Chapter 7
GAbrIEL
Inside the Sala del Giuramento, beneath the blown glass Murano chandeliers and hand-painted frescoed ceiling, hundreds of vampires held their breath.
Waiting for my father.
Waiting for blood to be spilled.
Feet braced apart, I watched from the balcony, hands clasped behind my back, scanning every family, down to the youngest member.
From up here, I saw everything—the sweep of blood-red carpet leading to the dais, the semicircle of gilded chairs reserved for the five family heads, the glittering crowd pressed back behind the velvet cordon.
Five hundred pairs of eyes.
Five hundred potential threats.
The Draconi Brotherhood lined the perimeter like pillars of carved obsidian, silent and lethal.
To mortal eyes, they wouldn’t even appear human.
Impossibly large, stronger than any man, predators filled with primal menace.
To us, they were guardians, each bearing the mark of the dragon branded onto their chests.
My father’s personal swords, sworn to protect, to enforce. To kill.
And tonight, they were mine to command.
Nico Draconi prowled from one shadow to the next, blending into the darkness so thoroughly, I doubted anyone but me saw him.
“North balcony secure,” Nico’s voice crackled in my earpiece. “No movement on the roof. Wards holding steady.”
“Good.” My gaze swept left, over the guests clustered beneath the towering marble columns. “Keep an eye on the DiSangue delegation. Paolo’s acting nervous… well, nervous for him.”
They were our most unpredictable bloodline, secretive and dangerous—blood-obsessed priests and occultists in charge of our most ancient vampire rites and forbidden blood magic, with ever-shifting loyalties. The last thing I needed today was a twitchy priest going rogue.
“Already on it.”
The heavy air was scented with beeswax, expensive perfume, and the metallic tang of a bloodthirsty crowd anxious to get the ceremony over with and onto the debauchery that followed.
This palace—our palace—was wrapped in enough magic to deaden even my powers, the very foundation sunk deep enough into the lagoon’s mud to grow roots.
Power. History. Threat.
That was what every member of the D’Immortali Dynasty felt the moment they set foot inside our domain.
In moments, the Blood Compact would begin.
Every ten years, the heads of the five great families of the D’Immortali Dynasty came here to renew their oath to my father. To the Dominico line. To our unimpeachable rule.
Every decade, they bled for us.
And every decade, my father reminded them exactly what happened if they broke that oath.
I let my gaze drift over the crowd, cataloguing faces.
The DiSangue Order claimed the left side of the room, a splash of crimson against pale stone.
Their matriarch, Signora Emilia DiSangue, wore a red velvet gown and a collar of rubies, every inch the cunning female who had spawned that deadly bloodline.
Dressed in black robes, her eldest sons flanked her like matching weapons—Paolo, with his constant restlessness, and Vincenzo, an opposite study in stillness.
Vincenzo lifted a second glass of blood wine from a passing tray, his jaw already tight, downing the entire thing in one go.
The son who abstains is drinking tonight, I noted. Interesting.
The Demente Syndicate lingered in the darkness between the columns, and the other families kept well away, putting a good ten feet between them and their patriarch.
With his ever-present cane, Rocco Demente gave the impression of a male who lived in perpetual twilight—straight, silvered hair, hollowed-out cheeks, eyes like chips of obsidian.
There were no smiles, no greetings; his people didn’t bother with small talk.
Dark clothes, small movements, the constant awareness of exits.
But that was what made them masters of shadow and secrecy. Rocco’s syndicate controlled our intelligence networks, a vast matrix of spies stretching across Europe and smuggling routes from here to Newfoundland.
The Draconi Brotherhood didn’t have a “delegation.” They were the walls that protected us, especially tonight. Their Master, Severin Draconi, was posted at the base of the dais itself, to the right of the throne, shaved head gleaming, his expression carved from stone.
I leaned out, balanced on the balls of my feet. Looking for…
There she was.
The DiRavello Court stood shoulder to shoulder right beneath me, the daughter draped in midnight-blue silk, her long, fragile throat encased in diamonds. She seemed even smaller tonight, a picture of cultivated elegance and grace, solemnly staring at the empty gilded chair.
The one her father once occupied.
Principessa del ghiaccio, they called her, the Ice Princess, and today, she looked the part, not a hint of emotion on her flawless face, her skin as smooth as snow.
Part of me wondered if she felt anything at all, or if she was so thoroughly frozen, feelings were as foreign to her as mercy was to me.
Part of me admired that deadly calm, the other part…
I tightened my grip on the banister. Part of me wanted to see fire flash in those dark eyes, watch her mouth fall open as she spewed insults at me.
Just the memory had my cock hardening, remembering all that simmering anger trapped in that tiny, curvy body.
Fuck, I need to get my shit together.
She’s nothing but an annoyance. An annoyance I definitely do not need right now.
The brother—Luca—was dressed in a black suit that highlighted his leanness and his youth, and had all the females crowding closer, greedy eyes glittering, like vultures around a fresh kill.
Behind them, in the plain brown robe of a Franciscan friar, lurked Giovanni.
His expression was beatific, barely concealing a wide-eyed awe for the proceedings. I’d spent the past three days investigating the male and found nothing. Not a surprise. The slipperiest serpents never left a trail. But he was filthy dirty; I knew it to my bones.
Once this ceremony was over, I’d have Nico rip Giovanni’s life apart until he found that dirt, then I’d bury him in it. Deep. As if he knew where my thoughts had gone, the old vampire lifted his head and flashed me a cold, dead smile, showing his fangs.
I gave him nothing back.
Instead, my gaze returned to the dais, the throne of the Dominico family.
My sire’s throne.
Carved from a single block of black-veined marble, its arms sculpted into swords and its back crowned with a stylized wolf’s head. The Dominico crest was emblazoned in gold at the apex. Four steps led up to it, each one edged in red-veined stone, polished smooth by centuries of feet.
To the right of the throne sat the Blood Basin.
The Basin accepted the blood of every Dynasty member, along with their sworn statement of fealty. If the magic accepted your words as truth, you walked away unscathed, under our protection for the next decade.
If you were lying, if your heart was not fully pledged to the Dynasty and its laws… things went badly.
The Basin was older than any of us. Older than Venice.
No one knew where the relic came from, only that its magic lay at the heart of this ceremony.
An oblong bowl of dark stone, its rim was carved with pagan runes that predated Latin.
Inside, the dried residue of countless oaths sworn before today stained the bottom black.
It would not remain dry for long.
Behind the throne, two massive windows overlooked the Grand Canal.
Tonight, heavy velvet drapes framed them, drawn back just enough to showcase the night—water, moonlight, the ghostly whisper of gondolas sliding by.
Between the palace and the rest of Venice, our warded walls rose like a second skin, hiding us from mortal eyes.
I checked my watch.
Five minutes.
“Status?” I asked quietly.
“West wing sealed,” another voice reported. “Harbor approach clear.”
“Perimeter locked,” Severin checked in from his position below, his words pitched low enough that only those of us on comms would hear. “No disturbances. Wards stronger than my patience is right now. Can we get this the fuck over with? I could use a godsdamned drink.”
I smiled, then movement near the main doors drew my eye. The crowd stirred, the subtle sound of bodies turning and hushed whispers, gazes shifting. They sensed his power approaching before the herald’s staff struck the floor.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
“Signore e Signori,” the herald called, “Don of the D’Immortali Dynasty. High Lord of the Dominico Family. Custodian of the Blood Compact. Don Marcello Dominico.”
I held my breath as the doors swung open, remembering how weak he’d been just days ago. Not tonight.
Tonight, my father owned the room.
He owned us all, but more than that, Marcello Dominico carried the centuries on his shoulders like they weighed nothing.
His head was held high, and hair—once as dark as mine—was now white at the temples, making him look distinguished, rather than ancient. His perfectly tailored suit was black, his shirt blood-red, his tie the same deep shade as the carpet beneath his polished, handmade wingtips.
Two members of the Brotherhood flanked him, remaining a respectful step behind—one of them was Nico, his expression blank, his hand close to his weapon, missing nothing.
My father stopped, his sharpened gaze sweeping across the room like a scythe.
Without a word, everyone dropped to their knees.
Every family member lowered their heads in acknowledgment—both to the Don and to the power he represented. To the Compact he held over their lives. To the debt they owed him, how he held their futures in his hands.
I watched everyone, but no one more carefully than the DiRavellos
Emberline hesitated before she dropped to her knees, a vision of submission in a sea of silk and diamonds, and my traitorous cock stirred again as she dipped her head, so dark against that perfect pale skin.
The brother was right beside her, mirroring her pose, his skin five shades darker as if the sun was his champion.
But the moon… clearly, the moon loved her more.
She was as ethereal as slivered moonlight, and I wondered if her alabaster skin would feel as soft to the touch as it looked, if she tasted like…
“Gabriel, is there a problem?” Nico’s sharp concern echoed from the comm, and I shook my head.
What the fuck was I doing, drooling over a female when I was supposed to be in charge of fucking security?
Tension in the kneeling crowd was ramping up, my father’s hands still raised over his head, and I took a deep breath. Went back to scanning the throng, making sure the Draconi soldiers were in place.
But my gaze kept returning to Emberline, her hands squeezed tightly into fists, her arms trembling. As if she sensed my attention, she raised her eyes to mine, and in them, defiance burned like a flame, before the brother smoothed his hand down her bare arm, whispering to her.
Her head dropped, severing the moment between us.
And left my heart hammering against my ribcage, holding onto nothing but that brief glimpse of seething malice.