28. Chapter Twenty-Six #2
"Vladimir is certain it was Dmitri's order?" I ask, grasping for the practical details that might help me process this impossible news.
Dante nods. "His signature method. It's pretty clear. He's sending a message that no one escapes the Volkovs without consequences."
Silence falls over our small group as the implications settle.
My father is dead.
Dead.
The Castellano empire left without its patriarch. The man who raised me, who shaped me, who ultimately betrayed me… gone by another's hand before any reconciliation was possible.
"I need to go," Antonio says suddenly. "I need to be there. The funeral—"
"Is being arranged by your father's consigliere," Dante interjects. "Vladimir has already confirmed it's being handled with appropriate discretion and dignity."
"But the business, the territories—"
"Will be secured," Dante promises. "I give you my word, Antonio. Nothing that belonged to your father will be lost in the chaos. Not while I draw breath."
The vehemence in his tone catches us both by surprise. This is not strategic placation or empty comfort. This is oath and promise bound together in steely determination to protect those in his heart.
"We leave for London tomorrow as planned," Dante continues. "But first, if you are ready, Francesca, we can honor your father our way."
"Okay."
***
As the sun begins its descent behind the Italian hills, long shadows falling across the villa's garden, we gather for a private memorial that Dante and Maria have arranged while Antonio and I ponder our father's loss.
I stare at the small altar Maria has arranged in the garden, my father's photograph propped against fresh flowers.
"I'll kill you myself."
Those were my last words to him at the opera.
Now someone else has done it for me, and I feel... empty.
Not relieved. Not vindicated.
Just… hollow.
A small stone table has been placed beneath Elena Ravelli's favorite olive tree, draped in black silk.
Maria has prepared traditional mourning food, the same recipes she tells us Elena served when ancient Italian families lost their patriarchs.
Wine from grapes grown on the villa's slopes fills crystal glasses, and she passes them out as the memorial commences.
"In our world," Dante begins, raising his glass as we form a circle around the photograph, "death comes without warning. Without fairness. Without mercy."
Antonio stands beside me, his hand gripping mine.
He is the Castellano heir now, the last male bearing our family name.
"Antonio Castellano Sr. was not my friend," Dante continues.
"He was not my ally. But he created something worthy of respect.
A dynasty built from nothing. A legacy that won't be forgotten.
" His gaze turns to me. "Most importantly, he created the woman who now stands as my queen.
For that alone, he has earned a place in Ravelli memory. "
I struggle to maintain composure as Dante raises his glass higher.
"To Antonio Castellano Sr. May his enemies find no peace. May his legacy endure. May his blood be avenged. Tenfold."
" Tenfold ," Antonio and I repeat in unison, raising our glasses.
As darkness falls completely, lights illuminating the garden in a soft, ethereal glow, Dante and Maria tactfully withdraw, leaving Antonio and me alone with our complicated grief.
We sit on a stone bench, the night air carrying the scent of jasmine and rosemary. Neither of us speaks for long minutes, the shared silence more comforting than words could be.
"I hated him, you know," Antonio finally admits, voice barely audible. "For the expectations. The pressure. The impossible standards."
I nod, understanding perfectly. "I hated him for selling me."
"He was terrified, Francesca," Antonio says, turning to face me fully. "When the Volkovs threatened our family, he saw everything he'd built crumbling. He made the only choice he thought he had."
"By trading his daughter?"
"By securing an alliance the only way he could." Antonio's hand finds mine again. "I'm not excusing it. I fought him on it. Threatened to leave if he went through with it."
This is news to me. "You did?"
"Of course I did. You're my sister." His voice cracks slightly. "When you disappeared from Vienna, I thought... I thought I'd never see you again. That you'd become another casualty of our world."
"Instead, I became a Ravelli," I say softly, a gentle laugh escaping. "Father hated that, you know?"
Antonio studies me in the dim light. "You love him, though. Truly love him."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes. I do."
"I'm not judging, but… how? After everything he did? The way he took you—"
"He gave me choices… eventually ," I admit. "He saw me as more than property. More than a political tool. He sees me , Antonio. The real me. Not the mask father taught me to wear."
My brother's skeptical expression softens. "I've watched him with you this past week. The way he looks at you when he thinks no one notices." He shakes his head slightly. "I've never seen anyone look at you the way he does. Like you're everything."
"He's a good man," I say, surprising myself with how naturally the words come.
Antonio's laugh holds no humor. "He's a monster, Frannie. We both know that. But..." he pauses, choosing his words carefully, "I can see he's a man who would burn the world for you. That's about as good as it gets in our lives."
We lapse into silence again, contemplating the strange twists of fate that have led us here.
Two Castellanos under Ravelli protection, our father's blood cooling in Milan.
"What happens now?" I ask eventually. "With the Castellano organization? With father's territories?"
"Now we join forces," Dante's voice comes from behind us as he approaches, two tumblers of whiskey in hand. "If you're amenable."
He offers the drinks, taking a seat on the stone wall opposite our bench. In the garden lighting, with shadows playing across his features, he looks every inch the king poised to claim his throne.
"Well, to be honest, the Castellanos are finished unless we join forces with you," Antonio acknowledges, accepting the drink. "Our father was already desperate enough to trade his daughter. And we're all that's left now."
"No," Dante counters, his gaze holding mine. "The Castellanos will endure, but under Ravelli protection. Your father's territories won't be lost. They're yours now. Ours to control together."
The promise settles between us, weightier than any formal contract could be.
"Together," Antonio repeats, testing the word.
"As family," Dante confirms. "As allies bound by blood and oath."
Antonio considers this, swirling the alcohol in his glass. "And when you move against Luca? Against the Volkovs? When you're King of the Ravelli Empire?"
"You'll be at our side," Dante replies without hesitation. "If that's your choice."
My brother's gaze shifts between us, consideration visible in his expression. Finally, he nods once, a sharp, decisive gesture.
"For the Castellano name. For father's legacy." His eyes find mine. "But mostly… for my sister."
Later, as moonlight streams through our bedroom windows, Dante holds me close, his touch grounding me against the grief.
I haven't cried. Not yet. The tears remain locked behind walls of shock and duty.
"You're allowed to miss him," Dante's voice rumbles beside me. "The father you wanted him to be. The one who failed you."
I lean into his touch, grateful he understands this twisted grief.
"I hated him," I whisper. "I still hate him. But..."
"But he was still your father." Dante's thumb strokes my spine. "Trust me, I understand complicated paternal relationships."
A bitter laugh escapes me. "Is it wrong that part of me wishes I'd killed him myself? At least then this hollow feeling would make sense."
"I'm sorry," he whispers against my hair.
"For what?"
"For not protecting him better. For not anticipating the Volkovs would target him."
I shake my head against his chest. "You can't protect everyone, Dante. Not even you."
His arms tighten around me, careful of his healing shoulder. "I can protect what matters most. You. Antonio. What we're building together."
I lift my head to study his face in the moonlight.
"Remind me. What are we building, exactly?" I ask softly.
His hand cups my face, thumb tracing my lower lip.
"An empire, of course. But more than that." His gaze holds mine, intensity burning in those gray depths. "A legacy greater than anything my father or yours could have imagined."
His other hand slides to rest over my stomach, the touch reverent, almost tentative. "Something that will endure long after we're gone."
The direct movement send a shiver through me. "You've changed your mind about children?"
"I've changed my mind about many things since you came into my life," he admits. "We control nearly all western Europe now. Luca has only the UK. We have the power I've sought for so long."
I cover his hand with mine where it rests against my abdomen. "But?"
"But the throne means nothing if you don't sit beside me." His voice drops, rough with emotion he once would have suppressed. "Nothing matters without you, Francesca. Not power, not territory, not revenge."
The admission steals my breath.
"We're almost there," I remind him. "The throne is within reach now more than ever."
"Yes," he agrees, pressing his lips to my forehead. "And when we claim it, we will turn away no one who helps us to find justice. For your father, for your family name. A legacy of our own making. Nothing will ever stand in the way of that."
"Nothing," I agree, pressing my lips to the scar where his finger once was. " Nothing ."