Chapter 06:

Alessandro’s POV

The ritual began.

The air inside the hall was thick with incense and silence, heavy with the weight of centuries of blood and secrets. Every Initiation marked not just a wedding but a binding—man to family, blood to blood. Today, my wedding has been aligned with my final oath-taking to La Camorra Nera, a symbol to the men gathered that I was not just their leader, but bound irrevocably to their code.

Don Vittorio stood before me, his eyes sharp, his presence commanding the room. At his side lay the sacred items: the holy card of a saint, the ceremonial knife, the candle flame.

“Alessandro,” he said, his gravelly voice echoing through the chamber. “The blood oath cannot begin until your wife stands at your side. A man cannot swear loyalty if his household is hidden in shadow. Where is she?”

My jaw tensed. Amara was not yet here. I flicked two fingers toward Damian. He understood immediately and disappeared through the side doors.

Moments stretched. Murmurs ripped through the crowd. I felt every pair of eyes on me—old Dons weighing my strength, rivals sniffing for weakness.

Then I saw her.

Damian re-entered with Amara at his side, her gown trailing like spilled moonlight. But as she approached the seat prepared for her, a foot slid forward—deliberate, cruel.

Ginevra.

Her heel caught Amara’s dress, and Amara stumbled hard, her body jolting towards the marble floor.

A hush fell across the hall.

Damian was at her side in an instant, steadying her, but Ginevra’s laughter, low and sharp, cut through the silence. She lowered herself into Amara’s chair with the entitlement of a queen returning to her throne.

“This seat is mine,” she said coldly, her gaze fixed on Amara. “I have known him longer than you, and someone of your….status does not belong here.”

A flicker of rage coiled through me. For twenty-five years I had known Ginevra. Our fathers had bound us together before we understood what binding meant. For years, she delayed the inevitable, always with excuses. Yet here she was—brazen enough to humiliate the woman I had chosen in front of my men.

I rose slowly. The room shifted with me.

I seized Ginevra’s wrist and hauled her to her feet, forcing her to look at me. My voice was low, but it carried like steel across the chamber.

“This seat does not belong to you anymore. It belongs to my wife.”

Gasps and murmurs filled the air Even Don Vittorio’s eyes narrowed, watching.

I turned, offering my hand to Amara. Her fingers were hesitant, trembling, but she placed them in mine. I guided her into the seat beside me. She lowered herself with grace, though her eyes betrayed the storm of confusion within.

The ritual resumed. The knife was drawn, my finger pricked, blood pressed against the saint’s image. My lips spoke the oath of silence, of loyalty, of omertà. And as the candle burned, I felt Amara’s presence like a fragile thread anchoring me in the sea of eyes and expectations.

But Ginevra did not retreat far. She leaned closer as she passed behind us, her breath brushing my ear, her words sharp as daggers.

“This isn’t over, Alessandro,” she whispered. “You may think she sits in my place, but don’t forget— I know you longest. And I always take what belongs to me. Always. Even if I must take it by force.”

Her perfume lingered after she moved away, acrid, suffocating.

I did not look at Amara, but my hand tightened on hers beneath the table.

For the first time In years, the weight of a woman’s betrayal burned hot in my chest—not Ginevra’s but the thoughts of Amara’s, if she ever dared.

And in that moment, I swore silently:

I would not be made a fool twice.