30. Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Francesca
Ancient stone rises around us, arches stretching heavenward like skeletal fingers clawing at God's mercy.
The Ravelli cathedral stands as both sanctuary and sorrow, hallowed ground where Elena Ravelli's blood once stained the steps sixteen years ago to the day.
I study the gothic architecture as Dante guides me forward, his hand steady at my back. Gargoyles leer from stone perches, their weathered faces twisted in silent judgment of the sinners below. Stained glass filters the weak autumn sunlight, kaleidoscope forming colored shadows across worn stone.
The air feels heavy with history. With violence. With destiny.
"Are you ready?" Dante asks, his voice low for my ears alone.
I straighten the black dress I've chosen for this occasion, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles as I scan our surroundings.
Marco directs security teams with subtle hand signals, positioning men at every entrance, along the roofline, in the trees that border the ancient grounds where the man at my side grew up.
Today, there are no second chances. No vulnerabilities.
"Ready," I confirm, my hand finding Dante's as we ascend those fateful steps.
His fingers tighten around mine, and I feel the slight tremor he tries to hide. This place holds his darkest memory—his mother bleeding out while he, a fifteen-year-old boy, was forced to watch.
Forced to move her still-warm body away from view like trash to be discarded rather than a beloved mother to be mourned.
"I've never been back," he confesses, pausing at the top of the steps. "Not since that day. Not to this spot."
I squeeze his hand. "She would be proud of you."
"For plotting to kill her favorite son?" His laugh lacks humor. "Somehow I doubt that."
"For surviving ," I correct him. "For building something from what Vito broke inside you."
His eyes meet mine, gratitude flickering behind the steel of determination. Then the mask of control slips back into place as he leads me through massive oak doors into the cathedral's hushed interior.
The battle to be here today had nearly broken us. His fury crackling like lightning as I refused to stay behind at the penthouse while he faced this alone.
I study Dante's profile as we move deeper into the cathedral's shadows, remembering how he'd finally yielded last night. Not from my pleading, but from the moment I'd placed his hand over my heart and whispered that we face everything together now.
Inside, the space feels impossibly vast. Soaring columns rise to support ribbed vaults, their patterns reminiscent of intertwined fingers stretching toward heaven. Candles flicker in iron sconces, their light insufficient against the perpetual shadows that cling to corners and alcoves.
At the altar, more candles burn in remembrance of Elena Ravelli, their flames dancing in the draft that whispers through ancient stone.
"Marco has secured all entry points," Dante murmurs against my ear as we move deeper into the sacred space. "Exit routes are established. If anything happens, stay close to me."
I nod, surveying the cathedral's layout.
My mind maps it all in seconds, an instinct honed through months at Dante's side in this world of blood and power.
We're early, but deliberately so. Dante wants to stake his claim on this space before Luca arrives. Wants to stand on the very spot where Elena fell, paying respects his way before his brother makes his appearance.
"There," he says, guiding me toward a discreet memorial near a side altar. "That's where it happened."
A simple plaque marks the spot, elegant script commemorating Elena Ravelli's life without mentioning the violence of her death.
Beloved mother, wife, daughter. Your light endures.
Dante kneels before it, his hand tracing the engraved letters with a respect I've rarely seen him display. Not for his mother. Not for anyone.
His fingers linger on " beloved mother ," and something in my chest tightens at the obvious pain still etched into his soul sixteen years later.
"Who wrote these words?" I ask softly.
"Luca, of course," he replies, voice rough and tainted with bitterness. "He designed the memorial. Comes every year to replace the candles, leave fresh flowers."
"Is Nico here yet?" I ask, scanning the empty cathedral.
"He'll arrive separately," Dante replies, rising to his feet. "I granted him a few hours to compose himself after yesterday's... negotiation with me."
The edge in his voice suggests the conversation with his younger brother yesterday involved more than the verbal agreement described to me. But before I can question further, a subtle shift in the cathedral's atmosphere draws our attention to the main entrance.
Luca Ravelli stands in the arched doorway, silhouetted against the outside light.
He's dressed entirely in black, as immaculate as ever despite the circumstances. His presence stretches across stone floors like a dark promise… or perhaps a warning.
My breath catches at the sight of the woman beside him.
Bianca, her pregnancy unmistakable now. Her belly strains against the black dress she wears, one hand resting beneath the swell where the next Ravelli heir grows.
Her face is paler than I remember from Paris, dark circles beneath her eyes betraying the strain of a difficult pregnancy.
Dante stiffens beside me, his body coiling with the instinctive tension of a predator sensing another of its kind.
"Stay close," he whispers, placing himself before me as the couple approaches. "No matter what happens."
Luca's dark, careful gaze finds us immediately, his face betraying minimal surprise at finding his estranged brother already in attendance.
Beside him, Bianca's steps seem carefully taken, her movements cautious as if any sudden motion might upset a precarious balance.
"Dante," Luca acknowledges when they draw near. "I didn't expect he would convince you to come."
"Luca," Dante returns with equal coldness. "Some occasions transcend our differences. I trust for at least an hour, we can exist in the same room."
Luca's attention shifts to me, holding the look of a man who sees chess pieces rather than people. Almost like his father would have.
"Ms. Castellano. Or should I say, Mrs. Ravelli? Condolences on your father's passing."
"Thank you," I reply, voice carefully neutral. "And congratulations on your impending arrival."
Bianca's hand presses more firmly against her belly at my words, her expression a complex mixture of pride and wariness. When she speaks, her voice is softer than I expected. "Elena would have loved being a grandmother."
The simple statement, dropped so elegantly yet filled with layers, lands like a grenade in the tense space between the brothers.
For a moment, I see grief flash across Dante's face. It's a sign of grief for what might have been in another life… in another world. For the family they could have been if Vito hadn't poisoned the very soil they grew from.
"Yes," Dante agrees unexpectedly. "She would have."
Luca studies him, surprise evident in the subtle lift of his eyebrows. "You've never come before."
"I carry her memory in my own way," Dante replies. "Not all mourning requires an audience."
Bianca shifts uncomfortably, one hand moving to her lower back as she winces again. The motion doesn't escape my notice, nor Dante's. She's uncomfortable, and if what Dante was saying last night is true, this might be the first time she's been out of bedrest in weeks.
"Perhaps we should begin," I suggest, sensing the fragility of this momentary peace. I glance around the cathedral's vast space, noting Nico's absence. "Should we wait for-"
"He'll come," Dante interrupts, his voice carrying an edge of certainty that makes me wonder what exactly transpired in that wine cellar conversation.
Another wince from Bianca draws my attention. She's shifting her weight constantly now, clearly struggling to remain standing. The proud tilt of her chin suggests she won't admit to any weakness, but her body betrays her.
I think about Dante's words, about his warning that the baby can't be born before… before…
"Let's begin," Luca decides, noticing his wife's discomfort, but unaware of the man beside him and his plan to execute him. His hand slides to Bianca's lower back, supporting her with a gentleness that seems at odds with everything I've heard about him. "Nico knows where to find us."
With slow steps, he guides Bianca toward the small memorial plaque where fresh flowers already await.
To my surprise, Luca produces candles from within his jacket, setting them beside the flowers. His movements speak of ritual repeated annually, perfected through repetition and devotion.
"I light one for each year she's been gone," he explains, though no one has asked. "Sixteen flames for sixteen years without her guidance."
I watch Dante's response carefully.
The expected mockery or dismissal doesn't come. Instead, he observes his brother's ritual with uncharacteristic restraint, his jaw tight with emotion.
"She would have hated what we've become," Luca says suddenly, striking a match to light the first candle. "What he made us into."
The " he " requires no clarification. Vito Ravelli's ghost haunts this space as surely as Elena's.
"On that, we agree," Dante responds, his voice low but carrying in the ancient cathedral's perfect acoustics.
As Luca lights each candle, a strange quiet descends.
Not peace—never that between these men—but something adjacent to it.
A momentary ceasefire in honor of the woman who loved them both.
I study the brothers side by side, noting the similarities I hadn't observed before. The same jawline, the same intensity, the same coiled power beneath civilized veneer.
In profile, with shadows playing across their features, they look almost identical. Like two versions of the same man, only carved by very different hands.
Bianca shifts again, her discomfort becoming more pronounced by the minute. A brief grimace crosses her face before she can mask it.