The church feels suffocating: the dress too tight, the air too warm as I feel the weight of every pair of eyes crushing me, a physical pressure on my spine.
The priest speaks, but the words sound distant, like I’m underwater, barely able to puzzle out the shape of them. I focus on my breathing, on making sure my voice doesn’t crack when it’s my turn to speak.
“I do.”
The words come out softer than I wanted, but they carry, ringing through the cavernous space.
Carmine’s response is steady, unyielding. “I do.”
His hand is warm when he takes mine, sliding the ring onto my finger.
The finality of it all sinks into my very bones, cold and inescapable.
The priest lifts his hands in a benediction. I barely hear him. The words blur together. Husband and wife. Bound together.
Forever.
Carmine’s hand slides to the back of my head, fingers weaving into my hair, his grip not tender, not hesitant, but firm. Possessive. He leans in, and for a moment his lips are deceptively soft against mine. Then the pressure increases, becomes punishing, sealing the moment with a brutality that sucks the air from my lungs.
His teeth clamp down on my lip, making me flinch when I feel him bite just hard enough to bring the taste of copper to my mouth.
Applause ripples through the crowd as he pulls back, his eyes glinting.
Crimson on his lips.
It barely registers. My world has just shifted on its axis.
And there’s no turning back.
Today isn’t just about the wedding. Actually, once we arrive at the Barone house, it feels like the wedding was only an appetizer.
The main event is Carmine’s coronation.
The last time I was here, the house felt different—grand, intimidating, but still alive. There were people moving through the halls, voices and music, warmth cutting through the cold elegance. It all made the house feel like more than just a monument to power.
Now, as Carmine leads me inside, all of that is gone. The house feels empty, stripped of anything human. It’s dark, quiet in a way that doesn’t feel peaceful. The chandeliers overhead cast a golden glow, but it doesn’t reach the corners. The walls feel closer, the air heavier.
It feels like a place where monumental things are decided. Not a home.
Or maybe the weird part is that this is my home now.
With Vito stepping down, and Carmine becoming don, the older Barone has moved to Dante and Bianca’s estate in Long Island. Most of the time, they’re at their place in the city anyway, so it suits everyone.
Out there, away from the weight of responsibility, Vito can do whatever he wants. And from what Bianca once told me with an exasperated laugh, in addition to playing golf, smoking cigars, and listening to Sinatra full blast, that also includes sunbathing.
Nude.
So that leaves this house, and the seat of power it represents, with Carmine.
…And me, I suppose, since I’ve become the queen of a kingdom I never asked for.
Carmine leads me deeper into the house, past the grand staircase, past the ballroom. My face heats as his steps seem to slow just a bit as we pass by the guest bathroom where…
Yeah.
The night of the engagement party rushes back, tingling through my veins. Carmine’s hand almost throbs against the small of my back. Then he ushers us forward.
The library doors loom ahead. Dark wood, intricately carved, practically black in the low light. Carmine pushes them open without a word, and the room devours us whole.
This is the heart of the Barone empire.
A small gathering awaits us. Nico, Dante and Tempest, Bianca with Kratos looming beside her. A handful of Vito’s top lieutenants too, watching Carmine studiously, as well as a man I briefly met at the wedding—Santino, Vito’s top consigliere.
Carmine’s hand leaves my back. I glance to Bianca, who subtly gestures for me to join her.
The room falls silent as Vito steps forward to where Carmine is standing in the middle of the room.
“This is not a tradition of the Commission,” Vito says, his voice low and reverent as he indicates an ancient-looking dagger in his hands. “It is a tradition of the Barone bloodline.”
The blade gleams in the firelight.
“For generations, the men who have worn this crown have taken an oath to bleed for this family. To kill for it. To die for it.”
Carmine shrugs off his tuxedo jacket and removes his tie. He unbuttons his shirt, then peels it off his muscled shoulders.
I suck in my breath as Vito takes the blade and quickly slices a line across his own palm. Dark blood wells immediately.
Then he turns to Carmine.
Nico and Dante step forward, each taking one of Carmine’s arms, holding him steady. Nico hands his father a metal stencil with the design of a shield bearing a crown and sword. My face pales as I watch Nico grab his brother’s hand in his, squeezing tightly.
Vito’s voice is quieter now, something almost regretful slipping into its edges. “I’m truly sorry for what I must do, my son.”
Carmine just nods once.
Vito presses the stencil to the left side of Carmine’s bare chest, above his heart. Beside me, I feel Bianca slip her hand into mine, tightly.
Vito’s blade sinks into Carmine’s skin and begins to trace the design.
A sharp breath rushes from me, but Carmine doesn’t make a sound. Blood flows from the cut, running down his chest and abs in dark rivulets, staining the waistband of his pants.
Everyone in the room grimaces. Even Vito looks like he’s seconds away from stopping.
Carmine never flinches once.
When it’s over, Vito hands the blade and stencil to Santino, then turns back to his son with both pain and pride in his eyes.
“Carmine Barone, head of this house, the blade is yours. The blood is yours. The empire is yours.”
The men in the room bow their heads in silent recognition.
The king is dead. Long live the king.
I watch transfixed.
My husband.
The king.
I have no idea if I should kneel…or run.
After the gruesome ritual, the lieutenants hand around glasses of cognac. There’s a toast to the new don, lots of clapping on shoulders, everyone apparently ignoring the fact that Carmine is still shirtless and bleeding.
But eventually everyone else disperses, their voices fading as they slip out of the library one by one. The air still hums with the weight of what just happened, of the vow he made, of the shift in power.
The heavy doors shut with a dull finality, locking me in place.
I’m finally alone with him.
Carmine exhales, slow and deep, rolling his shoulders, like he’s shaking off the weight of his father’s reign. The blood that drips from the carved emblem of the Barone crest is still bright and wet, but he stands there like the pain is nothing.
Then he looks at me.
And there’s a dark shift in the air.
My throat tightens. I force myself to keep breathing, to keep my pulse steady even as it betrays me, hammering against my ribs.
“Do… Do you need a doctor?” I ask breathlessly. The words feel thin and useless.
He just shakes his head.
“Well?” His voice is smooth, deep, filling the silence between us.
I blink. “Well…what?”
“It’s time.”
My stomach tightens. “Time?”
He steps forward into my space, moving with a measured ease that makes my breath hitch. The flickering candlelight carves shadows along the sharp angles of his face, making him look even more intense.
“You do understand, Lyra…” His voice drops to a whisper as he lowers his face, his breath warm on my neck. “That as of today you’re mine.”
A shiver ripples through my core, pebbling my skin. Carmine chuckles, the sound sliding over my senses like silk and steel.
“I’ve been patient.”
His fingers drag over his fresh wound slowly before he lifts his bloodied hand and wraps it gently around my throat. The heat of his touch sears into my skin, branding. Possessing.
“But I’m done waiting.”
My breath stutters and I press my hands against his chest without thinking, feeling the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my fingertips.
His grip stays light, more of a reminder than a threat. “Say you understand.”
His hand tightens around my throat. I don’t know if it’s the heat of the room, the sight of the blood still wet on his chest, or just the emotional strain of the day, but when he does, the sound that drags from my chest can only be described one way:
Needy.
And I know he damn well heard it, too, because satisfaction flickers in his eyes.
Possession.
“Let’s try that again,” he growls. “Do you understand?”
This time I nod as my throat bobs against his hand.
“I understand,” I whisper.
Carmine smiles like a shark.
“Good. Because now, wife,” he murmurs, letting his hand slip wetly from my neck, his blood marking my skin, “it’s time for you to run.”
