Chapter 35
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At times like these, I wished I had magic.
Or at least enough muscle mass to lift big, heavy things, my arms straining as I managed to haul my weapons trunk up one more step.
Sweat stung my eyes, my shoulders were about to give out, and I was almost halfway to the training room when Dante stopped me, muttering something about the godsawful racket and possibly bringing the house down around our ears.
Then the smug bastard picked it up and tossed it onto his shoulder like it weighed nothing, leaving me to trail up the steps behind him.
“Well, if the house was sturdier, you wouldn’t have to worry about it falling down,” I pointed out when he stacked the last trunk in the far corner.
His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, putting those muscled forearms on display. Not that I was ogling my pretend husband’s body; it was just that he was right the fuck in front of me, gleaming with sweat and scars and tattoos, and I had godsdamned eyes, didn’t I?
“If my wife wasn’t a hoarder of deadly, pointy things, I wouldn’t have to worry about it at all.” He shot me a sour look. “Are you planning on waging a war I don’t know about?”
“You never know,” I admonished. “Be glad I left my custom-made collection at home. I had to bring some clothing, in case I was required to look like a proper Dominico bride, especially if you were serious about getting back into society.”
I was feeling like an actual person this morning, rested and bathed, my hair brushed and braided, dressed in plain black jeans and a t-shirt. The vestiges of Dante’s blood still hummed in my system, a boost of power I’d decided I could definitely get used to.
Maybe I could knock him out and drink from him without that annoying sexual tension popping up between us.
The idea definitely had merit.
“How tragic.” He rolled his eyes. “Forced to choose between steel and silk.”
“For your information, I prefer the steel,” I flipped open the lid on the top trunk. “The silk is for camouflage only, blending in with the other bloodsuckers.”
He watched me for a heartbeat, narrowed eyes burning.
“You’re rather terrifying, do you know that?” He blew out a breath and rolled his shoulders. “Speaking of blending in, we have a trial to attend, so one of those gowns would be an excellent choice for today.”
“Trial?” I repeated, my stomach knotting. Council trials were rare and seldom resulted in acquittals. Most often, they resulted in permanent disappearances. ‘Sleeping with the fishes’ sort of disappearances.
Despite the looming threat, I kept my tone flippant. “I thought I’d get a day off from political warfare.”
“No such luck. I just received word. Today is Marcello’s first test,” he explained quietly. “You didn’t think he’d let me stroll back into the capital, marry his enemy’s daughter, and set up house without running me through a gauntlet, did you?”
No, but how can he possibly be so calm if his enemies are already organized and ready to string him up? And as his wife, was I about to be strung up beside him?
“I was hoping,”—I wiped my suddenly sweaty palms on my pants, giving my weapons a wistful look—“that we might get a break before the next disaster.”
He shook his head. “We’re beyond hoping, moglie. Marcello would be a fool to give me a chance to regroup, so get dressed.” He gave me and the training room floor a long look, his eyes resting on the spot where he’d kissed me.
“Unfortunately, our rematch will have to wait for another day.”
The council chamber in the Sala del Giuramento was made to make you feel small.
The building sat at the heart of the Castello district, everything around it built to accommodate the sprawling structure, eating up so much of Venice’s prime real estate.
The walls were thick, the windows high and narrow.
Old frescoes of saints and angels stared down from the vaulted ceiling, their paint faded over the years to muted blues and reds.
I clasped my hands behind my back, a placid expression on my face, a tangled bundle of nerves inside. A private trial of council was something most Dynasty members did not walk away from.
And neither of us were most Dynasty members.
At the center of the room, a dark wooden table dominated the echoing space.
Five ornate, gilded chairs ringed the table, one for each family head, each marked with their symbol—wolf and swan, serpent, raven, and dragon.
Dressed in a sedate green dress, with enough knives hidden on my person to outfit a small army, I stood behind Dante’s right shoulder, where a good wife was supposed to stand. I hated the symbolism. I hated this godsdamned room. I hated even more how I was put on display like a pretty prop.
The stolen bride, passed from one brother to another.
I tumbled down that rabbit hole of helpless fury before I reminded myself that being on display had its advantages. I forced my shoulders to relax, my hands to unclench, my mouth to soften.
At least keeping my pent-up fury in check kept me from staring at my hot-as-fuck husband.
Who knew the buzzard could clean up to… this.
His choppy, unruly hair was slicked back into a sedate tail, showcasing those strong features and flame-filled blue eyes. The tailored suit clung to his wide shoulders and accentuated his trim waist. And those pants… the way they showcased those powerful thighs was simply criminal.
Just my luck, I was behind him, and his strong, perfect ass was right there.
If I was going to die, at least I’d go out with a great view.
Marcello sat in the central seat, beneath the intricately carved wolf of the Dominicos, studying us over his steepled fingers. Gabriel stood at his right, jaw hard, immaculate in head-to-toe black, the perfect consigliere—his neutral gaze cataloguing everyone in the room.
Not so much as a hint of recognition when his eyes drifted over me, not even a disappointed pinch to his mouth. Obviously, he was relieved to have dodged the marriage bullet.
I tried to ignore how hard my stomach dropped, telling myself it was not disappointment.
To their left, Severin Draconi lounged in his chair, the serpent sigil of the Brotherhood burned into the high-backed chair. Nico stood behind him, arms crossed, expression unreadable. A far cry from the male who’d made a bloody finger-heart to his friend just a few days ago.
Next was Emilia DiSangue.
In her signature red silk, the priestess was a mix of elegance and danger, braided black hair sparkling with rubies. The back of her chair—no surprise—was carved with a coiled serpent, and only one son was present today, Vincenzo, his smile pointed and sharp.
On their other side, Rocco Demente slouched in his chair like a bored emperor beneath a pair of carved ravens.
Big and brutal, with rings on every finger and a scar slashing up one cheek and over a milky white eye, his cane rested against one knee, the only sign of weakness.
He was backed by his soldier, Bruno, an immovable wall of muscle.
Something sad and sweet moved through me at Luca, fidgeting in the high-backed chair carved with the DiRavello crest—two swans and a rose. Uncle Gio hovered in the shadows—hands folded, expression thoughtful, a viper in a monk’s habit.
All five Pentarch heads. All looking at Dante. And me.
None of them friends.
And our lives lay in their hands.
“Dante Dominico.” Emilia DiSangue broke the silence, her rich voice smooth and cultured, with just enough iron underneath to know you were in the presence of a true Ancient. “You know why you are here.”
Like always, something in her voice commanded me to obey—basic vampire blood hierarchy wreaking havoc on my free will. The stronger you were, the better you could withstand these urges, but the only way to truly get around the compulsion was to grow old.
Then you could be the one making everyone around you kneel.
“Because my father’s pride was bruised, and he needs an audience to make his complaint legitimate.” Dante’s tone was breezy, with all the seriousness of someone who didn’t give two shits about today’s outcome.
Marcello’s teeth ground together hard enough for everyone to hear.
“Because you have committed acts of treason,” Severin Draconi corrected. “And because the Dynasty cannot afford cracks in its foundation.”
“Do list my sins properly, then,” Dante offered the council a lazy smile. “For the record.”
Marcello’s gaze snapped to him, “You abandoned your family,” he hissed. “Refused to execute enemies of the Dynasty. Defied a direct order from your Don. Lied to protect an accomplice. You deserted your post. You threw away the title of heir. You don’t deserve the name Dominico.”
“That’s a long list. Are you sure you want to do this, Father?” Dante flicked an invisible piece of lint off his sleeve. When Marcello just glared, he sighed. “Fine, then. You, as Don, requested an unsanctioned killing of a family head out of spite.” He leveled a look directly at Emilia DiSangue.
“When I refused your order and tried to protect my brother from your resulting rampage, you threw me into the fighting pits and erased my name from the family rolls. The Fossa,” he said, conversationally, “is every bit as inhumane and depraved as you have heard, and more. I adapted. I survived, and now I am here to reclaim my inheritance.”
While nothing about him showed his anger, I noticed the way his voice dropped an octave, the bright sheen in his wild blue eyes, and the way his entire body was telegraphing violence.
Not one of them saw the truth.
How close they were to danger.
“You survived for five decades,” Rocco put in, sounding almost approving at Dante’s suffering. “I’ve heard the stories. Il Lupo Solitario, the Lone Wolf, they called you. The one who wouldn’t die. My spies are the best.” He looked up and down the table with a satisfied smile.
I shivered. Approval from Rocco was never a good thing, and to treat Dante’s pain—his scars—like some sort of victory made me detest the old bastard even more than I already did.
“Flattering stories.” Dante dipped his head. “But thank you for the vote of confidence, Signore Demente.”
Emilia arched her brow. “These are serious accusations, Signore Dominico. But let us discuss last night, when you broke a truce forged between Marcello and Giovanni.” She tapped a pointed red nail on the table.
“You invoked an unsanctioned ward, imprisoned one of my priests and forced him to perform a ceremony without his consent, then bonded yourself to the DiRavello female heir.”
My fingers tightened at my sides. I have a fucking name. Use it.
Luca’s mouth twitched, his eyes sliding to mine. Keep your temper in check, sister, this is only the beginning.
Several pairs of eyes were already on me, curious, as if wondering why I was here at all. I kept my expression carefully blank, my head held high, mulling over Rocco’s words.
Il Lupo Solitario.
The Lone Wolf. Not a common nickname for a pit fighter. Which meant whoever ran The Fossa knew Dante was Marcello’s son.
I filed that information away for later.
“You risked destabilizing the entire Dynasty with your antics,” Severin added. “We cannot allow such… disruptions to occur without consequences. You must be made an example.”
Dante’s mouth curved. “An example of what, exactly?” he asked, “No guards were permanently harmed. Here you all are. Very much still in power. Very much still breathing and sitting in your golden thrones. Nothing in your plush, privileged world has changed.”
“Explain your actions, then,” Emilia instructed.
He rubbed his jaw, completely at ease in the face of five people who could order his death.
“The DiRavello-Dominico alliance was sealed a century ago. As the Dominico heir, I had just come of age when Marcello and Enzo had me swear a blood oath, exchanging Dominico protection for my future marriage to the eldest DiRavello daughter.”
Emilia turned the full force of her gaze on me, and that ancient compulsion hit me full force, my knees weakening, spine softening. A weaker female might have knelt, but I was not weak. I raised my chin and met her glare with a smile cold enough to freeze every fucking canal in Venice.
Our stares locked, and she looked away first.
That’s right. I might be a DiRavello, but I’m no pushover.