I inhaled slowly, forcing the memory back where it belonged.
Buried.
Before me, Ottavio Orsini knelt in the dirt.
My father.
The name alone should have meant power. Authority. Protection.
Instead, it tasted like rot.
His wrists were bound tightly behind him, plastic biting into flesh. The duct tape across his mouth had begun to peel at the edges, damp from his uneven breathing.
He struggled against it, producing broken, muffled sounds—half-words, half animal panic.
Pathetic.
His eyes flicked up to meet mine. I saw it all there. Fear. Denial.
He still didn’t understand.
Even now.
Even here.
A bitter, humorless smile ghosted across my lips.
Today was meant to be my wedding day. But it was also the day of his reckoning.
Behind me, far down the slope, my men waited.
Engines idling. Radios silent. They knew better than to interrupt this. Some things a man had to finish alone.
In Bergamo, the church would be full by now.
Gold candles flickering against marble walls. Soft music filling the air. Guests whispering behind gloved hands, exchanging knowing glances.
The Orsini heir is finally settling down.
About time.
Power like that needs stability.
I could almost hear it.
The polite lies.
The quiet expectations.
The bride—beautiful, poised, chosen for all the right reasons—would be standing at the altar, her fingers curled around a bouquet she no longer felt.
Waiting. Wondering.
Humiliated.
Let them all wait.
Let them all learn what it meant to tie themselves to a man like me.
