His words washed over me, old phrases plucked from ancient pagan rituals, a smattering of Latin, a mixture of ahundred different ceremonies from the two thousand years our species had existed. I let them slide past, focusing instead on the faint scar beside Gabriel’s brilliant blue eye, the subtle tic in his cheek every time someone in the audience shifted position.
The priest pulled out a silver blade, and my body tensed. One cut, a few more words, and this would be final. My life as a DiRavello would be over, and my quest to bring down an empire would begin.
“You’re trembling,” Gabriel frowned as the priest turned his back on us and spoke to the crowd, the knife held over his head. “This will be over soon, and you have no need to fear me, Emberline.” He was trying to sound calming, and there was real warmth in his eyes when he added, “This isn’t a prison sentence, Emberline. I take my responsibilities seriously, including keeping you safe.”
“I know.” My palm was sweating where it was clasped in his hand. All I could think of was those fucking white sheets and what came after this ceremony, the wicked delight in Rina’s eyes. I wasn’t worried about their catty accusations; I was worried about how I was going to…
Boom.
The doors blew inward, an explosion of sound that hollowed out my ears.
A sweep of rain-drenched cold flooded the chapel, extinguishing candles and conversation, leaving the priest frozen in place, hands above his head.
One hinge ripped out of the stone and skittered across the stone floor. The heavy wood slammed against the walls hard enough, a chunk of plaster crashed down, vases of flowers shattering across the floor.
A lone figure stood in the opening, backlit by driving rain and flashes of lightning.
Every shadow seemed to draw toward him, darkness unfurling from the corners of the room, creeping across the floor. No one moved except Gabriel, shifting in front of me, shoving me back, but everyone else was locked in place, blank faces staring.
Outlined by the storm, the stranger stepped inside like a conquering king.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wild, dark hair curled from the rain, sluicing water down his stained leather coat, hanging open over a black shirt that clung to a powerful body built for brutality—scarred knuckles, corded forearms, the faint gleam of ink disappearing under his collar.
The stranger looked like he’d been thrown into the pits and crawled out of them a hundred times over, spat out the blood, then gone back for more.
I’d never seen anything like this male. Never had anyone affected me like he did, like a physical punch to the gut, and something shifted inside, from nervous fear to reckless excitement.
Suddenly, everyone was scrambling for the exits. Nico was shoving his way toward us through the panicked audience, while Gabriel’s hand tightened on my arm.
Don Marcello shot to his feet, screaming, “Intruder.How did you get past our wards?” His deep voice cracked like a whip through the chaos as he motioned his soldiers into action.
“Take him down, don’t let him leave the island alive.”
Like he hadn’t just been marked for death, the stranger’s gaze slid over the room, taking in the armed guards, the black-robed priest, Gabriel…me.
I still hadn’t gotten a good look at his shadowed face, but his mouth curved up in an evil smile, fangs flashing as the full weight of his scrutiny settled firmly on me before hisdark gaze moved to Don Marcello, that vicious smile growing crueler.
“Miss me,Padre?” he drawled.
The word rocked the room like another explosion, vampires stopping, turning, gripping the backs of chairs for support. Someone in the crowd uttered an ancient plea for protection. Another hissed out a curse.
No. Not someone.Nico.
He was trapped in the center of the chaos, roughly pushing vampires out of his way, trying to reach the Don, to reach Gabriel, eyes so wide, I saw the whites around them. Then he went stock-still, a knife gripped in one hand, a gun in the other, shock replacing his carefully neutral mask.
“Dante,” Nico whispered.
Gabriel’s fingers slipped from my arm, breaking the spell that held me in its grip as the name echoed through the room, whispered on a dozen shocked tongues.
Dante. Dante. Dante.
The lost son.
The disgrace to the Dominico honor. The heir turned traitor, declaredIl Bando di Sangue—cast out by his own blood, sent off to die in disgrace. Gone for fifty years, Dante Dominico had become a cautionary tale—Don’t cross Marcello, or he’ll do to you what he did to his eldest.
My blood ran cold.
“That’s impossible,” someone muttered. “Marcello declared himbandire.He isdeadto this family.Dead,” the male called out thinly, his voice cracking with fear.
