No, this was all wrong;the herald had made a mistake.
Our family—by ancient tradition—swore the oath last. Then the Don clapped his hands, announced the conclusion of the Blood Compact for another ten years, and we all went and drank and fucked ourselves blind.
Marcello rose slowly from the marble seat, pulling his knife from his belt, the same gold knife he’d used at over fifty of these ceremonies. His voice, when he spoke, was softer—but infinitely more dangerous than I’d ever heard it.
“I, Marcello Dominico,” he stated, “Don of the D’Immortali Dynasty, head of the Dominico family, swear my life and line to the protection of Venice and our kind. I swear touphold the Compact, to judge rightly, to punish betrayal without mercy. I swear to guard this city until my last breath, my last drop of blood, my last heir falls.”
Blood fell, the dark stone hissed, the runes flared.
And his magic… dark, consuming power swept across the room, over the crowd, pulling hair free from elaborate headdresses, knocking vampires back a step, a few unsuspecting members going to their knees. The wave passed through me like a physical thing, as if I couldfeela cold, sharp scythe severing bone and sinew and organs.
The crowd below made a mournful sound—something between a groan and a curse.
No, this wasn’t right; Father never partook in this. The Don didn’t swear fealty to himself. This was wrong, so wrong.
Was Marcello confused?
Was he having one of his moments? Gods, we had to cut this short and get him out of here.
I was trying to make sense of this change, searching the edges of the crowd for Nico when Marcello tipped his head. Looked straight at me. My heart kicked, slamming against my ribs.
“Gabriel,” he announced loudly, and the weight of five hundred pairs of eyes landed on me at once. “My son. The futureheirof this Dynasty. Come stand by my side.” The words hit me like a blow and an invitation both, sending my heart hammering faster.
I didn’t think. I moved.
I dematerialized from the balcony to my father’s side, the sea of faces blurring as I stared out over their heads, the hiss of expensive silk and whispering gossip filling the chamber.
Now watch, my son.Marcello’s rough voice echoed inside my head. Watch what happens when jealousy is allowed to fester for too long. See what poison truly looks like. It takes amonster to twist something beautiful into a weapon filled with hate.
Boom,boom, boom. The steward stepped back. “The DiRavello Court shall now swear fealty to the Dynasty.”
Giovanni DiRavello scurried to the bottom of the dais, unassuming in his plain Franciscan habit, the corded belt symbolizing his vow of poverty, quite a statement, given he belonged to the wealthiest family in Venice.
He didn’t look like a threat, but every one of my instincts was raw and alert, ready to throw myself between him and my sire.
Giovanni inclined his head. “Don Marcello,” he pitched his voice perfectly, adding just the right amount of deference in his tone.
“Giovanni.” My father’s reply held an edge. “Your blood.”
“I shall be honored, Don, to pay my tithe and swear my loyalty, but Luca is the head of the family now. He should be the first to bleed for you, as is proper.”
My father didn’t look at all surprised by the affront; he simply beckoned the young male up.
This was the first time I’d gotten a good look at the boy. He was only thirty, too young—in vampire years—to take over an empire. But the male was good looking, like some crusading knight of old, with sculpted features and aristocratic bearing, gliding effortlessly up the steps, and offering my father a half-bow before lifting his head.
Jealousy hit me out of nowhere.
He looked like his father, and in his eyes, I saw the innocent I never got the chance to be.
Raw honesty, a hint of curiosity, sincere respect for my father, along with enough wide-eyed awe to stoke Marcello’s ego. In other words, he was fucking perfect.
“Take the knife and swear the oath,” Marcello commanded, but there was a hint of something in his voice I couldn’t quite place. Amusement, maybe. Luca was so young. Obviously untried, yet expected to hold his own against vampires twenty times his age, with a hundred times the cunning and experience.
I almost felt sorry for him.
Although… he commanded himself well. Without hesitation, he sliced the blade across the meat of his palm. Bright crimson welled instantly before he tipped his hand over the Basin.
The moment the first drop hit the stone, the runes around the rim flared, absorbing the blood with a sizzle of fresh, potent power. The faint scent of ozone prickled the air. No flash of power—he was too young—more like a preview of what he might become.
