Page 12 of His Eternal Claim

“You’ll get used to them. This is your home now, Stina. A place where that monster can never touch you again.”

I nod, leaning into her touch even as my skin crawls. I know it’s absurd. This is my Mother. She died, and she came back for me. She is the only thing I have left in a world that Zagreus Vitale turned to ash.

But as I watch her meticulously peel a peach, her movements look too perfect—rehearsed, though I don’t want to use this word. The fog isn’t just in the medicine. It’s in this room. It’s in her voice.

And for the first time since I woke up in this gilded cage, I don’t want to forget. I want to remember exactly why I’m so afraid of the woman who claims to love me. And everything she has told me—why does it lose its essence every time I see her?

Because I thought escaping Zagreus would give me peace, a home, and a life. But why does it look like the same leash but a different collar?

Chapter 6

Hunger

THE MAESTRO | Past

The champagne tastes like fucking vinegar in my mouth as I swirl the flute, watching the bubbles rise and die against the glass, much like the pathetic aspirations of the men currently filling the ballroom. On paper, tonight is a charity gala, a flawless, tax-deductible façade to fund a new wing for a downtown orphanage. George Visconti financed the entire circus, ensuring the high-society papers had enough photographs to keep the feds looking the other way.

In reality, it is a trade market.

“The eastern routes are compromised,” Vane Davenport grunts. He doesn’t bother looking at me. “If the Vitale name can’t secure the docks in the north, we start losing millions before the winter cargo even ships. Your Father understood that, Zagreus. I hope to God you do too.”

“My Father is currently not here, Vane,” I say with the same coldness. “And the northern docks are exactly where I want them to be. Secure your own perimeter before you start auditing mine.”

Vane’s jaw tightens. He hates me. He hates the fact that despite his decades of bloodshed, the crown of the Cosa Nostra is sliding toward a twenty-three-year-old who refuses to kiss his ring. He wants the title of Capo dei Capi to belong to his son.

“Careful, boy,” Vane hisses, leaning in, the stench of his cologne thick enough to choke a horse. “The position of Supreme Head requires votes. It requires trust. You haven’t earned the right to look down your nose at the men who built the very table you’re trying to sit at.”

“The table is rotten,” I murmur, taking a slow sip of the sour wine. “Perhaps it’s time to burn it.”

Beside him, Ronan Novak chuckles, though his dark eyes remain cold. Ronan is a strategist, a man who keeps his hands clean while his soldiers do the butchering. To his left sits old Ricci, looking like a corpse that has been dressed in a bespoke tuxedo. Beside Ricci stands his wife, Isadora Ricci, the black sheep of her family, the woman who married Ricci because she fell in love with him and her Father disowned her. She’s also a valuable asset. A victim of abuse who has hired two men to kill her husband.

Which means Ricci is not going to survive for long.

Now, I’ve only two men to deal with.

The title of Capo dei Capi is within my reach. The position gives a man power that dictates who lives and who bleeds across three continents. What man doesn’t want that? I love the weight of it as much as I loathe the theater required to get it. It binds me to duty. It demands honor and loyalty, two things I have absolutely no intention of offering any of the bastards standing in this room.

My plan was simple: get the votes, secure the seat, and then kill them all.

They are monsters born from monster Fathers. They will not understand that whatever I am doing is for the greater good.

The political chessboard is already set for the summer. Vane Davenport will officially retire, stepping down to let Adrian take his place as head of the Davenport clan. Ricci is old; the cancer in his lungs will ensure he’s buried before the autumn leaves fall—or his wife will see to it. By the laws of the old Cosa Nostra, Ricci’s daughter will marry Adrian to consolidate the southern territory.

And Ronan Novak’s daughter, Crystella, is supposed to be my bride.

At least, that is the arrangement they have all agreed upon. I need their trust tonight. I cannot risk the title going to Adrian. If that arrogant, short-sighted prick takes the seat, the entire Cosa Nostra will go south within six months.

A familiar laugh echoes from the terrace doors.

My gaze drifts, tracking the sound until it settles on the one variable I haven’t calculated into my ledger.

Selene Visconti.

She looks beautifully mine. She is wearing a soft, emerald silk gown that drapes over her curves in contrast to the dark, tailored suits surrounding her. Detached from the violence that finances the air she breathes. I don’t blame my little troublemaker for being here. She is kind, fragile, and possesses the tragic flaw of trusting everyone too easily. She doesn’t see the wolves because she has never been taught that the forest is dangerous.

Who I don’t trust is the man currently leaning into her space. Adrian Davenport stands a mere inch away from her, a smug, punchable smirk across his face as he swirls a glass of bourbon. He is flirting with her, making the skin across my knuckles stretch tight.

She’s on the radar. Her Father is making the situation terrible for everyone. The man is desperate. He’s trying to buy a seat at the table he doesn’t belong to. He needs power, and he’s willing to use his daughter as currency if it gets him a vote.