The spilled wine on the Great Hall’s table was still hissing, a slow, corrosive death eating into the silver tray. Alessandro didn't look at it. He was looking at the single, blood-stained page Luca had tossed onto the table.
Dante Romano-Moretti.
The name felt like a curse. A child of both bloodlines—the ultimate union and the ultimate threat. If such a boy existed, he wasn't just an heir; he was a walking death sentence for everyone currently holding power in Sicily.
"We don't have time to stare at ink and blood," Seraphina said, her voice sharp enough to cut through Alessandro’s grim silence. She grabbed the ledger page, her mind already cataloging the handwriting. "If Dante is real, Valentina isn't just trying to kill us for the throne. She’s trying to clear the path for him. Or eli
