6: The Silver Brand

CHAPTER SIX

(The Initiation into Violence)

Julian POV

The morning didn't bring light; it brought a cold, gray reality.

I woke up in the center of the massive canopy bed, the Moretti crest embroidered into the silk pillows mocking me. Dante had been gone when I opened my eyes, but the scent of him, sandalwood and expensive tobacco, lingered in the air like a ghost.

I looked at my hands. They were steady now. The tremor that had plagued me since the basement was gone, replaced by a hollow, ringing silence. My brothers were ghosts. My life was a ruin. And the only man standing in the wreckage with me was the one who had helped tear it down.

The bedroom door opened, and Dante stepped in. He wasn't wearing his suit. He was dressed in a black tactical shirt that stretched across his chest, his sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms covered in scars and ink.

"Get up," he said, his voice a low command. "Today, we see if you’re worth the silk you’re wearing."

"Where are we going?" I asked, throwing back the covers. I felt exposed in the thin silk pajamas he’d provided, but I refused to show it.

"To the pit," he said. "You told me you wanted to kill your brothers. You told me you wanted to burn their world. But right now, Julian, you don't even know how to hold a knife without cutting yourself. If you’re going to be a Moretti, you’re going to learn how we keep our names."

Ten minutes later, we were in the sub-basement of the estate. It wasn't the damp, rotting cell where I had signed the contract. This was a state-of-the-art training facility, soundproofed walls, racks of matte-black weaponry, and a padded floor that had seen more blood than a hospital ward.

Dante walked to a wooden crate and pulled out two sparring knives, blunted steel, but heavy enough to break bone. He tossed one to me. It hit my palm with a stinging slap.

"Defend yourself," he said.

"Now?" I blinked, the weight of the steel awkward in my hand. "I haven't even had coffee, Dante."

He moved faster than any man his size should. He was a blur of black motion, his body slamming into mine before I could even raise the blade. He caught my wrist, twisted it until I gasped, and swept my legs out from under me.

I hit the mat hard, the air driven from my lungs in a violent burst.

"In this world, Julian, your enemies don't wait for you to finish your coffee," Dante growled, standing over me. He looked down, his eyes cold and clinical. "Leo and Marcus are already hiring protection. They know you’re alive. They know I’m the one holding your leash. If they can’t get to me, they’ll come for the weak link. That’s you."

I rolled onto my stomach, coughing as I pushed myself up. "I'm not a weak link."

"Then prove it. Get up."

I scrambled to my feet, my heart hammering. The rage I had felt at the gala the pure, white-hot hatred for my brothers surfaced again. I gripped the knife, my knuckles white.

I lunged. It was a clumsy, desperate move. Dante didn't even have to move his feet. He simply stepped to the side, grabbed the back of my neck, and shoved me face-first into the wall.

"Too slow," he whispered against my ear, his body pinned against mine. The heat from him was suffocating, a wall of solid muscle that made me feel small and fragile. "You’re fighting like a Prince, Julian. You’re waiting for an opening. A Moretti creates the opening."

He spun me around, his hand moving from my neck to my throat. He didn't squeeze, but the threat was there the cold promise of the Butcher.

"Your brothers sold you because they thought you were soft. They thought you were a trophy that would sit on my shelf until I got bored and broke you." He leaned in closer, his dark eyes searching mine. "Are they right? Are you just a pretty thing in a suit?"

"No," I hissed, my voice a jagged rasp.

I brought my knee up, aiming for his groin. He blocked it with his thigh, but the movement gave me the inch I needed. I slammed my forehead into his nose.

There was a sickening crunch.

Dante recoiled, blood instantly blooming from his nostrils. He let out a low, dark chuckle that sent a shiver of terror and thrill down my spine. He wiped the blood away with the back of his hand, smearing it across his cheek like war paint.

"Better," he said, a predatory grin curling his lips. "Much better."

For the next hour, he didn't hold back. He threw me, struck me, and forced me to move until my muscles screamed and my lungs burned. It wasn't a lesson; it was an initiation. He was stripping away the "Golden Prince," layer by painful layer, until only the raw, jagged nerves remained.

By the time he called a halt, I was drenched in sweat, my shirt torn, and a fresh bruise forming over my ribs. I slumped against the wall, gasping for air.

Dante walked over, but he didn't offer a hand. He pulled a small, silver velvet box from his pocket. He opened it to reveal a signet ring not the Vane gold, but Moretti silver. It featured a wolf’s head with a dagger through its eye.

"The Vane ring died in that basement," Dante said, his voice devoid of emotion. "This is the silver brand. It’s what my men wear when they’ve tasted blood and chosen a side."

He took my hand. His fingers were steady, his touch oddly gentle compared to the violence of the last hour. He slid the silver band onto my finger. It felt heavy, a cold weight that seemed to anchor me to the floor.

"You’re not a prisoner anymore, Julian," he said, looking at me with an intensity that made my breath catch. "A prisoner waits for a chance to run. A Moretti waits for a chance to strike. Tonight, we start dismantling the Vane shipping lines. We start with the East End docks. Your brothers’ favorite playground."

I looked down at the silver wolf on my finger. It glinted under the fluorescent lights, a mark of my new master and my new life.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked.

Dante leaned down, his face inches from mine. He smelled of sweat, blood, and victory. "I want you to show them that the Prince they sold didn't die. He just found a better family."

He reached out, his thumb catching a drop of sweat on my temple. "And Julian?"

"Yes?"

"Don't miss. I don't give second chances."

He turned and walked out, leaving me in the silence of the training room. I looked at the silver ring, then at my reflection in the polished black floor.

The man looking back at me was bruised and broken, but for the first time in my life, he wasn't afraid. I was the Butcher’s husband. I was the Moretti’s weapon.

And Leo and Marcus were about to find out exactly what happens when you sell the soul of a King