The First Coup

"It will be me."

The words leave my mouth before I can second-guess them. They hang in the air, thin and bright, and every head at the table turns.

Enzo's smile doesn't falter; it only sharpens.

"No, Brianna," he says calmly. "It won't be you. It will be me."

My frown cuts deep. "I'm next in line for the seat. I'm his only daughter, and my father has been preparing me for this since I was sixteen."

"Preparing you," Enzo repeats, tasting the word. He leans back, his fingers laced across his stomach. "Yes, for some distant day when he would be old and gray and you would be ready. But that day hasn't come."

His voice drops, soft and heavy with fake sympathy. "You're not ready, my dear. Everything has happened too fast. You're unprepared, and the family can't afford to wait while you learn."

A murmur ripples around the table. A few nod approvingly.

My blood runs hot.

"Says who?" I snap, and I'm on my feet before I realize it. My palms flatten against the table. "Who says I'm not ready? You?"

"Sit down, Brianna."

His tone has changed. The sympathy is gone, and what's underneath is the voice that used to make my cousins stop breathing. The voice of a man who has never once been told no.

Every instinct I have screams at me to obey. For twenty-two years, I have obeyed that voice.

But I know what will happen if I do. If I sit, I'll look weak. Every man in this room will watch me fold, and Enzo will be right in front of all of them, and by tonight, the Dimitrou seat will be his.

So I don't sit.

I stay standing, my chin high and my heart hammering so hard I'm sure they can hear it.

"Brianna," Enzo says again, low and dangerous, and he begins to rise.

A metallic click cuts through the hall.

Nobody saw him move. One second Antonio is a silent shadow at my side, and the next his arm is level, the gun Marco returned to him this morning with a murderous glare aimed straight across the table at my uncle's gray head.

The hall freezes.

Marco half-rises with his own weapon drawn, his eyes wide, and every man in the room goes rigid.

Enzo doesn't breathe. He stops halfway out of his seat, his gaze fixed on the barrel pointed between his eyes, and then it slides up, slow and stiff, to the man standing beside me.

Antonio's lips curve into a devilish smile. "Relax, old man," he says lightly. "Let her speak."

Silence stretches thin across the hall.

Every eye is on me. My legs are shaking beneath the table where nobody can see, so I press my palms flat against the wood and draw a slow breath. When I speak, my voice comes out low and clear.

"My father named me his heir in front of every man in this room. He didn't name me because I'm his daughter; he named me because he trusted me to carry what he built."

I let my gaze travel down the table, from face to face. "He isn't dead. He is fighting, and while he fights, this seat isn't empty. It's waiting. I'm not asking to be crowned today; I'm asking to hold it until he wakes."

"A girl with a hired gun," Enzo says tightly, his eyes still locked on the barrel. "Is that what you call leadership?"

"A man who put himself between me and a bullet when half the men in that cemetery were running for their cars." I don't look at Antonio; I keep my eyes on my uncle.

"I'd call that loyalty. Something I'm still learning who in this room has."

A muscle ticks in Enzo's jaw.

Marco has put his weapon away, and now he stands, slowly, with his shoulders squared.

"I follow Brianna," he says, his voice echoing off the high ceiling. "Until Ilias wakes. That's my word."

One by one, others rise: the consigliere first, then two of the captains, and finally an old soldier who once taught me to ride. They don't speak; they just stand, and the silence fills with the heavy sound of men choosing a side.

Enzo looks around the table and sees how it has turned. His hands, folded on the wood, tighten until his knuckles whiten.

"Lower it," I say quietly.

Antonio waits a beat longer than necessary. Then the gun drops, and he slides it back into his jacket as easily as if he were putting away a phone.

Enzo pushes himself up, straightening his cuffs with stiff, careful movements.

"Enjoy your seat, niece," he says softly. "A chair can be taken from beneath a person faster than you think."

He walks out, and the doors boom closed behind him.

Only then do my knees finally give way, and I sit down hard. My hands won't stop trembling, so I tuck them under my thighs.

A low voice murmurs by my ear, too quiet for anyone else to hear. "Breathe, boss. You did good."