Page 57 of Depths of Hunger

I meet Luca’s intense gaze, feeling the weight of my words before I even speak.Fine. The truth is ugly. Our mother got involved with a group of dark magick practitioners. She was after a spell that would make her both witch and vampire—not a blend that loses some traits but retains the full powers of both. She wasn’t satisfied with just telepathy, speed, strength, or daylight walking. She wanted more—spells, magick, control. She wanted the power of a witch and the strength of a vampire, wielding all of it without compromise. Ambitious doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I pause, glancing up at the Duomo. The imposing structure feels like it’s bearing down on us, a silent witness to our dark family history.She brought her group here, to this Duomo, to perform a ritual that would supposedly give her magickal abilities. But not everyone wanted a vampire with magick to exist. Another group showed up and attacked, killing Mother and most of her followers before disappearing back into the magickal realm.

I leave out the gruesome details—how the blood had stained the ancient stones, how our mother’s screams had echoed through the nave as her ambitions crumbled around her. Luca doesn’t need to hear that. Not now.

This is why we’re cursed,Nico’s voice breaks in, low and seething with barely restrained anger. I didn’t realize he’d tuned back into our conversation.Mother’s enemies wanted to make sure we never followed in her footsteps.His rage simmers just beneath the surface, barely contained.

Luca sighs, his gaze fixed on the towering doors of the Duomo.I can see their point. A vampire with full magickal powers could dominate the entire magickal realm. That kind of power would be dangerous.

Nico moves in a blur, his rage exploding as he grabs Luca by the throat, slamming him against the car’s interior.That’s our mother you’re talking about! he snarls, fangs bared and eyes blazing with fury.

Let him go, Nico, I command.

Luca climbs out of the car and stands in the piazza.

He’s right, and you know it. Mother was dangerous. She was power-hungry and reckless, and it got her killed. Even Father would agree that she brought about her own end. And she’s the reason we’re cursed.I gripNico’s arm, forcing him to meet my eyes.Save your anger for those who deserve it. If you want to fight Mother, you can do it in hell when you see her. Here and now, we are family, and we do not attack each other. Ever.

Nico’s emerald eyes burn, glowing with unspent violence, but slowly he pulls back, his fangs retracting. He shoves away from me, getting out of the car with a frustrated growl, moving to stand beside Luca without a word. It’s the closest he’ll come to an apology, and Luca knows it.

I take a moment to compose myself, the tension of the night weighing heavy on my shoulders. This is not how I imagined tonight would go. Our focus should be on the ‘Ndrangheta, on the precarious truce hanging by a thread.

I step out of the car, the cool night air sharp against my skin, and turn to face them both. “Clear your minds. Let’s get through this meeting. We’ll deal with the rest later.”

“Understood,” Nico mutters, his voice is acerbic, but there’s a flicker of control returning.

Luca nods, his face set in a mask of determination, but the glimmer of vulnerability remains. I feel a bit of the tension ease, but my instincts scream that this place—this moment—is cursed. I should have insisted on another location, but when the ‘Ndrangheta suggested it, it seemed a logical choice. Now, I’m not so sure.

I glance up at the sky, the moon is hidden behind thick clouds, and a sudden image of Father flashes through my mind. It’s as if he’s trying to reach me, sending a warning from across the distance, but I can’t make out his message. I hope he’s found an antidote because tonight feels more dangerous than ever. We are playing with fire, and I can’t shake the feeling that something is about to burn.

We step into the Duomo of San Gimignano, and a familiar chill runs down my spine. It’s been over two hundred years since I last set foot in here, yet nothing has changed. The interior is both breathtaking and haunting, with towering stone columns that stretch toward a ceiling adorned with vibrant frescoes depicting scenes from the Old Testament, the New Testament, and the Last Judgment. Theimages are masterful yet unsettling, a vivid blend of divine glory and damnation.

But there’s more here… hidden beneath the surface for those who know where to look. Symbols discreetly woven into the frescoes—hieroglyphs of the magickal realm—telling stories of power, betrayal, and secrets long buried. A serpent intertwined with a cross, a pentacle hidden in the folds of a saint’s robe. These small, forbidden details speak of another world, one that brushes against the human realm in shadows and whispers. I smile faintly, thinking of Luca. One day, I’ll bring him back here and show him. He’ll appreciate the hidden history. But tonight is not for reminiscing. Tonight is about the ‘Ndrangheta and the fragile truce that could change everything.

As I stroll toward the altar, my footsteps echo against the cold stone floor. The altar itself is a massive slab of marble, imposing and stark. Once a place of worship, now tainted by memories of bloodshed. I try to focus, to steady my mind, but every step brings me closer to where it happened, toward where my mother was murdered. I can still detect the faintest stain of red in my mind’s eye, her blood splashed across the polished stone like a grotesque painting that time can’t erase.

“They’re late,” Nico says, coming to stand beside me, his voice echoing in the vast, empty space. He glances around, his face twisted with distaste. “I hate churches,” he mutters, his eyes flicking up to the ceiling as if the frescoes themselves offend him. “This one especially.”

“Yes,” I agree quietly, my voice tinged with bitterness. “I’ve never understood the attraction. Except for the art.”

Luigi approaches, his footsteps a soft whisper on the stone. “They’re here,” he announces, his voice low and tense.

He seems fidgety tonight. Not like his normal self. His eyes dart around the church and there is worry written across his brow, as if God himself is about to strike him down. I wonder if I should’ve brought him. Maybe one of the others would have been a better choice.

I nod, feeling the shift in the air. Nico steps to my right, Luca stands to my left, together forming the protective wall that has alwayskept us strong. But tonight, a tremor in my chest accelerates my heartbeat and betrays my nerves. I can hear the rhythmic thuds of my brothers’ hearts too, echoing my own fears. The poison has left us vulnerable, a stark reminder that we are not the invincible creatures we once believed ourselves to be. But for me, there’s even more on the line. I claimed Northern Italy as mine and built my reputation on ruthless ambition and sheer will. I am feared and respected inla famiglia, but this—this proposed truce—is the pinnacle of my power. If I can secure this alliance, no one will dare challenge me. I will be the one true king.

Salvatore Palma steps into the Duomo, flanked by four men who move like shadows at his side. His presence is like a dark stain against the sacred backdrop, his eyes sharp and calculating despite being an old man. He’s in his seventies and looks a hundred, worn down by decades of violence and scheming. As he makes his way up the aisle, he slows, genuflects, and crosses himself, the motion almost mechanical, more habit than reverence. Then his gaze finds mine, locking on with the intensity of a predator recognizing a threat. The flicker of recognition in his eyes morphs into something darker—disbelief.

“I see the details of your death were greatly exaggerated.” Palma’s voice is a grating rasp, laced with mockery that grates against the solemn air of the Duomo. “I thought I’d be meeting your wife or one of your capos, but here you are. Still standing. Like a bad penny.” He laughs at his own joke, a hollow, bitter sound that echoes through the vast cathedral, bouncing off the frescoed walls like a curse. He speaks in English, a deliberate insult, as if to remind me that his language is the true Italian—southern, pure, untainted.

I don’t give a damn about his petty games. I could speak more dialects than he could fathom, but this isn’t the time for linguistic bravado. I extend my hand, every movement controlled, deliberate. “Only the good die young, isn’t that what they say?” My voice is calm, but beneath it simmers a tension, a challenge that Palma can’t ignore.

He takes my hand, his grip firm, his touch cold and dismissive, his smile sharp as a dagger. “Yes, and you, my friend, are anything but good. Must be why I’m an old man as well, eh?” He lets his gazewander, lingering on the faded frescoes that line the walls—scenes of judgment, heaven and hell, saints and sinners in perpetual battle. The vibrant colors of angels and demons feel muted under the weight of centuries, the figures watching us like silent, disapproving witnesses. He gestures toward the pews with a casual wave, as if he owns the place. “We sit,” he commands, and shuffles over to the first pew, his movements slow but deliberate.

I slide in beside him, my senses on high alert. My eyes flick to the corners, scanning the darkened alcoves, ensuring we’re truly alone, even though I know better than to trust this place. My heart pounds, the gravity of this meeting squeezing my chest like a vise.

“This church, it is a reminder of everything, eh? God is watching.” Palma’s voice drips with sarcasm, his eyes narrowing as he studies my reaction.

I keep my face neutral, my tone flat. “I’m less concerned with God than I am with outside invaders.”

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