My stomach drops.
“Bruno,” I try again, but he already has my arm twisted behind my back. “Let me go!” I shove backward with everything I have, hit him square in the chest with my heel, but the grip doesn’t loosen. Another man grabs my other arm. The movement is clean and efficient.
This isn’t punishment. It’s a delivery.
I realize what’s happening before anyone says it. I’ve heard the rumors. Everyone has. Romano’s funeral, the talk in the bars, the insane demand that spread through the underworld like a bad joke:Send me your youngest son. Wrapped in a red silk bow.
At the time, I laughed like everyone else. Thought it was a story the cops made up to sell fear. But the ribbon in Nico’s hand says otherwise.
“You’re not serious,” I choke out. “He—he can’t?—”
Bruno doesn’t respond. He just pushes me toward the door. My shoulder hits the frame hard enough to spark pain down my arm.
“Stop fighting,” he says. “Don’t make it worse.”
Worse. The word sticks. There’s always a worse when it comes to my father.
The hallway outside is full of people pretending not to watch. Maids with their heads bowed, one of my cousins frozen halfway down the stairs, mouth open. The air smells like cologne and fear.
I dig my heels into the carpet. “Where is he? I want to talk to him.”
“Downstairs,” Bruno says. “Move.”
The staircase is cold under my bare feet. I can hear voices in the study before I see anyone—my father’s low and calm, the tone he uses when he’s already decided something.
When they shove me through the door, the room falls silent.
My father stands behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back. The fireplace throws light on his face, picking out the lines that have been carved deeper this year—grief, maybe, or guilt, though I doubt it’s the second. He’s still wearing black from the funeral two days ago.
“Elias,” he says like my name is a formality, like he’s checking me off a list.
“What the hell is this?” My voice cracks. “You’re giving me away?”
His gaze doesn’t move. “It’s necessary.”
“Necessary?” I laugh, sharp and ugly. “You’re sending me to the man who killed Grandfather, who’s been gutting our business since the funeral, because—what—because you’re scared?”
He doesn’t flinch. That’s what makes it worse.
“This is peace,” he says. “A gesture to end blood before it spills.”
“I’m not a gesture.”
He sighs, long and tired, like I’m a child who just won’t learn. “You’ll be treated well if you behave.”
Something in me snaps. I lunge for him. Bruno’s ready; he catches me before I reach the desk. I get one good swing in—myfist catches the edge of the lamp, sends it crashing to the floor, but then a hand grabs my hair and wrenches me backward.
“Stop!” my father snaps, sharper now. “You’ll go, Elias. You’ll go because you’re my son, and this family needs to live another day.”
I spit the taste of dust out of my mouth. “No.Youneed to live another day. You want me gone, fine—disown me. But I’m not bowing to him.”
Bruno forces me down until I’m kneeling. The humiliation burns hotter than the fire behind me. I look up at my father, at the man who used to tell me bedtime stories about loyalty, and realize he doesn’t see me anymore. He sees an offering.
He nods to Nico. “Do it.”
The ribbon comes out, bright red against his black gloves. I jerk away, but they’re stronger. The silk slides around my throat, smooth, obscene, and tied in a bow I can feel against my skin. I hate that it’s soft. I hate that it smells faintly of perfume.
“Take him,” my father says.
