The air was thick with a respectful silence.
Wax dripped in slow tears down the candles, smoke curling toward the carved ceiling above us.
Luca stepped forward.
“Tonight, you become bound,” he said, his voice solemn and resonant. “Not by blood alone, but by choice. By fire. By silence.”
We stood motionless in an arc around Luca as his eyes moved down the line—Lucian, Lachlan, Gabriel, Julian, and me.
He reached for the blade and lifted it from the cloth with reverence.
“You are not swearing your allegiance to a name or a flag. You are making a vow to a brotherhood that exists in the shadows. You will bleed for this family. You will kill for it. You will die for it.” His eyes flashed with a grim resolve.
“If you betray this oath, may your flesh rot before your soul even leaves your body.”
He raised the blade slightly, pointing it skyward. “Repeat after me.”
His tone dropped an octave, and the vow began.
“I swear before my brothers, before the saints, before the ghosts who came before me…”
We echoed the words together.
“…to uphold the code of silence, omertà, even to my death.”
Luca paused, inhaling deeply as we spoke the line.
“I swear to protect this family. To serve the interests of the syndicate. To never speak of its business to an outsider.”
We repeated, the air growing heavier with every line.
“I will not betray. I will not steal. I will not take what belongs to another brother—not his money, not his secrets, not his woman.
“I will take vengeance on those who wrong us. I will not falter, even in the face of death.
“You must be forged in fire to be strong like a blade,” he said, bowing his head for a moment.
Then, Luca said slowly in Latin:
“Vitam meam pro fratrum meorum dabo.
“I will give my life for my brothers,” he translated.
We echoed it together, like a prayer.
Luca turned the blade slowly in his hand.
“Now you are no longer outsiders; you are brothers.”
The room was utterly still.
Six men stood quietly—unified not by name but by the oath now etched into their souls.
Luca stepped to the side of the altar and slid open a narrow drawer tucked beneath the cloth. He rifled through its contents with slow deliberation, then paused, drew out a single card, studied the image for a moment, and placed it facedown on top of the other saint cards. He glanced my way, making it clear this one was meant for me.
Then he ran his thumb over the handle of the blade, admiring its carved relief as if it were something holy.
He turned to me. “Nikolai.”
