Chapter 8
GAbrIEL
My father climbed the steps to his throne, movements unhurried, absolutely sure. His awareness brushed against mine, a subtle, distant pressure against my mind.
In a few short years, this will be you, my son.
But for today, watch and mark our enemies carefully.
A dark shiver of anticipation went through me at his warning, completely at odds with the deferential, blank mask I was forced to wear around him since the day I was old enough to know what fear felt like.
That day is coming sooner than you think, Marcello. I held onto that thought as I kept my eyes on the breathless crowd waiting for my father’s customary speech.
Marcello took his seat, one hand casually resting on the carved throne, the other on his thigh. Severin shifted a half-step closer to the Blood Basin, monitoring the crowd, while Nico melted into the masses like a dark ghost.
“Once we were hunted,” my father began, his deep timbre carrying over the sea of dark heads. “Scattered to the four winds before the Dynasty gathered us together, protecting those who were loyal. Faithful. True.”
His gaze studied them, one by one, searching for signs of weakness. A few vampires shifted on their feet, the color draining from their faces as Draconi soldiers closed ranks, forming an inescapable wall.
Now there was only one choice.
Bleed and hope what was in your heart matched the words coming from your lips.
As if I couldn’t help myself, my eyes were drawn to Emberline again, those bare shoulders that looked as delicate as porcelain. Wondering if she would pass today’s test, or if I would be the one to order her death.
As for Giovanni… if he truly was as corrupt as I believed… well, six hundred years of vampire cunning might be enough to trick even the Blood Basin.
“Tonight,” Marcello intoned, “we honor the ancient covenant that has kept our bond strong—and our kind safe—for centuries.”
A murmur went through the crowd, then quickly stilled.
“The Blood Compact,” he went on, “is not a promise. It is law. The law that binds together five great families into one unbreakable Dynasty. The law that holds our world together while mortals burn theirs down around them.”
Soft, dark laughter drifted through the hall as some of them preened at their superiority.
“Every ten years, each member of the D’Immortali renews their oath of loyalty.” My father’s gaze swept the front row, pinning each Pentarch head in place, one by one. “To Venice. To our people. To me.”
Every word rang against the marble like a bell.
“In exchange for my protection and the power of this throne, you will swear your blood, your lines, your legacies… to me. You prosper under my rule, or you perish beneath my fist. That is your only choice.”
No one laughed.
Somewhere in the back, someone moved, the soft rasp of shoes on stone louder than it should have been. I spotted the offender instantly—a young vamp on the outer edge of the Demente’s, eyes wide, clearly overwhelmed. His sire seized his elbow, hissing something in his ear.
My father didn’t look in their direction, but his gaze heated.
He liked fear.
Fear meant the Compact still worked.
Fear was what kept these powerful creatures in line, kept challengers from doing more than simply talking about revolution. Fear meant they all had something to lose.
He gestured to Severin with two fingers.
“Bring the Basin closer,” Marcello commanded. Severin lifted the ancient bowl as if it weighed nothing, carried it to the foot of the throne, and set the thing before my father. Carved runes pulsed faintly, reacting to the latent power lingering in this room.
Not nearly as powerful as the ancient magic stored in that vessel.
Older than us, older than the Dynasty, older than Venice.
“Let the family heads approach first,” my father intoned, “and make their offering. The lesser lines will follow, as is our custom.”
The herald’s staff struck the floor again, the sound like a gunshot.
I scanned the crowd, two Draconi subtly adjusting their positions. One near the left pillar, one near the main entrance. Both covering blind spots. Good.
A tinny voice brushed my ear. “South gallery secure.”
“Keep it that way,” I responded. “Once the ceremony starts, we will not stop until the last member has made their offering. Then we have the banquet to deal with.”
“The DiSangue Order,” the herald called.
From a sea of black-robed priests, Emilia DiSangue swept forward in a rustle of crimson velvet, her sons flanking her until she gave a tiny flick of her fingers and the pair stopped at the base of the stairs like well-trained dogs, leaving her to ascend alone.
I’d seen paintings of her from centuries past, and she’d changed little in the intervening years.
These days, she kept to her island with her temple and priests, unlike the rest of us, forced to blend in with the mortal world in order to do business.
New lines bracketed her mouth, but her eyes, sharpened like knives, landed on my father, brimming with curiosity as she hunted for signs of weakness.
She’d heard the rumors, then.
That the Don was sick. Dying.
Well, let them look. Let them see Marcello’s strength and the force gathered around them and see if any challenged him here today. If they did, they would be cut down before the final word left their lips.
She drew a blade, slicing the edge across her palm with a sharp, decisive movement. Darker than her dress, blood pooled in her hand before she tipped her wrist, and her blood hit the stone with a hiss.
“I, Emilia DiSangue,” she stated clearly, “head of the DiSangue Family, by trial and shadow, swear my life and line to Don Marcello Dominico. I swear my obedience, now and always, against all rivals, betrayals, against death itself.”
The magic stirred, the runes flickering.
The hairs at the back of my neck rose. I paid close attention to the cadence of her voice, to the exact words.
Each family’s pledge was slightly different, and one misplaced phrase could alter an oath—my father had taught me that before I’d ever taken my first life.
But she didn’t misstep.
“…should I ever break this oath,” she finished, “let my line be hunted down to the last member, my name erased from our history, my legacy burned to ash.”
The second surge of magic felt… different.
Sharper. Like the torque on a screw being tightened too far. My eyes narrowed, flicking to my father. For the smallest fraction of a second, something passed over his face. Not surprise—he didn’t allow himself that—but interest. Then it was gone.
“Your oath is accepted,” he fixed her with a dark stare.
The tension in the room eased a fraction as Emilia pulled her hand back, giving my father a smile that somehow managed to look both sincere and scathing as her sons ascended the dais, repeating the ceremony.
The lesser members lined up, followed by the black-robed priests.
One after another, the DiSangue bloodline bled and pledged their fealty until the herald’s staff slammed into the marble once again.
“The Demente Syndicate.”
Rocco dragged himself up the steps with his cane, and the Basin accepted his offering. The magic throbbed, the oath locked around his bloodline. Each new member made the same vow, each promise layered over the last, weaving a web of obedience that stretched across families, across centuries.
I glanced at my watch. Two hours had passed.
Three families to go.
“The Draconi Brotherhood.”
Severin set the blade down with unhurried precision and stepped in front of the Basin.
“I, Severin Draconi,” he pledged, “Master of the Draconi Brotherhood, First Sword of the Don, swear my life and line to Don Marcello Dominico.”
He didn’t speak of family.
The Brotherhood was his family, all of them—even Nico—sharing the same surname.
“I swear my blood, my steel, my soul. I am your hand. Your shadow. Your wrath. Should I break this oath,”—he sliced his wrist deeply, crimson pouring into the Basin like a small river—“let every brother I have ever claimed be dragged into the dark with me.”
The magic rose like a wave, crackling against my skin like a whip, a few vampires in the crowd hissing. Severin just grinned.
The Brotherhood didn’t do anything by halves.
My father’s eyes gleamed, approving. “Your oath is accepted.”
Severin’s wound closed as if it had never been, and he took his seat beside Emilia in one of the five gold chairs, a mountain of muscle and lethal intent as the first of his soldiers—Nico, naturally—climbed the steps.
As black-suited soldiers lined up and the ritual went on, my focus never wavered.
My father listened, accepted, and judged. I watched.
I saw the way Emilia DiSangue’s eyes flickered toward the main doors every few minutes, as if she was expecting someone.
I noted the twitch in one of the younger Demente’s hands every time the word erased was spoken.
And my entire body turned into a coiled wire at the way Emberline DiRavello’s fiery gaze remained fixed on my father—not on his face…
But his throat.