One by one, the Italian families file into the hall. I recognize the faces—some from childhood, some from backroom meetings in darker times. They nod to me and Raf. A few give Miko cautious looks, because even though he’s our brother, he’s also Bratva now.
The crowd shifts, the hum of conversation dying as Leo and Gio step through the arched doorway, unofficially calling the ceremony to order.
It’s the first time all five of us have been in the same room since my wedding day.
Leo looks softer than he used to—not in his body, but in his face. His suit’s still sharp, but there’s a calm in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Sora walks beside him, glowing, her hand restingprotectively over her swelling stomach, which has grown quite a bit since I saw her last.
Gio follows, his arm around Stephanie, their son, Jackson staying close to his mother’s side. She’s radiant too—another life growing, another new beginning, though she’s still too early in the pregnancy for it to show. For a fleeting moment, the grief that’s been anchored in my chest eases as they make their way to Raf, who’s standing before the old family crest that Evi somehow restored and hung above the fireplace. It’s not just a symbol. It’s a statement. The Chiaroscuros are still here.
Leo’s the first to reach him. He clasps Raf’s shoulder firmly, looking him dead in the eye. “You’ve earned this, brother,” he says, his voice steady but full of emotion. “You haven’t given up on our family. And you’ve taken up the command like you were born to it. Father would be proud.”
It’s a formal acknowledgment, meant for our gathered audience, and it hides the true feelings I know my oldest brother had for our father. But he hides it well. And I can only hope my permanent scowl does the same.
Because my emotions when people talk about our father have always been… complicated. Only more so now that he’s dead and gone. I respect him with every bone in my body, can be grateful for the man he shaped me into. But just like the rest of my brothers, our relationship wasn’t easy. And I shove down the looming guilt, pain, and resentment as I stand at my twin’s right shoulder, ready to support Raf in whatever way he needs.
Raf doesn’t answer Leo right away, and though all I can see is his profile, I recognize the tension in his jaw, the way he’s holding himself together. “We all did what we had to,” he says finally. “But thank you, Leo.”
Gio steps forward next, his grin easy, but his voice rough when he says, “You’re the Don now. Don’t let it go to your head.”
Raf snorts, pulling him into a brief hug that turns into one of those brotherly half-punches to the shoulder. The crowd chuckles quietly, the tension breaking just enough for everyone to breathe.
And then Miko steps up, Anika standing regally at his side, showcasing the pinnacle of Russian beauty as the ghost of a baby bump shapes the layers of her shimmering gray-sky empire-waist gown.
Unlike my other brothers, Miko doesn’t wear a smile. He’s serious, his movements deliberate, his presence commanding in that quiet, dangerous way of his. His sharp blue eyes scan the room, their color—so different from our Chiaroscuro eyes—a visible reminder of who he is and what he represents.
He looks out over the gathered men before turning back to Raf. “I speak tonight not just as your brother, but on behalf of the Novikov Bratva.” His deep voice is steady, his words laced with gravity. “The alliance between our families stands,” Miko continues. “The Chiaroscuros gave me a name, a home, and a purpose. My blood may be Russian, but my loyalty”—he glances at Raf, then sweeps his gaze across the room—“is Italian. From this night forward, the Novikovs stand as brothers-in-arms with the Chiaroscuros. Our enemies will be your enemies. Your fight will be ours.”
A murmur ripples through the hall. It’s not every day the Bratva swears loyalty to an Italian Don. But no one questions it—not when Miko says it like that.
Raf nods once, slow and deliberate. “Then let tonight be the start of a new era,” he says. “One where our families stand together, stronger than ever.”
The applause that follows is thunderous.
Then comes the parade of patriarchs. One by one, the heads of the old Italian families approach the dais where Raf stands.
Evi’s parents are at the front of the line, their place in our ranks having been elevated exponentially, thanks to our union.
Her father, Matteo Lombardi, walks tall, his expression carefully composed in that way of his I’ve always found abrasive—but then, I much prefer blunt force to tactical interaction. And I suppose, for once, I can be grateful for his persistence. Because that is what brought me Evi.
Her mother, Maria, follows a step behind her husband, her eyes darting everywhere except toward her daughter. They’re dressed impeccably, of course—Maria in pale-green silk, Matteo in a perfectly tailored suit—but something about them feels cold, out of sync with the warmth Evi has imbued into the room and this occasion.
When they reach Raf, Matteo inclines his head. “On behalf of the Lombardi family,” he says, “we pledge our loyalty to Don Chiaroscuro. May your reign bring stability and prosperity to our people.”
He offers Raf a crystal decanter filled with the aged Sicilian whiskey my twin brother favors. Only my brothers know Raf’s preferences like that, and I cast a sidelong glance at Evi to find her cheeks warm, her smile slight as she watches her parents deliver the gift with silent delight.
She must have told them—no, she tracked the rare commodity down herself. I’m sure of it, now that I recall the box she seemed so secretive about when Raf and I returned home unexpectedly one day and found her passing it off to a courier. She wants them to be in Raf’s good graces, and from the way his eyes light, his interest piqued, I can only applaud her for uncovering such a thoughtful present.
“Your support means a great deal,” Raf says, keeping his tone impassive as he sets the gift aside.
Matteo nods once, offering a saccharine smile before stepping aside. His wife doesn’t speak. She just bows her head faintly and follows him away. Without a single glance in her daughter’s vicinity.
Evi stands beside me, her chin high, her face serene. But I know her well enough now to recognize the way her shoulders lift, her fingers pressing into her palm like she’s holding back her disappointment.
I don’t have long to think about it, however, before Don Pietro Mancini—a heavyset man with slicked-back gray hair and eyes like wet steel—is stepping forward to kneel before my brother. He offers Raf a silver dagger with a gold hilt, the Chiaroscuro crest engraved along the blade. “To cut away the rot,” he says. “So only strength remains.”
Raf accepts it with a nod. “I’ll use it well.”
Next is Don Lucio Romano, who brings a watch that belonged to his father. “Time favors the bold,” he says, placing it in Raf’s hand. “Make sure you don’t waste it.”
