Weight Of A Crown

They've moved him out of the cellar and into a small room in the east wing.

There's a bed, a table, a single window with iron bars, and a guard on the other side of the door.

Antonio is sitting on the edge of the bed when I come in. The cuffs are gone, and his sleeves are rolled to the elbow. He's tired, I realize.

There are shadows under his eyes. But the second he sees me, that crooked smile slides back into place as if it never left.

"Princess," he says. "You came back."

"Lucky you, I guess," I say dryly. "You'll work for me as my personal guard. You go where I go, you stay where I stay, and you answer to me and no one else. If you try to run, if you lie, if I find out you've done anything to hurt this family, Marco will do what he wanted to do three days ago."

He tilts his head, studying me, and for a second something flickers across his face that I can't read. It's gone before I can name it.

"A bodyguard," he says slowly, as if he's tasting the word.

"Yes."

He stands. He's taller than I remember, and the room feels smaller. He stops in front of me and holds out one inked hand, palm up.

"Then I'm yours, princess."

I stare at it for a moment. Then I take it, and his fingers close around mine, warm and calloused, and for one stupid second, my heart trips over itself.

I let go first.

"Don't call me that," I say, keeping my voice steady and commanding.

He smiles. "Whatever you say, boss."

Before the end of the first day, I've learned three things about Antonio Bernardi.

He doesn't talk unless he has to. He doesn't sit, and he doesn't eat unless I do. And he walks half a step behind me, always on my left, always close enough that I can feel him there like a shadow.

I should hate it. Instead, I catch myself glancing back every few minutes just to check that he's still there.

"Stop that," he says without looking at me.

"Stop what?"

"Checking on me, boss." The corner of his mouth lifts. "I'm not going anywhere."

I turn forward again and pretend my face isn't hot.

The men in the house hate him. I can feel it in the way conversations stop when we walk into a room, in the narrowed eyes that follow him down the hallway.

Marco's soldiers think he's a stray I picked up from the side of the road, and they aren't entirely wrong. But none of them dares to say it to my face, and none of them touches him

For now, that's enough.

The next morning, Marco finds me over breakfast, grim-faced. "The elders want a meeting," he says. "All of them. They're waiting in the great hall."

My fork stops halfway to my mouth. "About what?"

"About who's in charge." He hesitates. "Your uncle Enzo is already there, and he isn't alone."

I push my plate away and stand, smoothing the front of my black suit. My hands are trembling, so I curl them into fists and press them against my thighs until they stop.

Fix your face, Brianna, I say to myself.

When I reach the doors of the great hall, voices are already rising on the other side—sharp and hungry. I draw a breath. A low voice murmurs behind my ear, so close I feel the warmth of it.

"Chin up, boss. Don't let them smell fear."

I lift my chin and push open the doors.

The room goes silent.

Chairs scrape back against the marble as every man at the long table rises to his feet. The elders, the captains, the consigliere—all of them standing with their heads dipped. Even my uncle Enzo, who hasn't looked at me with anything but pity since I was twelve, pushes his chair back and stands.

My heart pounds against my ribs, but I walk the length of the hall without hurrying, my heels clicking in the quiet. I stop at the head of the table, beside my father's empty seat, and take the chair next to it facing Enzo.

Antonio settles at my side, silent and still as a blade in its sheath.

Only then do they sit.

Enzo folds his hands on the table and lets the silence stretch before he speaks, his voice smooth and weighted.

"Brianna. We're grateful you've come." His eyes sweep the room. "But we must be honest. Your father lies in a bed, fighting for his life, and this family needs someone ready and capable to lead it."

His gaze settles on me, and he smiles slowly and politely. "Someone who can hold it together."