Page 145 of Devoted

Luca was still in there.

And if he was still there, we could use him.

Guards rushed in from all sides and dragged the two brothers back into place as Giovanni climbed to his feet, touching his bleeding temple as though he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

“Emberline will die first,” he hissed. “And you three will watch.” Then he went utterly still, his expression shuttering at the sharp tap, tap, tap behind us.

“Make sure my daughter dies second, the traitorous little bitch.” Rocco Demente crossed in front of us, immaculately dressed in one of his tailored suits, his stump tucked casually into a pocket, his other hand braced on a new golden cane. His dark gaze moved over the burning villa… over Valeria… over the four of us kneeling before Giovanni.

There was no remorse in his expression, only vindictive hate.

He stopped beside Giovanni, coldly taking in the monk’s now-rumpled appearance, the healing gash on his forehead with a small, condescending smile.

“And I will be there, watching. Knowing that while you took my hand,”—his glare landed on Gabriel—“and you stole my seat at council…” He frowned at Valeria, her head still bowed, shoulders shaking. “Power belongs to the only one left standing. Look at me.”

Rocco nodded, and a guard stepped forward, grabbed Valeria’s hair, and yanked her head back, forcing her to face her father. His smile grew wider. More vicious.

“And my victory will be written in blood by the very traitors who thought they’d bested me.”

CHAPTER 55

EMBERLINE

I’d always assumed when the end came, I’d go out fighting.

That was the fantasy, wasn’t it? The bold, brave version of yourself you constructed in your head, the one who faced the worst possible outcome with her chin and her middle fingers up and something appropriately clever on her lips. Who made their enemy’s victory cost them something, even at the end.

The reality was, my limbs were so weak, I could barely walk.

Dried blood stained my face, my head ringing from Blackwood’s torture, a deep, resonant ache behind my skull that pulsed with every heartbeat, grew worse with every step, the guards yanking me forward as we followed the narrow, rocky path down to the dock.

I was so out of it, I wondered if Blackwood had damaged me permanently.

He might have. After all, I was going to die in a few hours. Who cared if my brain still worked when I was going to be fed to the Drax? A slow, agonizing death. Oh, I’d heard my uncle’s gloating little speech, just like he’d wanted me to.

The iron shackles cut off the blood to my hands, slicing deeper every time I stumbled or the ground dropped out from under my feet, which was often, given I could barely function.

Dante was ahead of me, five guards surrounding him to my two, his hands locked behind his back in a complicated tangle of heavy chains. He’d looked at me once when the guards hauled us all to our feet—one long, sorrowful look, even though none of this was his fault. He was naked, courtesy of the ifrit, his ass clenching with every step, as I tried to focus on the fact we were about to be loaded into prison boats and carted to Venice.

But damn, he did have the nicest ass.

I supposed, if I was going to die in a few hours, I’d rather look at my husband’s second-best asset than my uncle’s sniveling expression face or my brother, taken over by Blackwood, or Rocco, so supremely confident he’d won this round.

Not that he was wrong; he just didn’t have to be so godsdamned… delighted about it.

Dante’s hands worked at the shackles. The chains. Twisted and strained against the sharp edges until blood coated the metal, and all I smelled was copper. From the heavy blood scent in the air, I knew behind me, Nico was doing the same. So was Gabriel.

If just one of us could get free, the tall, rangy guard at the head of the line had the keys.

I’d watched him slide them into his pocket, and once we had those keys, we’d be up and fighting again. Not that the odds were in our favor.

Drax lurked on every surface, Ashbound burning between them.

Even if we could get free, there was nowhere for us to run.

Behind us, the villa was a pile of rubble and smoking beams, bodies strewn around the grounds. Gia and the healers who had tended my brother’s wound and ours. The soldiers who guarded us while we slept. The cook in the kitchen. The staff that made every day easy.

All of them gone.