Page 60 of His Eternal Claim

Power bends. Rules break. I can work around the law.

“One of your children will be Romanovski by law.”

That nearly got him stabbed. Massimo had laughed into his drink. Judas barely blinked.

’Cause that bastard has Russian aristocracy backing him, his other Father has German mercenaries, and his Italian Father is the backbone. If I refuse him, I am practically making enemies with three empires, four if we talk about Bianchi.

As if casually discussing future bloodlines was normal. As if he hadn’t just insulted generations of Vitales.

I’d looked him dead in the eye and spoken. Over my corpse.

He’d shrugged. “Then die young.”

Fuck him. Absolutely fuck him.

If I ever have a son—and I will—he’ll bring Romanovski’s daughter into the Vitale clan.

Judas can sell his son elsewhere. Though he’s a bachelor right now, only fucking women, I’d bet he has bastards crawling in the streets of Russia.

Honestly—considering his life expectancy—there’s a decent chance the bastard dies before any of us reach that conversation.

Who knows?

People fall down stairs. Plane crashes.

Poison exists.

Italy is full of opportunities.

I almost smile before movement near the pews stops me. And my chest turns traitor.

My eyes narrow, and rage slithers down my spine as I jerk straight.

She’s wearing a pastel blue dress, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, reaching her waist in waves I’d dreamt of running my hands through. Her hands are folded in front of her as she speaks quietly with one of the bridesmaids.

What the fuck is she doing here?

My body moves before thought catches up. I’m already stepping off the balcony, already halfway to dragging her out of this church and demanding answers, when someone clears his throat beside me.

I stop and slowly turn.

Vane Davenport stands at the edge of the balcony like he belongs there. Silver-haired. Expensively dressed.

A crystal tumbler in one hand. A smile on his face sharp enough to split skin.

My fingers curl as he follows my gaze below. And his grin widens.

“Selene Visconti,” he says thoughtfully. “Beautiful girl.”

I say nothing. Because if I open my mouth right now, I might ruin the wedding by throwing him over the railing.

He takes a sip. “I’ve decided.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“At the reception tonight…” he continues casually, “…I’ll announce her engagement to my son.”

Everything inside me goes still.