Her eyes searched my face, as though she was weighing the worth of that single syllable.
“Good,” she nodded. “I can live with that.”
A knock sounded on the door, sharp and authoritative, echoing through the ward. My father’s aura pressed at the edges of the room a heartbeat later, ancient and heavy, followed by a second, more familiar presence—Nico’s quicksilver magic, coiled and ready, then Severin’s, tainted with repressed fury.
Emberline didn’t flinch.
I faced the door, the last threads of our conversation still tangled around my throat.
This should have been simple. Instead, I’d locked myself in a room with a viper and promised, out loud, that if my father was guilty, I wouldn’t save him.
“Time’s up,piccola.” I forced my voice back to neutral as I dropped the wards. “Let’s see if your faith in the law is as strong as your belief in my father’s guilt.”
“And if your faith in the truth,” she countered quietly, “is as strong asyourbelief in Marcello’s innocence.”
13
EMBERLINE
I’d been so close, and I’d hesitated.
There had been a quiet resignation in Don Marcello’s eyes I hadn’t expected when he’d looked between the knife in my hand and my face, as if he knew death was coming and welcomed it.
But in the end, I was the one who fucked up.
Me.
And now it was too late, and I was committed—whether I wanted to be or not—to Uncle Gio’s plan. If I didn’t die in this room first.
I smoothed my skirt down, my hands trembling, not because of what was coming but because of Gabriel Dominico. Because of these strange feelings he’d stirred up inside me. Because he was too handsome and too intense and too…everything.
And he wasn’t just a pretty face; he wasattractive.
Gentle, in how he’d bound up my hand, that strong jaw clenching every time he’d run the cloth over my skin. The way his nose flared, like he was… hungry. The way he smelled, rich and powerful andgood, with a hint of spicy smoke.
He confused me, and I needed a clear head right now.
I couldn’t go mooning over the first good-looking male who wasnice, especially since I was going to kill him in the end. Right after I dealt with his father.
The Rite of Arbitration was a long, drawn-out affair, but at its core, the Rite was a tool for justified vengeance. Whoever won the judgment named the punishment, and I already knew what I would claim.
The Don’s life would become forfeit, by my hand, and when I was finished, his death wouldn’t be murder, it would be justice in the eyes of the entire Dynasty—even by our strict laws.
An execution with no lasting ramifications.
But… I couldn’t stop doubt from creeping up and infecting my every thought.
Poisoning my clear, well-laid plans of vengeance.
My father hadn’t been friends with Marcello. They’d shared an icy relationship my entire life, and I’d never seen the two of them exchange more than the required pleasantries, but Enzo had never—not once—mentioned their feud.
Everything I knew about their rivalry I’d gleaned from Giovanni. From hints, rumors, and a few whispered stories from their reckless youth, he’d painted a clear, concise picture of centuries of bitterness and pent-up hostility.
Survive the next hour, then you’ll have plenty of time to stew over how you got into this mess, I told myself, because rationally, my chances were not good.
Now, when Severin prowled in, his expression promised death—and I doubted the grizzled Grim Reaper would break a sweat over killing me since he was already pissed he hadn’t viewed me as a threat in the first place.
Wounded pride and all that.
