Page 59 of His Eternal Claim

White jasmine drapes over the cathedral arches in thick, winding strands, climbing ancient stone and curling around every gold candle stand like something alive. The scent is heavy in the air… sweet enough to suffocate.

Sunlight pours through stained-glass windows and spills over marble floors in fractured colours.

Saints stare down from painted ceilings. Priests murmur.

Servants rush.

And everywhere, flowers, candles, and silk ribbons.

Preparations for a wedding.

I would rather burn to the ground.

A florist nearly collides with me, and the damned man freezes. Looks up and regrets being born. “My apologies, sir.”

I smile politely.

He turns around and disappears so quickly that he almost loses a shoe.

Smart man.

My ceremony.

Crystella Novak, Ronan’s precious daughter.

She’s beautiful and elegant, sharp enough to slit a throat and smile while doing it. A perfectly acceptable bride.

Under different circumstances, I might’ve appreciated her. Under current circumstances, I’d rather marry a loaded gun. I adjust my cufflinks and stare up at the altar.

Ronan stands there with priests, discussing floral placement like he isn’t currently walking around with a death sentence hanging over his neck.

Three hours. That’s all he has left. He just doesn’t know it yet.

And I don’t know what the aftermath holds. I’ve kept my men outside Visconti’s partially burned house, the one Hannah set on fire—I have since learned—to paint me as a villain in her daughter’s eyes. And her plan worked, to some extent though. After I’m done killing Ronan and Vane in the process, because the bastard’s been poking me, I’ll make her daughter the daughter-in-law of the Vitales.

But there is a variable in my numerical equation.

My jaw tightens. And like a curse, Judas Romanovski’s voice returns. From earlier this week. Massimo’s brilliant little arrangement.

One manipulative bastard inviting two violent men to dinner and pretending diplomacy.

I can still see Judas leaning back in his chair, looking far too entertained.

“The throne is yours for now.”

Cold blue eyes. Annoyingly calm.

“Claim and immunity. Limited time only.”

I’d known that already. The Vitale claim came with restrictions. Temporary authority. Temporary protection. Temporary everything.

Enough power to make kings nervous. But enough leash for them to yank when convenient.

That infuriating bastard.

“And your children won’t inherit it.”

That part hadn’t bothered me. Empires shift. I’d also prefer if my children stay away from this whole ordeal. I want a normal life, without bloodshed, and with my Dolcezza.