Page 149 of Brutal Crown
Above it all—on an elevated throne—sit the six Elders. For the first time, their faces are bare. I recognize them instantly, the same faces that looked down at me when I walked across the coals. An emotion I can’t name floods my veins. I turn away from them and fix my gaze on Francesco.
Nothing else matters—not what I’ve endured, not who is watching.
He stands there with dried blood on his palm, his gaze locked and steady as one Elder rises.
“By vote of the council,” the voice declares, “we name Francesco Romano… Keeper of the Black Hand. By your actions, and by upholding justice within the Society, you have proven yourself worthy to claim this mantle.”
I don’t breathe.
Tears sting my eyes.
He did it. He didn’t just survive—he stood in front of them and conquered.
The basin at the center of the Sanctum is lifted and carried toward the altar flame. When the blood is poured in, a sharp hiss fills the space, like the earth itself sighing.
The Reckoning is done.
I stand in the shadowed threshold, heart pounding, lungs burning.
As the final words fade through the cathedral and the families begin to disperse, Marco’s voice cuts through the air.
“There’s one more matter.”
The room stills once more.
I feel the weight of every gaze pressing toward the shadows where I stand. Marco’s hand tightens slightly on my arm. Dante stands on my other side.
“No,” I whisper under my breath. “I-I can’t?—”
“You can,” Marco says softly. “You’ve already done the hardest part. Now you need to claim what’s yours: Francesco’s heart.”
I take one step forward.
Then another.
The moment I cross into the Sanctum, a collective gasp tears through the room.
My hood still shadows my face, but it doesn’t matter.
They know it’s me.
The girl who was supposed to be dead.
I limp forward, each step burning with memory—stone, fire, smoke, blood. For a heartbeat, the weight of it all presses me down. My cloak brushes my ankles, and the urge to shrink, to vanish, claws at me.
But I remember why I’m here. What I survived. And who is watching.
I lift my chin.
My cloak no longer feels like a shroud, but a banner. I want every eye in this room to see me.
I walk until I reach the edge of the firelight, then stop.
“It can’t be…” one of the Elders hisses—Ermanno, I think—his voice dripping disbelief.
“But you died,” Giulio snaps as if the words alone could drag me back to the grave.
I lift my chin, the tremor in my body no match for the steel in my voice.
