Chapter 39
LIA
Something is happening tonight.
I can feel it in my bones, in the way the air around me stills—heavy, tense, threatening to choke the breath from my lungs.
I’ve been locked up in this room for days now, and for the first time, I want to get out. I want to know what’s happening outside, what’s happening in that cathedral tonight.
It’s the night of the Reckoning.
Dante and Marco filled me in on their plans, though they didn’t go into much detail.
My heart pounds relentlessly in my chest. I’m scared for Francesco, even though I know I probably shouldn’t be. They’ve been planning tonight for months, and there’s only a small chance that anything will go wrong.
Yet, I can’t help but be scared.
It’s the Elders we’re talking about here. Going against them on its own can be seen as an act of treason. Anything could go wrong.
I clench my fists on the edge of the bed. I want to pace around the room, but my feet are currently propped on a cushioned stool. Although there are no bandages on them today, thanks to how well I’ve been healing, I’ve still been advised to walk only when absolutely necessary.
Beneath the panic, there’s a strange calm I can’t explain. Things are starting to get better, and tonight will decide if that continues. If everything goes as planned, our lives could finally be perfect.
I close my eyes and press a hand to my belly. It’s probably nothing, yet I swear I feel the faintest swell beneath my fingers. My child. Our child.
A part of me wants to pray to every god on earth for Francesco’s life—for his safety. Another part already knows: He’s made it through the storm. Tonight, he’ll get exactly what he’s been fighting for.
The door creaks open again, and this time, it isn’t a nurse. It’s Marco.
His silhouette is softened by the light—dressed in black, hair tousled, a quiet smile playing on his lips.
“It’s time,” he says.
My heart stutters.
They dress me in silence. A dark cloak settles over my shoulders, the hood drawn low to shadow my face. I walk slowly, still limping, supported by Marco’s hand. He doesn’t speak—just holds me gently, like something fragile. And I suppose I am, though it stings to admit it.
We pass through a door I hadn’t noticed before, hidden behind a tapestry. A stone stairwell spirals downward like a coiled serpent. The deeper we go, the colder the air becomes. Torches flicker along the walls, stretching our shadows long across the floor.
At the bottom, a narrow corridor stretches ahead. We walk it in silence. Somewhere, water drips in a slow, steady rhythm. I think I hear a whisper, but when I glance at Marco and see his eyes fixed forward, I know it’s just my fear talking.
Right turn. Left turn. Another tunnel, then a short flight of stairs. The maze twists and winds, until the truth hits me at the final step.
We’re beneath the cathedral.
At the end of the long corridor, Lorenzo waits, flanked by two armed guards. He nods once and steps aside. Behind the heavy doors ahead, I can hear a low, steady hum.
“Have we… been on cathedral grounds this whole time?” I manage.
“This was the one place no one would think to look for you,” Marco answers. He glances at me. “You ready?”
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod.
The doors open with a groan, releasing a cold gust that carries the faint scent of incense and fire.
And then I see him.
Francesco stands at an altar, tall and unmoving, a ring of fire encircling him and painting the marble Sanctum in gold and shadow.
Around him, the great families watch in perfect silence—the Romanos, the Morettis, the De Lucas, the Altieris, the Vescovis, and the Salvatores.
All present. The last words of the ceremony echo like scripture against stone.
Above it all—on an elevated throne—sit the six Elders. For the first time, their faces are bare. I recognize them instantly, the same faces that looked down at me when I walked across the coals. An emotion I can’t name floods my veins. I turn away from them and fix my gaze on Francesco.
Nothing else matters—not what I’ve endured, not who is watching.
He stands there with dried blood on his palm, his gaze locked and steady as one Elder rises.
“By vote of the council,” the voice declares, “we name Francesco Romano… Keeper of the Black Hand. By your actions, and by upholding justice within the Society, you have proven yourself worthy to claim this mantle.”
I don’t breathe.
Tears sting my eyes.
He did it. He didn’t just survive—he stood in front of them and conquered.
The basin at the center of the Sanctum is lifted and carried toward the altar flame. When the blood is poured in, a sharp hiss fills the space, like the earth itself sighing.
The Reckoning is done.
I stand in the shadowed threshold, heart pounding, lungs burning.
As the final words fade through the cathedral and the families begin to disperse, Marco’s voice cuts through the air.
“There’s one more matter.”
The room stills once more.
I feel the weight of every gaze pressing toward the shadows where I stand. Marco’s hand tightens slightly on my arm. Dante stands on my other side.
“No,” I whisper under my breath. “I-I can’t—”
“You can,” Marco says softly. “You’ve already done the hardest part. Now you need to claim what’s yours: Francesco’s heart.”
I take one step forward.
Then another.
The moment I cross into the Sanctum, a collective gasp tears through the room.
My hood still shadows my face, but it doesn’t matter.
They know it’s me.
The girl who was supposed to be dead.
I limp forward, each step burning with memory—stone, fire, smoke, blood. For a heartbeat, the weight of it all presses me down. My cloak brushes my ankles, and the urge to shrink, to vanish, claws at me.
But I remember why I’m here. What I survived. And who is watching.
I lift my chin.
My cloak no longer feels like a shroud, but a banner. I want every eye in this room to see me.
I walk until I reach the edge of the firelight, then stop.
“It can’t be…” one of the Elders hisses—Ermanno, I think—his voice dripping disbelief.
“But you died,” Giulio snaps as if the words alone could drag me back to the grave.
I lift my chin, the tremor in my body no match for the steel in my voice.
“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.