Page 103 of Blood Heir

The heavy doors explode open with a thunderous crack that echoes through the hall. The council of Families, seated around a massive round table, jerk back in alarm. All heads whip toward us.

At the head of the table, Vittoria freezes mid-speech, her perfectly styled hair glowing under the chandelier, her smilefaltering for a brief second—but only for a second. Her poise returns as quickly as it slipped.

“Ah…” she breathes. “The dead have arrived.”

The room is filled with Melbourne’s most powerful Dons, dressed sharply, whispers already rippling through them like a virus as they take in our disheveled state. My shirt is stained with Serevin’s blood. His jacket is half torn, his face pale but furious. And yet, we stand.

Vittoria rests one manicured hand on the table, addressing the council like we’re no more than a mild interruption. “You see, councilmen, this is exactly what I was explaining.”

Her voice drips with mockery. “This man, my poor nephew, has fallen into dangerous alliances with the Russian Bratva. We have intercepted communications, evidence of backdoor dealings. Treason, gentlemen. This is why my family—our family—requires full control of all holdings before further disgrace befalls us.”

Gasps ripple across the table as men turn toward one another, nodding, murmuring, eyes widening. I catch words as they hiss through clenched teeth:

“Russians—”

“An alliance?”

“Betrayal—”

I feel Serevin tense beside me, his chest heaving.

“Liars,” he rasps, his voice rough from pain but sharp as a blade. “You dare speak of treason while you sell us out behind closed doors?”

Vittoria lifts her chin with false grace. “Nephew. You’re barely standing.” Her eyes shift briefly to me, narrowing. “Andyou, dear child, you must be so confused. How unfortunate—he drags you into his treason as well.”

I keep my voice level, but the venom coils under every word. “No, Contessa. I see everything perfectly now.”

Vittoria’s gaze flickers—just slightly.

“Enough,” Serevin growls, staggering forward, wiping the corner of his mouth where dried blood stains his lips. His voice grows stronger with each word. “You wanted my life. You wanted hers. But you won’t have either.”

The men around the table look back and forth—between us, between Vittoria, between the truth and the story they’ve been sold.

But Vittoria—oh, she smiles like a snake.

“The evidence is strong, dear councilmen. You’ll find it convincing enough to protect yourselves from scandal, I’m sure.”

I lift my chin, my voice clear and slicing through the murmurs like a blade.

“I stand here not simply as Serevin’s wife—” I pause, letting their eyes fall on me, “—but as the legitimate daughter of Don Aurelio Accardi.”

A collective gasp breaks across the room like a wave. The councilmen shift, murmur, stiffen. I see it—doubt. Fear. Calculations beginning to churn behind their eyes.

Vittoria’s face twists, her mouth pulling into a strained smile. “Ignore this nonsense!” she snaps, waving a dismissive hand. “She’s desperate, confused, recovering from trauma. You know what she’s suffered.”

I keep my voice steady, but my heart pounds so fiercely that I wonder if they can hear it. “No, Contessa. I am not confused. Not anymore.” My eyes meet Brother Stefano’s across the table. He gives me the faintest nod, stepping forward as he produces the aged folder he’d carried here for this moment.

Brother Stefano clears his throat. “Members of the council,” he begins, his voice carrying with the weight of a man who’s kept quiet for too long, “I’ve counseled both families for decades. As Don Accardi’s confessor, I hold documents he entrusted to me long before his death.”

He opens the file slowly, placing the contents on the center of the long table with precision: a certified copy of my birth certificate.

“The child born to Don Accardi through his liaison, later adopted by Don Gaspare D'Angelis to preserve her safety during a dangerous time of internal conflict.” Stefano looks around the table, his voice never shaking. “Fioretta D’Angelis is not simply Gaspare’s adopted daughter. She is Aurelio Accardi’s blood.”

The men lean in. Whispers grow louder. I see eyes dart toward Vittoria, calculating. Recalculating.

One of the older dons—the head of the Morreti family—narrows his eyes at me. His voice is cold but curious. “You make a bold claim, child. Do you have further proof this is legitimate?”

I nod once. “Yes. I have my father's will. Signed. Witnessed.” Brother Stefano hands over the second document—another folder sliding across the table. “In that will,” I say, locking eyes with each man one by one, “he names me as a direct heir to all properties and routes inherited through the Accardi name. He feared what others might do to me once the truth emerged.”

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