Page 28 of His Eternal Claim

The scent of her is disappearing, being replaced by the sterile, lemon-polished lie of my current existence.

Two weeks, Selene.

Two weeks of dying. I hope you’re faring better than I am.

But I know she isn’t.

We are two halves of the same wreckage, and no matter how many flowers I buy or how many ledgers I sign, the fire she started is still burning. And I have no intention of putting it out.

I reach for the phone.

The ringing doesn’t even finish its first cycle before a voice picks up, breathless and trembling with a nauseating reverence.

“Signore Vitale! An honor, a true honor. We did not expect a call so soon. We have the sketches for the Union bride’s tiara ready for your—”

“I don’t give a fuck about the tiara,” I cut him off.

The manager of L’Eclat de Rome, a man who has appraised the crown jewels of fallen monarchies, chokes on his own air. He is practically bowing through the receiver, the sound of a chair scuttling as he likely stands out of instinct.

“Of course, Signore. Forgive me. My tongue is ahead of my brain. How can we serve the House of Vitale today? Anything you desire, we will scour the earth—”

“A ring,” I interrupt. I’m looking at the city again. “The Pink Star diamond. I know you’ve been holding it in the vault for the auction in Geneva. It’s no longer for sale.”

A pause.

A long, terrified silence where the manager is likely calculating the loss of commission versus the loss of his life. He chooses correctly.

“The… the Pink Star. Fifty-nine carats of flawless vivid pink. A masterpiece, Signore. A stone like that… it requires a setting that speaks of—”

“Minimal gold,” I snap. I weave the crumpled ribbon between my fingers, the silk rasping against my calloused skin. “Prongs like claws. I want it to look like it’s being held by a beast.”

“Claws… yes. Striking. And the size, Signore? Should we use the measurements on file for the Contessa Crystella? She was in last spring for a fitting of her—”

“No.” The thought of that stone on Crystella’s finger makes me want to reach through the phone and rip the manager’s throat out. “Not for her.”

I look down at the ribbon. It’s so small. So fucking delicate. “I’m sending the measurements later,” I say, my voice dropping to a whisper that sounds like a death sentence. “If it’s off by a fraction of a millimeter, I’ll close your shop. Permanently. With you in it.”

“We will be ready, Signore. The courier will be met with a private guard. Is there… is there a deadline?”

“Sixteen days,” I say, and hang up.

I stare at the ribbon one last time before tucking it into a silk envelope. Sixteen days until the wedding. Sixteen days until I stand in a cathedral filled with the scent of a woman who isn’t there.

My Father thinks he’s bought me.

He thinks the trade is closed.

He doesn’t know I’ve spent the last two weeks not just mourning, but calculating.

The Zurich accounts are mine. The South American routes are moving. The secondary ledger is burned into my memory. I’m not just becoming the King; I’m becoming the end of the line.

I think about the wedding, the hundreds of Union and Cosa Nostra members gathered under one roof. All those “leeches,” all those men who think they can trade Selene’s soul for a shipping lane.

The Pink Star won’t be a gift. It will be a mark when I marry the woman I love.

A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. My axe will be made of lead and fire.

I’ll give them their wedding.