Five ornate, gilded chairs ringed the table, one for each family head, each marked with their symbol—wolf and swan, serpent, raven, and dragon.
Dressed in a sedate green dress, with enough knives hidden on my person to outfit a small army, I stood behind Dante’s right shoulder, where agoodwife was supposed to stand. I hated the symbolism. I hated this godsdamned room. I hated even more how I was put on display like a pretty prop.
The stolen bride, passed from one brother to another.
I tumbled downthatrabbit hole of helpless fury before I reminded myself that being on display had its advantages. I forced my shoulders to relax, my hands to unclench, my mouth to soften.
At least keeping my pent-up fury in check kept me from staring at my hot-as-fuck husband.
Who knew the buzzard could clean up to…this.
His choppy, unruly hair was slicked back into a sedate tail, showcasing those strong features and flame-filled blue eyes. The tailored suit clung to his wide shoulders and accentuated his trim waist. And those pants… the way they showcased those powerful thighs was simply criminal.
Just my luck, I was behind him, and his strong, perfect ass wasright there.
If I was going to die, at least I’d go out with a great view.
Marcello sat in the central seat, beneath the intricately carved wolf of the Dominicos, studying us over his steepled fingers. Gabriel stood at his right, jaw hard, immaculate in head-to-toe black, the perfect consigliere—his neutral gaze cataloguing everyone in the room.
Not so much as a hint of recognition when his eyes drifted over me, not even a disappointed pinch to his mouth.Obviously, he was relieved to have dodged the marriage bullet.
I tried to ignore how hard my stomach dropped, telling myself it wasnotdisappointment.
To their left, Severin Draconi lounged in his chair, the serpent sigil of the Brotherhood burned into the high-backed chair. Nico stood behind him, arms crossed, expression unreadable. A far cry from the male who’d made a bloody finger-heart to his friend just a few days ago.
Next was Emilia DiSangue.
In her signature red silk, the priestess was a mix of elegance and danger, braided black hair sparkling with rubies. The back of her chair—no surprise—was carved with a coiled serpent, and only one son was present today, Vincenzo, his smile pointed and sharp.
On their other side, Rocco Demente slouched in his chair like a bored emperor beneath a pair of carved ravens. Big and brutal, with rings on every finger and a scar slashing up one cheek and over a milky white eye, his cane rested against one knee, the only sign of weakness. He was backed by his soldier, Bruno, an immovable wall of muscle.
Something sad and sweet moved through me at Luca, fidgeting in the high-backed chair carved with the DiRavello crest—two swans and a rose. Uncle Gio hovered in the shadows—hands folded, expression thoughtful, a viper in a monk’s habit.
All five Pentarch heads. All looking at Dante.And me.
None of them friends.
And our lives lay in their hands.
“Dante Dominico.” Emilia DiSangue broke the silence, her rich voice smooth and cultured, with just enough iron underneath to know you were in the presence of a true Ancient. “You know why you are here.”
Like always, something in her voice commanded me to obey—basic vampire blood hierarchy wreaking havoc on my free will. The stronger you were, the better you could withstand these urges, but the only way to truly get around the compulsion was to grow old.
Then you could be the one making everyone around you kneel.
“Because my father’s pride was bruised, and he needs an audience to make his complaint legitimate.” Dante’s tone was breezy, with all the seriousness of someone who didn’t give two shits about today’s outcome.
Marcello’s teeth ground together hard enough for everyone to hear.
“Because you have committed acts of treason,” Severin Draconi corrected. “And because the Dynasty cannot afford cracks in its foundation.”
“Do list my sins properly, then,” Dante offered the council a lazy smile. “For the record.”
Marcello’s gaze snapped to him, “You abandoned your family,” he hissed. “Refused to execute enemies of the Dynasty. Defied a direct order from your Don. Lied to protect an accomplice. You deserted your post. You threw away the title of heir. You don’t deserve the name Dominico.”
“That’s a long list. Are you sure you want to do this, Father?” Dante flicked an invisible piece of lint off his sleeve. When Marcello just glared, he sighed. “Fine, then. You, as Don, requested an unsanctioned killing of a family head out of spite.” He leveled a look directly at Emilia DiSangue.
“When I refused your order and tried to protectmy brotherfrom your resulting rampage, you threw me into the fighting pits and erased my name from the family rolls. TheFossa,” he said, conversationally, “is every bit as inhumaneand depraved as you have heard, and more. I adapted. I survived, and now I am here to reclaim my inheritance.”
