Page 52 of Brutal Crown
“You really think what you had with him means something?” His voice is tight, almost mocking.
The words sting, and I grit my teeth, pushing back the surge of doubt.Does it mean something?
“You think he’ll choose you?” He scoffs, his voice a pitch higher. “You think you’re special?”
Elio’s words echo in my head—what if they were lies? What if I was being played? What if all of them are just using me for their own gain?
I grit my teeth. “I don’t give a damn what either of you thinks. I’m done.”
But my voice trembles, and we both hear it.
“You say that now. But you care. You care more than you should.”
Marco runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “He may not love Silvia, but he’ll leave you. He always does. He always chooses duty over anything else and never looks back. That’s who he is.”
His voice softens, but it doesn’t lose its edge.
“But I won’t. I won’t leave you. You’ll end up with me. You’ll see. I’ll make sure of it. And one day we can all laugh about this because you’ll look back and realize… it was always going to be me.”
Then he turns and walks out.
Even though I know he’s right, I still can’t bring myself to believe it.
I stand there for a few minutes after he’s gone. I didn’t kiss him back, but I still feel like a betrayal. The memory of Francesco still lingers—his touch, his kiss—making the space between us feel like it’s closing in.
I know I can’t forget him. Not even when Marco’s words drip like poison in my ears.
I sink to the floor, my back against the sofa, heart thudding so loud it fills the room. I’m confused. Wrung out. Torn.
I don’t know what is happening. All I know is I’m trapped in the middle of something I never asked for, and it’s tearing me apart.
14
FRANCESCO
The house doesn’t feel like mine tonight. It feels like a grave dressed in velvet.
Shadows flicker across the marble floors, cast by hundreds of candles perched in iron sconces and glass chandeliers. The air around me is thick, making my lungs feel tight. Slow, almost haunting music drifts through the corridors.
It’s not the usual celebratory jingles that are played during events like these. This isn’t a usual engagement party, after all. It’s a pact, an arrangement soaked in blood.
Outside, the guests have already started arriving, sleek black cars slithering into the estate one by one. Outsiders rarely come into the Romano estate, so seeing the pool of cars parked outside feels almost foreign to me. I watch from the upstairs landing as the masked guests emerge from their respective vehicles. Men in tailored suits and cloaks lined in crimson. Women in matching crimson dresses, with veils that shimmer like oil under moonlight.
Their faces are all covered, some with masks, some with veils. Fully covered or half-covered, there is one thing in common with every single person: All carry the mark of La Mano Nera.
Rings with the coiled serpent and dagger. Cufflinks bearing the bleeding hand. The symbol is embroidered into expensive fabric. The Society never hides what it is. Yet, even when visible, only a select few understand and recognize what the symbols signify.
Lower-class guests were allowed this time. It is a rare indulgence, approved by the Elders to settle blood debts. Some of them stare too long and linger by doors they don’t belong near. But even they know they can’t step out of line.
I descend the stairs, my arm linked with Silvia’s. She’s glowing in a long silver and crimson dress. Her pale skin is polished to perfection, her lips painted to match the garnet stone around her neck. It’s an heirloom piece she insisted on wearing “for good luck.”
I wonder if she believes in luck. If she were really lucky, this ceremony wouldn’t be happening in the first place. She wouldn’t have to marry me, and maybe her luck would make me a lucky man too.
Her features are schooled into a blank expression. I wonder what she’s thinking, if she feels the way I feel. Scared that we’re stepping into a covenant we will never be able to break.
The path leading to the ballroom is decorated with white roses soaked in a red fragrant substance, a proxy for blood. A symbol for our union. She grips my arm tighter as we near the door. We can already hear the hum and chatter of conversation coming from the other side of the door. It is getting real.
I place a large palm over her shaky hand, and she glances up at me.
