Chapter 2 The Pact of Thorns

Raven

Naples was still burning behind my eyelids.

Not with flames-though I wouldn't have been surprised if someone torched the cathedral to erase what happened there-but with memory. Every breath I took was laced with smoke, gunpowder, and the coppery tang of my father's blood. It clung to me like perfume, soaked into my dress, under my fingernails, behind my teeth.

The four men hadn't spoken since we escaped the catacombs.

Silence in the car was thick enough to drown in.

Kael sat beside me, his profile carved from moonlight and shadow, the sniper's jaw clenched, the blood from his knuckles drying in flaking crimson. He hadn't wiped it off. None of them had.

Theron was in the front passenger seat, speaking low into a burner phone, switching languages mid-sentence like a serpent changing skins. Aemrys drove like the devil owned his soul and wanted it back. And Silas-Silas watched me from the rearview mirror, one brow arched in lazy amusement, like I was the joke he couldn't wait to unwrap.

And I? I sat with my knees tight together, my father's ring heavy on my finger, his last words echoing like gunshots in my skull.

"If I die tonight, they'll come for you next."

He wasn't wrong. They already had.

The car finally stopped outside a palazzo that loomed against the Naples skyline like a mausoleum dressed in velvet. Wrought-iron gates whispered open. Stone lions flanked the entrance, jaws bared. The building oozed old money and older sins.

I stepped out last. My heels hit the gravel like defiance.

Inside, it was a gallery of blood-colored luxury: red velvet drapes, mahogany floors, oil paintings of long-dead men with hungrier eyes than most lovers, and the faint scent of cigars, ink, and danger.

They led me into what looked like a war room disguised as a library. Maps. Guns. Liquor. And in the center, a low table with a black velvet folder.

Kael stepped forward and opened it.

The moment he did, the air changed.

The four of them stood equidistant around the table, like a ritual. I stood at the only open spot-clearly meant for me.

The folder held a single document.

Gold ink. Red seal. My father's signature. The words danced and twisted under the chandelier's glow:

"Pactum Sanguinem. The Pact of Thorns."

"Your father signed this three weeks ago," Theron said. "It binds the four heirs of the Five Families to one woman-his heir. You."

I laughed. Dry. Dangerous. "He didn't mention this between ordering my espresso and getting his head blown open."

"He didn't think he'd die," Aemrys muttered.

"Or maybe he knew he would," Kael said softly.

The others went quiet.

I stepped forward, fingers trembling. I read the lines again.

'The Daughter shall bind the Four. In flesh, blood, and vow. One throne, five families. No heir shall rule alone unless the Daughter consents. The pact may only be broken in death or consummation of power.'

"What does consummation mean here?" I asked, voice edged.

Silas smirked. "Exactly what you're thinking, princess."

"Fuck you."

"Oh, you will. Or them. Or all of us. That's the deal."

I turned to Theron. "You expect me to just bend over and let this happen?"

Theron's gaze didn't flinch. "No. I expect you to survive. And in our world, survival looks like this."

"Why me?" I whispered.

"Because you're the only Moretti left," Kael said.

Aemrys poured a drink. Brandy. No ice. "And because you're worth more alive and bound than dead and martyred."

The room spun for a second.

I stared at their faces.

Theron: ice and leadership. Aemrys: fire and fists. Silas: charm wrapped in poison. Kael: silence and steel.

I was surrounded by danger in four flavors. And each one wanted a piece of me-for power, protection, or pleasure. Maybe all three.

The thought made my skin crawl.

And pulse.

"What if I tear it up?" I asked.

Kael answered. "The Council will call it treason. They'll send death squads. Not just for you. For us too. We're bound now. Our blood touched yours."

I looked down at my palm. The wound still throbbed, red and raw.

Aemrys handed me a cloth. His fingers grazed mine-calloused, warm, steady.

"Clean up," he said. "You look like hell."

I wiped my hand. Then looked back at the contract.

"Let's say I agree. What's next?"

Theron spoke. "Initiation."

My eyes narrowed. "Define initiation."

Silas grinned. "You'll love it. Or you'll scream."

"Stop playing with her," Kael snapped. "This isn't a joke."

"It should be," I muttered. "It's fucking insane."

Theron walked to the fireplace and pulled a dagger from a mounted display. He laid it beside the contract.

"Slice your palm again. Seal it with a drop of blood. Sign the bottom. After that, your life belongs to us. We protect it. We use it. We share it. We elevate it."

I stared at the dagger.

Then at the men.

"Will I still be free?"

"No," Silas said. "But you'll be powerful."

"Will I still be me?"

Kael's voice was the softest. "We hope so."

I picked up the dagger.

Pressed the blade to my palm.

Cut.

Blood welled up instantly. I dipped a finger in it. Signed my name beside my father's.

The seal glowed briefly-then cooled.

I dropped the pen. Stepped back.

The pact was done.

Theron nodded. "You'll stay here. One week in each wing. One week with each of us. No guards. No exits. Just you. Us. Trust or destruction."

"Like a fucking honeymoon tour?" I growled.

"Like trial by fire," Aemrys said.

"And what if I choose no one at the end?"

Silas sipped his brandy. "Then the pact collapses. And we all go to war. No pressure."

I turned on my heel. "Then let's begin. Where's my fucking room?"

Kael walked me upstairs.

The hallway smelled of books and smoke. He opened a heavy oak door and stepped aside.

Inside was a four-poster bed, black silk sheets, and a fireplace crackling low. There were roses on the nightstand-deep red, thorns intact.

I turned. "Kael, which one of you is going to try to break me first?"

His voice was ice.

"None of us want to break you, Raven. We want to see what you do with the power when you realize it's yours."

He shut the door behind me.

And I stood alone.

Thorned. Bleeding. Crownless.

But not broken.

Not yet..