burn before the blade even kisses my skin.
The blade bites into my palm, and I slice clean through my flesh.
Warmth slides down my wrist. I tilt my hand forward and watch the blood drip into the basin.
My lineage. My name. My rebellion. I keep my hand steady and let the blood drip.
One. Two. Three.
Three drops are all that’s required.
I should move, but I remain standing.
I clench my bleeding fist around the handle of the blade. Then, with slow, deliberate precision, I slice through my second hand and let the rest of my blood spill onto the ancient floor.
A clear indication of disobedience.
Shocked gasps rise in the air. All eyes snap to me as confused murmurs rise in the air.
I keep my head held high, my steady gaze crossing the room.
When I glance at the Romano stand, I see my father offer me a tight nod before he takes a single step forward.
Marco comes up behind him. Elio looks like he’s stopped breathing, but he does the same.
On the dais, the Elders shift.
“What is this?” the De Luca Elder says, his voice like metal striking stone.
My voice is clear. “By right of blood and trial, I call for an Antico Giudizio.”
The murmurs rise in the air, slicing through the entire cathedral.
“You dare invoke—” Alfonso starts, rising to his feet.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Giulio hisses.
“You’re reckless,” Ermanno speaks. “You have no authority—”
“I have every authority,” I say, interrupting him. “As a direct descendant of the founding line, having completed a sacred rite, I have every right.”
The silence that follows isn’t calm. It’s a coil of tension drawn taut.
“This isn’t the way,” Giulio says, his voice calm but firm. “If you’re seeking revenge—or answers—we’ll speak in confidence, behind closed doors. Away from blood and theatrics.”
“No.” My voice cuts through his words. “There have been enough quiet conversations. Enough back rooms. Enough silence. Tonight, everyone hears what I have to say. The Society listens.”
The whispers across the room get louder. If they’re not careful, they’ll expose themselves in front of everyone.
They seem to understand that, which is why they immediately fall silent.
The silver-haired Elder leans forward. “Explain yourself.”
I step into the center of the stone floor.
“Our Elders have failed us,” I begin, my voice slicing through the silence like a blade. “What was meant to bind us together, to preserve legacy and loyalty, has been corrupted.”
I let the silence breathe—long enough for the weight of my words to settle.
“Some of you have twisted the very foundation of this Society. You’ve used your power not to protect it—but to feed your greed. To silence threats. To cover your tracks.”
My gaze sweeps the room, daring any of them to look away.
“You’ve hidden behind robes and titles while turning the Society into a weapon. Not for justice. Not for order. But for yourselves. You think tradition makes you untouchable. That the Society’s seal is a shield for your sins.”
I reach into my coat and pull out the leather pouch.
“That is treason.”
The word drops like a blade.
I toss the pouch to the floor. It lands with a slap, sharp and final.
“Hidden offspring from outside bloodlines. Unauthorized killings with the Society seal. Innocents killed and offered up like lambs.”
The faces of the guilty ones twist. Ermanno, Alfonsi, and Giulio are all tense in their seats. The other three glance at each other, subtle alarm in their faces. They remain silent, but the flicker in their eyes tells me more than their words ever could.
They don’t even know who among them is guilty.
“None of you trust each other anymore, do you?” I ask quietly. “You’ve poisoned the order from within.”
I’m sure everyone is asking the same question in their minds.
Who are the Elders?
“I’m not here to burn us down—contrary to what some of you might think,” I say, voice steady. “I’m here to save us. From ourselves.”
I pace forward a step.
“We have become weak,” I spit. “Cowards. Obsessed with bloodlines, blind to the strength standing right in front of us.”
The air crackles. The order in the room begins to fracture.
“An outsider walked through fire for us. She bled on our soil—desperate to prove herself in a system built to break her. A system you built.”
I scan their faces. Some frown. Some sneer. Most just watch.
“According to you, her blood is unsanctioned. Unworthy. But she did something most of you wouldn’t dare: She knelt on burning stone. Tore open her palms. Blistered her feet. And still stood taller than any man I’ve seen bleed on this altar.”
My voice rises. The anger comes harder now.
“You speak of tradition?” I snarl. “She honored it without question. You speak of sacrifice? She gave it. Not for power. Not for position. But for love—unconventional love for her unborn child.”
I pause—then drive the final nail:
“You think keeping the bloodline pure will save us. But it won’t. It’s love that will. Not blood. Not birthright.
“Love—pure, uncorrupted, brought by those you cast aside without ever understanding their worth.
“There is nothing more powerful than love. The kind that comes from choice. The kind that endures.