Chapter 19
Possession
THE MAESTRO | Past
Three hours until the wedding. The church looks like heaven. Which is ironic. Because standing in it feels too much like a penalty.
White jasmine drapes over the cathedral arches in thick, winding strands, climbing ancient stone and curling around every gold candle stand like something alive. The scent is heavy in the air… sweet enough to suffocate.
Sunlight pours through stained-glass windows and spills over marble floors in fractured colours.
Saints stare down from painted ceilings. Priests murmur.
Servants rush.
And everywhere, flowers, candles, and silk ribbons.
Preparations for a wedding.
I would rather burn to the ground.
A florist nearly collides with me, and the damned man freezes. Looks up and regrets being born. “My apologies, sir.”
I smile politely.
He turns around and disappears so quickly that he almost loses a shoe.
Smart man.
My ceremony.
Crystella Novak, Ronan’s precious daughter.
She’s beautiful and elegant, sharp enough to slit a throat and smile while doing it. A perfectly acceptable bride.
Under different circumstances, I might’ve appreciated her. Under current circumstances, I’d rather marry a loaded gun. I adjust my cufflinks and stare up at the altar.
Ronan stands there with priests, discussing floral placement like he isn’t currently walking around with a death sentence hanging over his neck.
Three hours. That’s all he has left. He just doesn’t know it yet.
And I don’t know what the aftermath holds.
I’ve kept my men outside Visconti’s partially burned house, the one Hannah set on fire—I have since learned—to paint me as a villain in her daughter’s eyes.
And her plan worked, to some extent though.
After I’m done killing Ronan and Vane in the process, because the bastard’s been poking me, I’ll make her daughter the daughter-in-law of the Vitales.
But there is a variable in my numerical equation.
My jaw tightens. And like a curse, Judas Romanovski’s voice returns. From earlier this week. Massimo’s brilliant little arrangement.
One manipulative bastard inviting two violent men to dinner and pretending diplomacy.
I can still see Judas leaning back in his chair, looking far too entertained.
“The throne is yours for now.”
Cold blue eyes. Annoyingly calm.
“Claim and immunity. Limited time only.”
I’d known that already. The Vitale claim came with restrictions. Temporary authority. Temporary protection. Temporary everything.
Enough power to make kings nervous. But enough leash for them to yank when convenient.
That infuriating bastard.
“And your children won’t inherit it.”
That part hadn’t bothered me. Empires shift. I’d also prefer if my children stay away from this whole ordeal. I want a normal life, without bloodshed, and with my Dolcezza.
Power bends. Rules break. I can work around the law.
“One of your children will be Romanovski by law.”
That nearly got him stabbed. Massimo had laughed into his drink. Judas barely blinked.
’Cause that bastard has Russian aristocracy backing him, his other Father has German mercenaries, and his Italian Father is the backbone. If I refuse him, I am practically making enemies with three empires, four if we talk about Bianchi.
As if casually discussing future bloodlines was normal. As if he hadn’t just insulted generations of Vitales.
I’d looked him dead in the eye and spoken. Over my corpse.
He’d shrugged. “Then die young.”
Fuck him. Absolutely fuck him.
If I ever have a son—and I will—he’ll bring Romanovski’s daughter into the Vitale clan.
Judas can sell his son elsewhere. Though he’s a bachelor right now, only fucking women, I’d bet he has bastards crawling in the streets of Russia.
Honestly—considering his life expectancy—there’s a decent chance the bastard dies before any of us reach that conversation.
Who knows?
People fall down stairs. Plane crashes.
Poison exists.
Italy is full of opportunities.
I almost smile before movement near the pews stops me. And my chest turns traitor.
My eyes narrow, and rage slithers down my spine as I jerk straight.
She’s wearing a pastel blue dress, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, reaching her waist in waves I’d dreamt of running my hands through. Her hands are folded in front of her as she speaks quietly with one of the bridesmaids.
What the fuck is she doing here?
My body moves before thought catches up. I’m already stepping off the balcony, already halfway to dragging her out of this church and demanding answers, when someone clears his throat beside me.
I stop and slowly turn.
Vane Davenport stands at the edge of the balcony like he belongs there. Silver-haired. Expensively dressed.
A crystal tumbler in one hand. A smile on his face sharp enough to split skin.
My fingers curl as he follows my gaze below. And his grin widens.
“Selene Visconti,” he says thoughtfully. “Beautiful girl.”
I say nothing. Because if I open my mouth right now, I might ruin the wedding by throwing him over the railing.
He takes a sip. “I’ve decided.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“At the reception tonight…” he continues casually, “…I’ll announce her engagement to my son.”
Everything inside me goes still.
“Adrian?” My voice stays level.
He hums. “He’s quite taken with her.”
I look at him. “What’s your game?”
Vane chuckles like we’re discussing weather. “My dear boy. I’m old. My games are very simple.”
He steps closer. Near enough that anyone watching would think we’re having a perfectly civilized conversation.
His voice lowers. “Marry Crystella quietly.”
My pulse pounds.
“And let Selene marry Adrian.”
The words scrape across bone.
“Otherwise…” He swirls his drink. “…the bloodshed happening today will become rather inconvenient.”
My stare hardens as he continues. “She’ll be the first one to die.”
For one second, I consider killing him.
In the middle of God’s house. Let the priests scream. Let the guests run. Let the marble stain red. I’d do it.
Gladly.
But one thing keeps me still.
How? How the fuck does he know? About Ronan and about the plan, about today.
I never move my gaze. Never give him a single reaction.
But he sees something anyway and laughs like a sick fuck.
Satisfied. Then pats my shoulder like we’re family. “You look tense. Try easing off.”
He turns. Walks off with his drink.
Perfectly relaxed, leaving fury behind like a lit match.
My chest is too tight, my heartbeat hard enough to crack ribs.
Someone close told him enough to know exactly what I planned. I grip the stone railing and force myself to breathe.
I look down and my blood turns black as I lock eyes with Hannah. That manipulative, venomous bitch. Standing beside Selene. And she smiles.
A smile built entirely for war.
She grabs Selene’s hand and pulls her toward the cathedral entrance, toward the aisle, toward the exact church where I’m expected to marry Crystella Novak in under three hours.
Selene looks confused but says something. Hannah keeps walking. Dragging her farther inside toward every loaded gun waiting to fire.
And all I can think is, well, fuck me.