More than anything, I was pissed off.
I still cared about this husk of a male before me.
This monster, who’d killed his own brother to steal the throne, sent my brother off to die because Dante had discovered his secret. I shouldn’t have a shred of sympathy in my heart for Marcello, and yet…
I did.
That part puzzled me the most.
That some piece of me still cared about this heartless, selfish, cruel bastard.
All around us, the Dominico palazzo lay quiet under the weight of grief—curtains drawn, corridors hushed, servants rushing about, black bands already secured around their upper arms. My aunts were gathered in the sitting room, already planning my ascension ceremony, and I hadn’t bothered to correct them. Officially, Don Marcello Dominico was dying of some unknown blood sickness.
Unofficially, I’d stopped the spy in our household who was poisoning him, but it was too late.
The chef would be dead soon, filleted to pieces by his very own hand-sharpened knives, and I would carve every last piece of information out of his traitorous body before I blessed him with death. If my father was suffering, then this fuck would, too.
Marcello lay suspended on the edge of death like a man too stubborn—or too damned—to let go.
No, he had his claws sunk so deep in this Dynasty, Death would have to drag him away.
His veined hands lay limp beside him, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven pulls as I debated—and debated—my next move. The poison would have killed him tonight. By stopping the doses, we’d bought him a few days, perhaps a week.
Time where he would do nothing but suffer.
Or be lost in a haze of opium.
Guilt sat heavy in my gut, thick and nauseating. This was dishonorable. We were keeping him alive just long enough to strip him of his pride.
I told myself he deserved this fate.
I reminded myself of every evil thing he’d done.
Marcello stirred, lips parting. A faint sound escaped him—something between a breath and a laugh. Then his eyesfluttered open, milky from fever and whatever damage the poison had already accomplished.
“Gabriel,” he murmured, hand opening and closing, “my son.My son.”
I stiffened. “I’m right here. Haven’t left your side.”
His mouth twitched, like he was amused by that. “Of course you are. Always so loyal.” The candles carved his face into something grotesque. Once, he had seemed immortal in every way, too strong to ever fall.
Now, he smelled of rot and regret.
“Did you know,” he husked, “that I loved him once?”
My heart stuttered. “Who?”
“Your brother.” Marcello’s voice was sandpaper rough. “My firstborn. Dante. I lifted him in the air and announced to the entire world he was the next Don.” His eyes were unfocused, searching the space above his bed as though he was communing with ghosts.
“He was everything I’d ever wanted in an heir.” His face pinched. “And then… and then… he found the truth. About my half-brother,Lorenzo.” Marcello drew the name out on a hiss of air. “He was to be my father’s heir, even though I deserved the title. I might have been a bastard, but I was stronger… more ruthless.Better.” A wet breath rattled out of him. “Salvatore never appreciated my… skills.”
This was his deathbed confession, most likely the only one I would get.
“You killed Lorenzo,” I redirected softly. “On the hunt.”
Marcello turned his head, eyes finding mine at last.
“Yes.” The word was calm. “He was in my way,” he continued. “And a weak, trusting male. It was almost too easy.”
