Chapter 24

Chapter

Twenty-Four

P aulie rolls the car to a stop in the Piazza del Duomo. The forbidding stone facade of the Duomo of San Gimignano looms before us, its twin towers cutting into the night sky like ancient sentinels guarding the secrets within. The piazza is quiet, lit only by the glow of the streetlights, which cast eerie shadows on the cobblestones. The medieval square is empty, the world seemingly holding its breath. We took a serpentine route to get here, weaving through narrow, winding streets to avoid being followed. Once Paulie drops us off, he'll park in a nearby alley—poised for a quick getaway if things go south. Just in case.

My brothers and I wait in silence as our men get into position, each reporting back before we leave the car. Before this poison—a magickal potion delivered via bullets—hit my veins, I wouldn't have bothered with these precautions. As a vampire, I've spent centuries feeling invincible, but now that my mortality has been thrown into question, a creeping vulnerability gnaws at me. And I hate it.

Renzo, are you prepared for this? Luca's voice fills my mind, cutting through the tension.

I glance at him, irritated by his need to ask. I'm always prepared, I snap back, then soften my tone. I'm ready if that's what you're asking .

What happens if we don't make it? Luca's question hangs heavy in the air, the kind of doubt that can gnaw at your resolve.

I frown, surprised by his need to ask. You think the ‘Ndrangheta can kill us? We might be weakened, but not by much. We can handle humans. I speak with conviction, though the lingering effects of the poison make me question my own words, my own mortality.

Maybe, Luca concedes, staring out at the towering Duomo, its massive doors shut tight like the past we've tried to bury. But I can't stop thinking about death… it's not something I ever considered until now .

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, and the reality of our situation creeps closer. I cast a glance at Nico, who seems lost in his own thoughts, eyes fixed on distant shadows. We won't die tonight, I say, forcing confidence into my voice. Focus on getting through this meeting. This is history in the making—the unification of Italy's families under a truce to keep out any invaders. At worst, if things go wrong, we'll start a war with the ‘Ndrangheta. Not ideal, but it's not our first war either. We'll handle it.

Luca keeps his gaze on the Duomo, its stone walls steeped in centuries of secrets and bloodshed. Do you know how our mother died? I mean, really know? I know someone cut off her head, but I never learned the details.

His question catches me off guard, freezing me for the barest of moments. I expected him to ask this years ago when he was younger, still piecing together the fragments of our past. But he never did. I always assumed he'd gone to Father or someone else. Now, over three hundred years old, he finally asks, here of all places.

Do you really want to get into that now?

Yes, he insists, his voice edged with a determination that feels both familiar and foreign. It seems fitting, considering where we are.

I let out a long breath, my eyes flicking to Nico, who is deliberately tuning us out, probably fighting his own inner battles. Our mother was a complicated woman, a vampire driven by ambitions that I couldn't fully understand.

Luca's voice cuts through my hesitation. Cut the shit. I don't need the lecture you prepared for me when I was a kid. I want the hard truth .

I meet Luca's intense gaze, feeling the weight of my words before I even speak. Fine. The truth is ugly. Our mother got involved with a group of dark magick practitioners. She was after a spell that would make her both witch and vampire—not a blend that loses some traits but retains the full powers of both. She wasn't satisfied with just telepathy, speed, strength, or daylight walking. She wanted more—spells, magick, control. She wanted the power of a witch and the strength of a vampire, wielding all of it without compromise. Ambitious doesn't even begin to cover it.

I pause, glancing up at the Duomo. The imposing structure feels like it's bearing down on us, a silent witness to our dark family history. She brought her group here, to this Duomo, to perform a ritual that would supposedly give her magickal abilities. But not everyone wanted a vampire with magick to exist. Another group showed up and attacked, killing Mother and most of her followers before disappearing back into the magickal realm.

I leave out the gruesome details—how the blood had stained the ancient stones, how our mother's screams had echoed through the nave as her ambitions crumbled around her. Luca doesn't need to hear that. Not now.

This is why we're cursed, Nico's voice breaks in, low and seething with barely restrained anger. I didn't realize he'd tuned back into our conversation. Mother's enemies wanted to make sure we never followed in her footsteps. His rage simmers just beneath the surface, barely contained.

Luca sighs, his gaze fixed on the towering doors of the Duomo. I can see their point. A vampire with full magickal powers could dominate the entire magickal realm. That kind of power would be dangerous.

Nico moves in a blur, his rage exploding as he grabs Luca by the throat, slamming him against the car's interior. That's our mother you're talking about ! he snarls, fangs bared and eyes blazing with fury.

Let him go, Nico , I command.

Luca climbs out of the car and stands in the piazza.

He's right, and you know it. Mother was dangerous. She was power-hungry and reckless, and it got her killed. Even Father would agree that she brought about her own end. And she's the reason we're cursed. I grip Nico's arm, forcing him to meet my eyes. Save your anger for those who deserve it. If you want to fight Mother, you can do it in hell when you see her. Here and now, we are family, and we do not attack each other. Ever.

Nico's emerald eyes burn, glowing with unspent violence, but slowly he pulls back, his fangs retracting. He shoves away from me, getting out of the car with a frustrated growl, moving to stand beside Luca without a word. It's the closest he'll come to an apology, and Luca knows it.

I take a moment to compose myself, the tension of the night weighing heavy on my shoulders. This is not how I imagined tonight would go. Our focus should be on the ‘Ndrangheta, on the precarious truce hanging by a thread.

I step out of the car, the cool night air sharp against my skin, and turn to face them both. "Clear your minds. Let's get through this meeting. We'll deal with the rest later."

"Understood," Nico mutters, his voice is acerbic, but there's a flicker of control returning.

Luca nods, his face set in a mask of determination, but the glimmer of vulnerability remains. I feel a bit of the tension ease, but my instincts scream that this place—this moment—is cursed. I should have insisted on another location, but when the ‘Ndrangheta suggested it, it seemed a logical choice. Now, I'm not so sure.

I glance up at the sky, the moon is hidden behind thick clouds, and a sudden image of Father flashes through my mind. It's as if he's trying to reach me, sending a warning from across the distance, but I can't make out his message. I hope he's found an antidote because tonight feels more dangerous than ever. We are playing with fire, and I can't shake the feeling that something is about to burn.

We step into the Duomo of San Gimignano, and a familiar chill runs down my spine. It's been over two hundred years since I last set foot in here, yet nothing has changed. The interior is both breathtaking and haunting, with towering stone columns that stretch toward a ceiling adorned with vibrant frescoes depicting scenes from the Old Testament, the New Testament, and the Last Judgment. The images are masterful yet unsettling, a vivid blend of divine glory and damnation.

But there's more here… hidden beneath the surface for those who know where to look. Symbols discreetly woven into the frescoes—hieroglyphs of the magickal realm—telling stories of power, betrayal, and secrets long buried. A serpent intertwined with a cross, a pentacle hidden in the folds of a saint's robe. These small, forbidden details speak of another world, one that brushes against the human realm in shadows and whispers. I smile faintly, thinking of Luca. One day, I'll bring him back here and show him. He'll appreciate the hidden history. But tonight is not for reminiscing. Tonight is about the ‘Ndrangheta and the fragile truce that could change everything.

As I stroll toward the altar, my footsteps echo against the cold stone floor. The altar itself is a massive slab of marble, imposing and stark. Once a place of worship, now tainted by memories of bloodshed. I try to focus, to steady my mind, but every step brings me closer to where it happened, toward where my mother was murdered. I can still detect the faintest stain of red in my mind's eye, her blood splashed across the polished stone like a grotesque painting that time can't erase.

"They're late," Nico says, coming to stand beside me, his voice echoing in the vast, empty space. He glances around, his face twisted with distaste. "I hate churches," he mutters, his eyes flicking up to the ceiling as if the frescoes themselves offend him. "This one especially."

"Yes," I agree quietly, my voice tinged with bitterness. "I've never understood the attraction. Except for the art."

Luigi approaches, his footsteps a soft whisper on the stone. "They're here," he announces, his voice low and tense.

He seems fidgety tonight. Not like his normal self. His eyes dart around the church and there is worry written across his brow, as if God himself is about to strike him down. I wonder if I should've brought him. Maybe one of the others would have been a better choice.

I nod, feeling the shift in the air. Nico steps to my right, Luca stands to my left, together forming the protective wall that has always kept us strong. But tonight, a tremor in my chest accelerates my heartbeat and betrays my nerves. I can hear the rhythmic thuds of my brothers' hearts too, echoing my own fears. The poison has left us vulnerable, a stark reminder that we are not the invincible creatures we once believed ourselves to be. But for me, there's even more on the line. I claimed Northern Italy as mine and built my reputation on ruthless ambition and sheer will. I am feared and respected in la famiglia , but this—this proposed truce—is the pinnacle of my power. If I can secure this alliance, no one will dare challenge me. I will be the one true king.

Salvatore Palma steps into the Duomo, flanked by four men who move like shadows at his side. His presence is like a dark stain against the sacred backdrop, his eyes sharp and calculating despite being an old man. He's in his seventies and looks a hundred, worn down by decades of violence and scheming. As he makes his way up the aisle, he slows, genuflects, and crosses himself, the motion almost mechanical, more habit than reverence. Then his gaze finds mine, locking on with the intensity of a predator recognizing a threat. The flicker of recognition in his eyes morphs into something darker—disbelief.

"I see the details of your death were greatly exaggerated." Palma's voice is a grating rasp, laced with mockery that grates against the solemn air of the Duomo. "I thought I'd be meeting your wife or one of your capos, but here you are. Still standing. Like a bad penny." He laughs at his own joke, a hollow, bitter sound that echoes through the vast cathedral, bouncing off the frescoed walls like a curse. He speaks in English, a deliberate insult, as if to remind me that his language is the true Italian—southern, pure, untainted.

I don't give a damn about his petty games. I could speak more dialects than he could fathom, but this isn't the time for linguistic bravado. I extend my hand, every movement controlled, deliberate. "Only the good die young, isn't that what they say?" My voice is calm, but beneath it simmers a tension, a challenge that Palma can't ignore.

He takes my hand, his grip firm, his touch cold and dismissive, his smile sharp as a dagger. "Yes, and you, my friend, are anything but good. Must be why I'm an old man as well, eh?" He lets his gaze wander, lingering on the faded frescoes that line the walls—scenes of judgment, heaven and hell, saints and sinners in perpetual battle. The vibrant colors of angels and demons feel muted under the weight of centuries, the figures watching us like silent, disapproving witnesses. He gestures toward the pews with a casual wave, as if he owns the place. "We sit," he commands, and shuffles over to the first pew, his movements slow but deliberate.

I slide in beside him, my senses on high alert. My eyes flick to the corners, scanning the darkened alcoves, ensuring we're truly alone, even though I know better than to trust this place. My heart pounds, the gravity of this meeting squeezing my chest like a vise.

"This church, it is a reminder of everything, eh? God is watching." Palma's voice drips with sarcasm, his eyes narrowing as he studies my reaction.

I keep my face neutral, my tone flat. "I'm less concerned with God than I am with outside invaders."

Palma's gaze sharpens, his lips thinning into a displeased line. "You are not a religious man?"

I can sense how much this matters to him, and it disgusts me. So many in la famiglia are like this—slaughter, maim, and destroy all week, then kneel in prayer on Sunday, clutching their rosaries as if it absolves their sins. It's the kind of hypocrisy that's woven into the fabric of the Church itself. I have to bite back a sarcastic retort. "I've found that my main religion has nothing to do with the Church. I worship at the gates of something else entirely." I flash him a smile, sharp and cold.

Palma frowns, then bursts out laughing, his laughter ringing through the cavernous space, bouncing off the ancient stone like a mocking echo. "I, too, like to worship at those gates. Alas, the young pretty ones aren't as interested as they once were. But your wife, she is beautiful. Congratulations."

His words are bullshit, every syllable oozing with falsehood. His mistress is a model for a worldwide cosmetics company, and I don't even like hearing him speak of Mia. The urge to claw that smirk off his face burns in my chest, but I force myself to stay calm. "Thank you, but we didn't come here to discuss religion," I remind him, my voice taut with restraint.

"No," he agrees, his expression darkening. "We came to discuss how you want to work for us."

Tension spikes around me. Nico and Luca go rigid. Over the layers of incense that hang thick in the air, I can smell the anger of my brothers and the sharp tang of Luigi's fear. It distracts me, but I push it aside, keeping my focus on Palma. "No, we came to discuss how we can mutually benefit by establishing a truce."

Palma scratches his chin, and I watch as his men subtly shift, their movements deliberate, hands inching closer to their weapons. Nico and Luca breathe hard, their senses on high alert. A simmering threat hangs in the air like a spark waiting to ignite. I ready myself, fingers itching to draw my gun. It would be so much easier to attack him with my full strength, to rip him apart the way I could, but the need to keep my true nature hidden forces me to play by human rules. Sometimes the secrecy chafes.

"A truce," Palma muses skeptically. "Now why would we want a truce? We're not really fighting, eh?"

My patience thins, and I fight the urge to snap. "Salvatore, you and I, we're always at war. At this point, it makes sense to offer a truce so we can focus on driving out the outsiders. We can always return to our war later."

Palma's frown deepens, his brow furrowing as if the concept itself is foreign to him. "I'm an old man. I'm not used to these new ideas—making peace with one group to fight the next. In my day, we fought everyone and won. I don't see why we need a truce. I think we continue as we are, maybe give each other a wider berth, yes?"

The tension is thick, each of Palma's men poised and ready, mirroring the posture of my own men. If we don't get on the same page soon, this could turn into a bloodbath. "Salvatore, let's be clear. You wouldn't be here if you didn't see some merit in establishing a truce. Your people in Toronto want this. So, let's talk candidly about what that looks like, or we walk away."

Palma grunts, a sound of frustration as his shoulders slump slightly. I hear his heart rate spike when I mention Toronto, the flare of anger pulsing through him. So, it's not him pushing for this deal; it's Toronto. That's valuable information.

"Say we have this truce, what does that get us, eh?" Palma's voice is strained, like he's still grappling with the idea.

I bite back a sigh, keeping my tone level. "A truce means you can concentrate on driving out the Moroccans, and I can keep the Albanians at bay without splitting our resources. It ensures neither of us have to fight on two fronts."

Palma tilts his head, studying me with a shrewd, calculating gaze. "And how will I be able to trust you, eh? How do I know you won't rob my shipments or attack when I'm occupied with the Moroccans?"

"The same way I'll trust you not to take advantage when I'm dealing with the Albanians," I reply evenly as I point to my chest, then to his. "It's a two-way street. We give each other room and stay out of each other's business. That's all this is."

Palma scrutinizes my face, searching for weakness. "I want in on your deal with the cartel."

And there it is—the real reason he's here. Palma needs to show Toronto he's still in the game, still relevant. I feel Nico's silent warning in my mind.

Colucci will shit himself if you mess with his deal.

The cartel wants this deal to happen with the ‘Ndrangheta. They need it. Colucci knows that. I shoot back. Mia had given me the idea of how to make this work without getting ourselves cut out of the deal. Her mind is sharp and brilliant in ways that still catch me off guard.

"We want a cut of everything coming in. We'll let you bring it through our territory, but we want our cut," Palma demands in a hard voice.

"No," I say firmly, my patience wearing thin. "You'll get two shipments a year for your people, but you guarantee safe passage for the rest. If anything goes missing or gets damaged, it's on you. You'll owe us, and more importantly, you'll owe the cartel, and they won't be pleased."

Palma's eyes narrow, calculating. "Five shipments. "

"Three," I counter without hesitation. "One every four months. Take it or leave it. We'll help you with the Moroccans if you need it, but you pull out of Rome. We know you've been making moves there."

Palma starts to bluster, his face flushing with anger, but I hold my ground, refusing to be swayed. Finally, he lets out a long breath and extends his hand, the weight of the deal pushing down his shoulders. "Fine," he says, his voice gruff. "We have a deal." We shake, and he stands abruptly, his excitement palpable. His heart rate escalates, his emotions a mix of victory and relief. He has no idea that I'm already planning how to take over the rest of his territory. Not today, not tomorrow, but down the line.

I'm always playing the long game.

"I'll tell my people. You tell yours, and we'll work out the details," I say, my tone final.

Palma nods, satisfied. "It is done in the presence of God. He will watch over us, eh?"

I say nothing, merely stare after Palma as he strides down the aisle, his men trailing behind him, their footsteps echoing like a death march. He's riding high, thinking he's won. And in a way, so am I. The deal works in our favor. Rome will be ours soon, and everything else will fall into place.

Once Palma and his men are gone, we begin to move toward the doors of the church. Luigi sidles up beside me, his expression tight, nerves etched across his face. "The deal is done?"

My focus shifts to Luigi, sensing something off. There's a jitteriness to him, a nervous energy that has my instincts on high alert. Luca catches my eye, raising an eyebrow—he feels it too. Luigi's eyes dart around, refusing to meet mine, and I see it there: fear mixed with guilt. My stomach knots as dread sinks in. He's done something. Something that could cost us everything.