Page 81 of Fire and Silk
“Keep it,” he says. “I don’t want anything to do with whatever this is.”
I hesitate. “Thank you.”
He offers a half-smile and drives off.
The wind catches the edge of my hoodie as I stand alone in the driveway. I hike the sleeves higher on my arms, feel the sweat along my back. Gravel crunches under my shoes as I walk toward the main entrance.
Each step feels heavier than the last.
The doors swing open.
He steps out.
He’s barefoot, casually dressed in black slacks and a faded linen shirt undone to the chest. The sun throws gold against his collarbones. Matteo looms just behind him, arms crossed, watchful.
But it’s his eyes I meet.
His gaze pins me in place.
I stop at the bottom step.
“I accept your offer,” I say. “I’ll marry you.”
My voice is steady, but my hands tremble.
“We need to do it quickly,” I add, breath catching. “Before Mico finds me.”
A slow smile spreads across his face.
He tilts his head, studying me with something like hunger and triumph twisted together.
“I told you you’d come back.”
Chapter Thirteen – Severo
Dante Estate – Garden Court at Night
The moon hangs heavy tonight, swollen above the garden like a watchful eye. Its light pools over the roses I’ve coaxed into bloom—scarlet, pearl, wine-dark—open-mouthed and opulent as if they know something sacred is about to happen.
Lira stands beside me, barefoot in the grass, draped in the loose silk Matteo laid out for her. The color is bone-white. She looks like she’s been carved out of mist. A strange calm has settled over her since she arrived, though her hands twitch sometimes, like they want to curl into fists but don’t quite make it.
We’re alone in the garden, save Matteo and the two old men I called in from Calabria—keepers of rites, notaries of the old blood. They’ve performed this union only twice in their lives. They don’t speak much. Their presence is enough.
Matteo approaches, black-gloved and formal, holding the velvet-lined tray. Two rings. One thin and ancient. The other thicker, cast in Dante steel.
Lira stares at them like they might burn her.
She should be afraid. That’s the only way the ceremony works.
One of the elders steps forward and begins to speak in Italian—low and rhythmic, like water rolling over stone.
I reach for her hand.
She doesn’t go away, but I feel the tension in her fingers as I pull her palm gently into mine.
Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Do we really have to… bleed?”
The corners of my mouth twitch, amused.
