29. Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
The warmth still lingering in her flesh as I dragged her away, her blood soaking into my school uniform. The weight of her head lolling against my shoulder as I carried my mother like a broken doll.
"Why bring this up now?" I ask, my voice rough with suppressed emotion.
Nico leans forward, eyes suddenly earnest. "Because, with everything going on, I think we should be there. Together. All three of us." He pauses and look to the ground. "It might be the last chance we get."
The truth of Nico's words hits me right in the chest.
He's right.
This will be the last time. The very last time that all three of Elena Ravelli's sons will stand together at her grave.
After tomorrow, after what I have planned for Luca, there can be no going back.
I study Nico's face in the dim cellar light, searching for any hint of manipulation. But all I see is that same lost look he wore when Father first brought him to the mansion after his mother died.
That raw need to belong somewhere, to someone.
"You really want me to stand beside Luca?" Skepticism colors my tone. "After everything?"
"Not for Luca," Nico presses. "For Elena. For the woman who raised us all as her own. One day of peace to honor her memory." He hesitates, then adds, "Luca will be there. We should stand together as brothers, just this once."
"Luca won't come," I say, but I can hear the uncertainty in my own voice. "Not with everything that's happened."
The images of him standing behind Bianca surface in my mind.
"He'll come." Nico's certainty makes my chest ache. "It's Mom. He'll be there."
I study him carefully, searching for the manipulation behind his words. "Why does this matter to you, Nico? Elena wasn't even your mother. She wasn't your blood."
Pain flashes across his features, real and raw.
"She was my mother," he spits angrily before correctly his tone. "When everyone else in that house looked at me and saw Vito's bastard, his mistake, she saw a child who needed love."
His voice catches. "She never distinguished between her blood sons and me. Never made me feel less than. She protected me from Vito's cruelty when she could."
Something shifts in my chest, an uncomfortable recognition of shared loss. Beneath the betrayal, beneath the rivalry, beneath the bloodshed, there remains this one irrefutable truth: we all loved Elena Ravelli.
"And Luca?" I ask. "He's agreed to this family reunion?"
"He'll be there regardless," Nico confirms. "Every year, without fail. I think... I think it would mean something to him, to have us all there."
I lean back, taking a long swallow of wine that suddenly tastes bitter in my mouth. The idea of standing beside Luca, unarmed, unguarded, for any reason... it goes against every instinct I've honed over sixteen years of hatred.
And yet...
"I'll consider it," I say finally. "Now, back to the matter of your betrayal."
Relief flickers across Nico's face at the temporary reprieve. "What do you want from me, Dante? Restitution? Territory? I can redirect my supply chains, merge operations."
"I want everything," I state coldly.
His eyes grow wide. "Dante, that's—"
"Every contact, every route, every account. Your entire operation, dismantled and absorbed into mine."
"That would leave me with nothing," he protests.
"Exactly." I lean forward and smile. "Perhaps you should have thought of that before you stole from me."
He studies me, weighing his limited options. "And if I comply? What then?"
I consider this, weighing justice against practicality. "Then maybe, maybe , you get to remain a Ravelli. Under my protection, my control. You'll serve me. No more independent operations. No more playing all sides."
"And Luca? The Volkovs?"
"I'll handle Luca," I promise, a cold smile curving my lips while remaining careful not to reveal too much. "As for the Volkovs... they made this personal when they took Antonio. When they killed his father. They'll be dealt with. Permanently."
Nico nods slowly, acceptance settling over him. "You've changed, Dante."
"Have I?"
"You're more... focused. Controlled." His gaze sharpens with assessment. "The Castellano woman suits you. Tempers your rage with strategy."
I shrug, not confirming or denying his observation. "Do we have an understanding? Your operation for your life?"
"We do." He reaches into his jacket, withdrawing a small thumb drive which he places on the table between us. "Everything is there. Routes, contacts, accounts. All of it."
I pocket the drive without examining it. "You'll stay in the west wing until I've verified this information. A comfortable prison until I decide your ultimate fate."
He accepts this with surprising dignity, rising from his chair. "And the cathedral? Tomorrow?"
"I'll let you know my decision."
Marco materializes from the shadows at a subtle gesture, escorting Nico from the wine cellar. When their footsteps fade, I remain seated, staring into the deep red of my wine as memories of Elena's blood against cathedral stone blur with the vintage in my glass.
Francesca finds me there an hour later, still contemplating the past and its hold on my present.
"How did it go?" she asks, sliding onto the chair Nico vacated.
"He gave up his operation. Smart choice." I push the second glass toward her. "Try it. Bordeaux, 1982. A good year for the French."
She accepts, sipping with appreciation. "And his soul? Did he surrender that too?"
"That remains to be seen." I study her face in the cellar's subtle lighting, her beauty only enhanced by shadows. "He wants us all to attend Elena's memorial tomorrow. At the cathedral where she died."
Wariness enters her expression. "The three Ravelli brothers, together at last?"
I nod, watching that wonderful mind at work. "And your thoughts?"
She smiles, knowing how I can read her like no one else. Trust her word, her intelligence, her opinion, like no other.
She shifts forward on the chair. "Well, don't you find it strange that Nico is so insistent about commemorating Elena? She wasn't even his real mother."
"I thought the same, and said as much. But… he's right. She was the only mother he knew," I respond, echoing Nico's words. "She treated him as her own, even knowing he was the product of my father's betrayal. Elena never distinguished between her blood sons and him."
Surprise registers in Francesca's eyes. "That's... unexpectedly compassionate, Dante."
"Elena was capable of great kindness," I admit, the confession strange on my tongue. "She was a good mother to all of us, even those who weren't her flesh and blood."
"Unlike our fathers," Francesca observes quietly.
"Unlike our fathers," I agree.
She reaches across the table, her fingers finding mine. "Are you going to go? To the cathedral?"
I turn my hand, capturing hers, feeling the strength in her delicate fingers. Strength that carries her own wounds, her own losses.
"I think I am."
Her eyebrows rise. "To reconcile with your brothers?"
A dark laugh escapes me. "No. To honor the only person in that family who… I now think… was the only one who ever truly loved me." I squeeze her hand. "And to remind Luca that the throne he sits on was built on her blood."
"Will you tell him about your plans? About our strike against his crown?"
I consider this, weighing the satisfaction of watching fear dawn in my brother's eyes against the strategic advantage of surprise.
"No, but I trust he's aware," I decide. "Let him have one last day believing he's secure. Tomorrow for Elena's memory. The day after... for mine."
Francesca's eyes hold mine, understanding exactly what I'm not saying aloud. "The culmination of everything we've been working toward."
"Everything," I agree, bringing her hand to my lips. "One brother to honor. One brother to destroy."
"And the third?" she asks.
"To stand witness," I reply.
Her eyes gleam with the promise of violence, of justice, of ambition fulfilled. "To Elena, then," she says, raising her glass. "May her memory guide your hand."
"To Elena," I echo, clinking my glass against hers. "And to the queen who will sit beside me when it's done."