My pulse thunders against my ribs.
Something inside resets.Something deeper accepts the imprint.Something in the wall… recognizes me.
But the door doesn’t open.
Instead, something falls.
A scrap of parchment slips from the shifting gears, fluttering downward like a dead leaf. I snatch it before it touches stone.
It’s dry. Brittle. Old—older than Giovanni’s reign.
I lift it closer to the lantern.
The handwriting hits me like a blade.
Sharp.Angled.Pressed onto the page with furious pressure.
Giovanni’s.
There’s no mistaking the slanted script of a man who wrote like the world was failing him.
My breath catches.
This isn’t a ledger.Not a confession.Not instructions.
It’s a warning.
Four words carved into parchment so hard the quill nearly tore through:
NOT FOR RIVAS BLOOD.
My heart stops.
Cold sweeps down my spine so fast I almost drop the lantern.
Not for Rivas blood.
Not Santino.Not Romeo.Not Dante nor Guido.Not even Giovanni himself.
This door — this vault — this secret — was never meant for any of them.
My fingers tremble as I read the words again, pulse pounding in my ears.
Not for Rivas blood.
Then who the hell was this made for?
Why did Giovanni build a vault that his lineage could not touch? Why not destroy the entrance entirely instead of leaving breadcrumbs hidden deep beneath holy ground?
Unless…
Unless the secret inside destroyed my father.Unless Giovanni feared his own sons would use it.Unless someone in the Rivas line had already betrayed him long before my father died.
Pressure builds under my sternum—fear twisting into vindication, into something darker, hotter.
My father wasn’t paranoid.He wasn’t lying.He wasn’t delusional.
He was right to fear the Rivas.
