Chapter 13
EMBERLINE
I’d been so close, and I’d hesitated.
There had been a quiet resignation in Don Marcello’s eyes I hadn’t expected when he’d looked between the knife in my hand and my face, as if he knew death was coming and welcomed it.
But in the end, I was the one who fucked up.
Me.
And now it was too late, and I was committed—whether I wanted to be or not—to Uncle Gio’s plan. If I didn’t die in this room first.
I smoothed my skirt down, my hands trembling, not because of what was coming but because of Gabriel Dominico. Because of these strange feelings he’d stirred up inside me. Because he was too handsome and too intense and too… everything.
And he wasn’t just a pretty face; he was attractive.
Gentle, in how he’d bound up my hand, that strong jaw clenching every time he’d run the cloth over my skin. The way his nose flared, like he was… hungry. The way he smelled, rich and powerful and good, with a hint of spicy smoke.
He confused me, and I needed a clear head right now.
I couldn’t go mooning over the first good-looking male who was nice, especially since I was going to kill him in the end. Right after I dealt with his father.
The Rite of Arbitration was a long, drawn-out affair, but at its core, the Rite was a tool for justified vengeance. Whoever won the judgment named the punishment, and I already knew what I would claim.
The Don’s life would become forfeit, by my hand, and when I was finished, his death wouldn’t be murder, it would be justice in the eyes of the entire Dynasty—even by our strict laws.
An execution with no lasting ramifications.
But… I couldn’t stop doubt from creeping up and infecting my every thought.
Poisoning my clear, well-laid plans of vengeance.
My father hadn’t been friends with Marcello. They’d shared an icy relationship my entire life, and I’d never seen the two of them exchange more than the required pleasantries, but Enzo had never—not once—mentioned their feud.
Everything I knew about their rivalry I’d gleaned from Giovanni. From hints, rumors, and a few whispered stories from their reckless youth, he’d painted a clear, concise picture of centuries of bitterness and pent-up hostility.
Survive the next hour, then you’ll have plenty of time to stew over how you got into this mess, I told myself, because rationally, my chances were not good.
Now, when Severin prowled in, his expression promised death—and I doubted the grizzled Grim Reaper would break a sweat over killing me since he was already pissed he hadn’t viewed me as a threat in the first place.
Wounded pride and all that.
Nico Draconi came in next, flanking the Don, and quickly became the most dangerous threat in the room. Even with all my training, after seeing how fast Nico moved through that crowd, I could never beat him to the door.
Especially in these heels.
Don Marcello tugged his tie loose, shirt falling open to reveal his throat. The perfect target, if only I could wrestle the knife I had strapped to my thigh out from under five layers of tulle and silk, race Nico and Severin across the twenty feet separating us, and strike hard and deep.
But that would reveal my hand.
At the moment, my only advantage was… I did not present a serious threat.
I knew exactly what everyone in this room thought of me. Pampered little rich girl, nice to look at, fine for fucking, but overall… weak. And they needed to keep thinking that, right up until the moment I slid my knife between their ribs.
“I grant your request,” Marcello agreed with a vague wave of his hand, dropping into the chair and picking up right where we left off.
“We will meet after tonight’s banquet, Signorina DiRavello, to work out terms. My son, acting as my consigliere, will make the accusation official, but first, we must finish binding the Compact. There are still several members’ blood missing.” He nodded to Gabriel.
“In two millennium, a Blood Compact has not gone unbound, not even because of war or plague. I do not intend to be the first Don to neglect my duty.”
It took two brawny Draconi soldiers to wrestle the Basin into the room, set it down with a resounding thud in front of the Don, and for the first time since I’d found my father dead, I didn’t know what to do except stand here mute, pinned beneath Nico and Severin’s damning stares as the Don picked his blade up off the side table and offered it to Gabriel, hilt-first.
“Take the blade, figlio. Make me proud.”
Son.
Pinned beneath his wild blue glare, Gabriel weighed the knife in one hand and my future in the other while a thrill of fear went through me. Revenge cut both ways, and I was vastly outnumbered right now. I’d threatened his father, and my life was forfeit should the Il Lupo Nero decide it.
Gabriel held me there for too long a moment, trapped beneath his stony judgment, my heart hammering like a rabbit’s as I waited for him to strike.
“No, Gabri, remember what I told you,” Marcello counseled.
My muscles went buttery with relief when Gabriel turned his wolfish attention back to the Basin and raised the blade over his head.
“I, Gabriel Dominico,” he vowed, his deep voice too big for such a small space, “heir of the Dominico family, swear my life and line to the protection of Venice and our kind. I swear to uphold the Compact, to guard our people, to execute the Don’s will without hesitation.
I swear my blood, my strength, my future to the service of the Dynasty. Should I fail in this oath—”
He dragged the blade across his palm, cutting every bit as deeply as I had, and for a second, I relived my previous pain.
Brief. Sharp.
Cleansing.
Blood fell in thick drops, hissing as it hit the stone. His scent wormed into my senses, like an unwelcome intrusion, all vetiver and amber, woodsy and dark, like I was lost in a forest at night with no way out.
“—let my line be hunted, my name erased, my legacy burned to ash.”
The magic that filled the room was unlike anything I’d experienced before.
Power struck like a shockwave, radiating out from the Basin in expanding rings, pressing against bone and sinew, threading through the air, sinking deep into the walls and the stone.
Deep into me.
I grit my teeth as energy punched into my chest, slamming into my heart, my veins, my marrow. I’d never been trapped in a room like this, never felt the binding of an oath forged from blood and pure will. I wasn’t sure I could survive it.
“I swear this bond to my father, to this city, to every vampire who calls Venice home, even when they are far away. To our survival. To our enemy’s destruction.”
The frescoed ceiling trembled, candle flames flared higher, feeding on invisible currents, because the magic remembered.
Every lie, every broken oath, because the magic did not forgive.
The runes on the Basin’s rim blazed white-gold, shedding sparks that vanished before they hit the stone. For a heartbeat, it felt like the entire palace was breathing with us, then, slowly, the light dimmed.
The pressure in my ears, crushing my chest, receded.
When the world slid back into focus, Marcello gripped his son’s shoulder, his face filled with pride, and something tugged painfully at my heart. That was a feeling I would never know again. A father’s love for his child.
“Your oath, Gabriel,” he said quietly, “is accepted.”
I clenched my hand around the cloth binding, my cut already healing, barely a sting now as skin knit back together. The Basin now held the stain of my blood, my brother’s blood, and Gabriel’s blood. But not…
Where had my uncle disappeared to?
Why wasn’t he watching as I exacted our revenge? Disquiet turned to fear as I considered the possibility he’d abandoned me to my fate.
“For the Dominico family, the Compact is renewed,” Marcello declared quietly. “Our oaths are bound. Our fates are sealed. For another decade, the D’Immortali stand united under my rule. Let these next ten years be peaceful ones.”
Outside the door, a roar went up—not human, not civilized. A guttural, primal, ravenous howl from hundreds of throats. I could picture the scene. Fangs flashing in the light, eyes glowing faintly, the monster in each of us rising in anticipation of blood and debauchery.
“They know,” Marcello observed, with a satisfied smile. “They feel the magic binding us together, and now…”
He leaned forward, so close my fingers itched to reach for my blade, even though I knew it would be the last thing I ever did.
“Once the crowd heads into the ballroom, we will retire to my office and discuss the Right of Arbitration terms. Who will negotiate on your behalf, signorina?”
“I negotiate on my own behalf,” I snorted. “It’s the twenty-first century, after all.”
“Please.” Marcello loosed a long-suffering sigh, rubbing his temple. “Don’t remind me.”