Chapter 11
GAbrIEL
Ididn’t remember moving.
One second, Emberline DiRavello was on the dais, bloody knife clenched, pointed at my father’s throat, his name on her lips like a curse. The next, my fingers were clamped around her wrist, and we were gone.
Stone dissolved around us, the roar of the crowd snuffed out like a candle flame.
We rematerialized in one of the meeting rooms—not the one I used for interrogations, though maybe I’d been too quick to dismiss that option—a place used for private contract negotiations between Dynasty members.
With a wave of my hand, the candles ignited on the chandelier overhead, illuminating a stack of fresh linens on the side table, along with a pitcher of water and crystal glasses.
The room, like most here, was soundproofed. Nothing would escape these walls.
I stripped my father’s knife from her hand, and Emberline stumbled slightly, bare shoulders rising with a sharp breath as she took in our surroundings.
One round, elegant table. A handful of chairs.
Candles throwing golden light over old Venetian plaster and the Dominico crest painted onto the far wall.
For one wild second, I’d thought the dainty little aristocrat was going to stab my father in the throat in front of the entire Dynasty. But someone would have to be insane—suicidal—to even consider such an act and condemn their entire bloodline to death.
And the DiRavellos were renowned for restraint.
She was a pampered aristocrat, for fuck’s sake.
The most dangerous thing she’d ever handled was a salad fork at dinner.
Case in point, blood still poured from her too-deep wound as she glared up at me, dark eyes brimming with murderous intent.
Not with fear.
No, there wasn’t an ounce of fear in her gaze, her entire body trembling with rage.
“You fucker. You don’t have to manhandle me.” She tried peeling me off her, but my grip was like iron.
Her dark gaze turned calculating, as if my head was on the chopping block, not hers.
“What the fuck was that all about?” she demanded, two spots of color in her cheeks.
“Do you always tackle females in the middle of the ceremony while they’re swearing their lives away?
” That same husky contralto that had sent lust rippling down my spine at the ceremony sent a fresh wave through me now, and my grip on her wrist tightened.
Up close—alone—her voice was addictive, threads of smoke and silk and steel braided together into something powerful. Something dangerous.
Something that could easily make a lesser male weaken.
“You just accused the Don of murder in front of five hundred witnesses,” I countered, gritting my teeth at her absolute obstinance. “You’re fortunate I only manhandled you. If Severin had reached you first…”
I let my words trail off, releasing her dainty wrist, more aware than I wanted to be of the pulse racing beneath my fingers. Of the slick heat of her blood coating my palm.
The smell hit again, overwhelming and carnal in its richness, far too tempting in this enclosed space. Old instincts stirred under my skin, the predator in me lifting its head. I shut that part of myself down ruthlessly, only for another—and even more ill-advised—urge to rise.
She cut herself deeply. She wasn’t healing.
“Severin didn’t reach me first, you did,” she growled, the tips of her fangs showing. “I wasn’t going to hurt your father, for fuck’s sake. What do you think I am, an idiot?”
When I didn’t answer, she lifted her chin a fraction. “I smell the stench of fear in this room. Is this where you make me recant my sins, Gabriel Dominico?”
My nostrils flared. My name in her mouth… no one spoke my name like that.
Not my family.
Not our allies.
No, the others weighed my name with the proper amount of respect and fear I was due. She uttered Gabriel like a challenge. As she’d moan out my name if my cock was buried deep inside her and her hands were tied up over her head as she writhed for me.
I shook my head, trying to clear the image. What in the fuck was my problem?
“This is where you wait for judgment,” I snapped, suddenly pissed at myself for thinking of her in any way besides a threat. Or, at the very least, a sharp, stubborn thorn in my side. “My father will be here shortly. Nico as well. Now sit.”
“I’m not a godsdamned dog, stronzo.” Her eyes flicked to the chair, the lack of windows, the one door, then back to me. “Do you speak to all females that way or only those who insult the vaunted Dominico honor? I know how touchy you are about your precious family motto.”
The jab slid under my skin before I could stop it, a sharpness twisting around my heart because yes, I was pissed she’d sullied our honor in public, at an important ceremony, no less.
I was pissed my sire had changed the ceremony without consulting me, and I was pissed because she made me feel off kilter in ways I shouldn’t.
“I speak that way to ragazzine insolenti who disrupt sacred ceremonies to try to discredit dynasties in public.” I pointed to the chair, hoping she didn’t notice my finger shaking.
“And also, you’re bleeding onto my floor.”
The scent hit again—rich and sweet, threaded with something thrillingly potent that prickled along my tongue. I’d been around blood my entire existence. Logically, there should be nothing unique about DiRavello blood.
But Emberline’s…
My fangs ached so badly, it took all my control not to dive for her, to grasp her wrist and lick every drop of blood from her palm. I’d never felt this out of control, never been this tempted by anyone before.
And I had no idea why.
Which only pissed me off even more.
“Your sire’s blade was sharper than expected,” she admitted, eyes flashing, and I wondered what else she would have done with that knife if given the chance.
Tried to stab Marcello and died for her efforts, most likely.
I crossed to the sideboard, picked up the pile of linen cloths and the pitcher of water while she tracked my every move, chin tilted, pupils blown wide from either adrenaline or fear—or both.
“You’re bleeding over everything.” I set everything down, then ripped one of the cloths into strips. “The runes have taken what they needed, your part of the ceremony is over. There’s no need to feed the stones anymore. And frankly, you’re ruining the rug. Now, let me see that hand.”
Her gaze dropped to my hand, and for a moment, I thought she’d refuse out of sheer spite. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible sigh, she extended her bare arm, a long reach of pale, creamy skin, covered with bloodstains that seemed to glow with power.
Gods, I was so hungry.
Starving, in fact. I kicked myself for not taking care of my needs before being locked in a room with someone so…
delicious. Every cell of my being wanted to pin her down to the table and drink my fill, but I wrapped the strip of cloth tight around her palm, the white turning scarlet in seconds as I tied it off.
“That will keep pressure on long enough to slow the bleeding.” Up close, I frowned when I saw the precision of the cut—no hesitation, no jagged edges, straight and deep along the heart line.
An assassin’s cut.
Not an aristocrat’s.
“How long had you been planning that little speech?” I asked, wetting another cloth in the pitcher. Blood still slicked her arm, all the way to the elbow. She didn’t so much as flinch.
The girl was unreadable, unflappable, and utterly maddening.
“Long enough.” Her lips curved, and then, “This is unnecessary,” she said quietly as I took her hand. “Keeping me alive,” she clarified, “when you’re just going to kill me later.”
“The Basin accepted your pledge of fealty. You’re sworn to the Compact now,” I kept my tone even. “Your blood is Dynasty property, and by law, I’m obligated to keep our property inside your veins until such time as I deem it… unnecessary.”
“Is that how you think of me?” Her lashes lifted, gaze meeting mine—dark, fathomless. Not black, more like the color of espresso. “As property? Or as… unnecessary?”
Was she deliberately baiting me?
Locked in a room with her head on the guillotine, and she was… fucking with me?
“We are the D’Immortali,” I shrugged. “We take what we want, we use members as they were meant to be used. That is the way of things.”
“Good to know.” She sucked in a quick breath, sharp and involuntary, when I swiped the wet cloth down her arm, the only proof she felt anything at all.
Emberline didn’t speak as I cleaned every trace of blood from her soft, creamy skin, then moved to her fingers, unwrapping the strip of cloth from earlier.
“The bleeding has slowed,” I observed, dunking the cloth again, sweeping it between her fingers.
They were delicate, perfectly formed, with tapered, unpolished nails. And this close, I saw she didn’t wear makeup, only a fading blush on her cheeks, those rosy lips close enough to kiss. She stayed quiet the entire time I worked, just stared at me as if cataloguing my reaction.
“That cut is deep enough to sever tendons. You should be screaming,” I observed.
She just shrugged. “High pain tolerance. And facing potential death has a way of numbing you to everything else.”
I looked up, watching her face carefully. “Why do you think you’re facing potential death? Unless you were planning to stab my father with his own knife.”
As expected, she obstinately pinched her lips together as I finished washing her fingers, then tossed the rust-stained wet cloth back onto the sideboard.
“I invoked your own laws, which I am well within my rights to do,” she demurred, deciding it was safer not to answer my question. “Even your father is bound to honor the Right of Arbitration. He’s not a god, and he will face the consequences of what he’s done.”
I wrapped the cloth tightly around her hand, methodical motions practiced over decades of tending wounds. I needed to do something with my hands while I wrestled down the urge to slam her against the wall and shake sense into her.
Or sink my fangs into her throat.
“You realize,”—I was having trouble keeping my voice steady—“that accusing the Don of breaking the Blood Compact is the same as inviting the erasure of his entire line. Including me.”
“Really?” Her eyes went comically wide, pools of the blackest obsidian surrounded by long, silky lashes. “Thanks for telling me because in all my hours of planning, I hadn’t thought that part through.”
“Careful, Emberline,” my eyes narrowed at her sass. “You’re beginning to sound awfully bloodthirsty for someone who claims she only wants justice.”
“Why?” she asked, with terrible calmness, her unhurt hand digging into her skirt. “Will you kill me where I sit? Tear my throat out? Are we done pretending to be civilized?”
“I’m trying,” I growled, “to keep you alive long enough to realize how wrong you are about everything. Perhaps you can still salvage this situation and survive.”
Her fate shouldn’t matter to me in the least.
Before the other night, I couldn’t have even picked Emberline out in a crowd, but now… now the thought of her death had my stomach churning.
“Wrong?” She barked out a humorless laugh. “You honestly expect me to believe your father is innocent?”
“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation, and something flickered across her face—something like weary pity, gone in an instant.
“You really do think he’s innocent. That’s very… sweet,” she scoffed. “Such a good, loyal son you are.”
“Explain your reasoning, then.” I tied off the clean bandage and stepped away, feeling noticeably colder without her warmth touching mine.
“Why my father? Why not one of the others? Rocco Demente. Emilia DiSangue. Severin.” I paused, gauging her expression at my next words. “Your own uncle, perhaps.”
There was nothing.
Only a flicker of annoyance that I dared suggest such a thing.
“Because Marcello despised my father and has been plotting his revenge for years.” Her voice sharpened, losing its languid edges. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“I have no earthly idea what you’re going on about.”
“Marcello and Enzo’s feud that’s lasted centuries,” she clarified spitefully. “The fact that my uncle was favored to become Don before your father stole the title and the power that should have belonged to our family.”
“Salvatore never meant for the title to go outside our family. Giovanni is dreaming if he thought he had any chance of becoming Don.”
“So says you.”
“So says me.” I leaned closer until our lips almost touched. “And let me remind you, I am heir to that throne, just as my father was. Whatever stories Giovanni told you… they were lies.”