Chapter 4

Chloe

The heavy oak doors of the council chamber groaned shut, sealing us inside with three centuries of cigar smoke and cold marble.

Once all thirty Capos had taken their seats around the long obsidian table, I stepped up to the dais and rested my hands on the carved raven armrests of my father's throne.

Down to my right, my mother dabbed her eyes with a black lace handkerchief and gave me a warm, encouraging nod. Beside her, Uncle Matteo offered a solemn tilt of his chin, gesturing toward the floor as if to say the room was mine.

I drew in a slow breath and let my voice ring out across the hall.

"I see the grief on every face at this table tonight," I began, my tone steady and resonant. "None of you feel the weight of this loss more than I do. Losing the Don is a devastating blow to our blood and our pride!"

I straightened my spine, locking eyes with the veteran commanders my father had bled alongside for decades.

"Which is why, to keep this syndicate from fracturing, I am stepping into my father's shoes tonight in accordance with his lifelong will—as the new Godfather of House Corvo!"

I paused, waiting for the traditional tap of signet rings against the obsidian wood. Waiting for the applause, or the murmured vows of "Salute, Don Corvo."

Nothing happened.

Back in the corner shadows by the sideboard, old Cesare—my father's butler of seventy years—nodded repeatedly, his eyes glistening with fierce, devoted pride.

Around the table, however, not a single man moved.

Nobody clapped. Nobody offered congratulations. Silvio simply stared at his folded hands, while Marco leaned back in his chair and examined a smudge on his cuff.

My brows pulled together into a sharp frown.

Seeing my hesitation, Uncle Matteo let out a soft, sympathetic sigh, leaning forward on his elbows.

"Chloe—oh, forgive me, Godfather," Matteo murmured smoothly. "Don't let their silence get under your skin. The men are simply too heartbroken and demoralized by Lorenzo's death to cheer. Skip the formalities and go straight to your orders."

"Matteo is right, darling," my mother chimed in urgently, clasping her hands on the table. "Issue your commands quickly! Being one of the Three Founding Houses means we have made a mountain of enemies over the centuries. Now that your father is dead, dozens of syndicates out there are sharpening their knives for revenge, waiting to swallow us whole!"

A strange, cold irritation pricked at the back of my neck, but the urgency of the night left no room to dissect their tone.

"Fine," I said coldly, stepping up to the edge of the dais. "Then listen closely to my orders."

I pointed a sharp finger at our Consigliere.

"First—Silvio. Send ravens to every syndicate in Venice before dawn. Inform them of my father's assassination. More importantly, make sure they know the new Godfather of House Corvo has already taken the throne."

Without pausing, I whipped my gaze to our scarred chief enforcer.

"Second—Rocco. Take twenty button men and tear up two of Castellano's supply docks on the Lido tonight. The Americans are Suspect Number One—and even if they didn't plant that bomb, they are the first sharks who will try to use this chaos to bite into our turf!"

I held up a hand, my eyes flashing like cold steel.

"We aren't going there to formally convict them without evidence—we are going there to bloody their jaws and show the rest of Venice that House Corvo's spine is unbroken!"

Finally, I swept my gaze over all thirty men around the table.

"And third—Rocco! Pass the word to every brother on the docks and every patrol on the mainland: double the perimeter guards, hand out extra crates of silver hollow-points, and pin black mourning badges over your hearts!"

I slammed my palm flat against the lectern, my voice dropping into a lethal growl.

"Lock and load for war! Let the Don's blood light a fire in your veins! At a crossroads like this, showing a single inch of weakness turns you into meat—and House Corvo will never be prey!"

My voice echoed off the high vaulted ceiling and died.

Somehow, the silence that followed was ten times colder and deader than before.

Silvio didn't reach for his pen. Rocco didn't uncross his arms. Thirty predators sat around the table like stone gargoyles.

My jaw tightened, anger flaring hot behind my ribs.

"Did I stutter?" I asked, my voice dropping to sub-zero. "Or did I not make myself clear enough?"

Scrape.

Halfway down the table, a chair slid smoothly backward across the marble floor.

My older sister, Valentina, stood up, smoothing the black Chantilly lace of her skirt as she strolled lazily toward the center of the room.

"Oh, little sister," Valentina purred, offering me a sweet, pitying smile. "Perhaps your instructions were just a touch... muddled. Let me give it a try."

I stared at her as if she had lost her mind.

"Valentina, sit down," I snapped. "You don't know the first thing about running a war room or—"

Valentina didn't even spare me a glance. She turned her head gracefully toward our Consigliere.

"Uncle Silvio," Valentina said, her voice light and melodic. "Send word to the Founding Houses that my father has tragically passed. Tell them House Corvo has already held a democratic vote and elected our new Godfather."

The words had barely left her painted lips when Silvio—who had just played deaf and dumb to my face—rose from his chair, bowed forty-five degrees from the waist toward Valentina, and murmured reverently:

"Sì, Signorina."

Then, without looking at me once, he stepped back into his place like a trained hound.

My brain physically stalled.

"What the hell was that?" I barked, glaring from Silvio to my sister. "A democratic vote? And since when do you take orders from her instead of me, Silvio?!"

Neither of them answered me.

Ignoring my existence entirely, Valentina glided over to Marco, tapping a manicured red nail against the obsidian wood.

"And Marco," she continued smoothly. "The Castellanos came from Chicago, and Americans aren't stupid enough to assassinate a Founding Don before their own footing in the lagoon is even secure."

She flashed him a warm, gracious smile.

"Go pay them a visit on the Lido. Tell Don Enzo that House Corvo harbors zero suspicion toward his family—and to build a bridge of friendship between us, inform him that the monthly protection tribute from Casinò di Venezia is his to collect from now on."

Marco's face split into an enthusiastic grin as he clapped a fist to his chest.

"Every word right on the money, Signorina Valentina! Brilliant diplomacy!"

Something inside my skull detonated.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?!" I roared, slamming both palms onto the lectern. "Even if the Americans didn't pull the trigger, since when does House Corvo grovel on its knees to outsiders?!"

My finger whipped toward Valentina's face, my knuckles white with fury.

"And Casinò di Venezia is our flagship turf! My father and I literally walked out of there with three months of tribute tonight—how fucking dare you give away our biggest cash cow like a party favor?!"

Down to my right, Uncle Matteo let out a cold, mocking snort, finally dropping his gentle mask.

"Wake up, Chloe," Matteo sneered. "Now that your father is a pile of soot, do you honestly think Signor Giancarlo and that casino would keep paying a dime to us anyway?!"

Before I could rip Matteo's head off, Valentina turned to Rocco to deliver her final command, raising her voice so it carried to every corner of the hall.

"And Rocco," Valentina purred warmly. "Pass the word to all the brothers downstairs: nobody is to carry an ounce of extra burden because of my father's death. In fact, under my watch, House Corvo will not sacrifice a single man's life!"

She spread her arms, smiling like a benevolent queen.

"Tell the boys to put the silver away, pour themselves a drink, and relax to their hearts' content! Because under my leadership... House Corvo is going to be a hundred times safer and more comfortable than it ever was before!"

Around the table, thirty grim faces suddenly broke into relieved smiles and approving nods.

The marble floor felt like it was tilting beneath my boots.

"What the fuck is this circus?!" I snarled, my hand flying toward the Beretta inside my jacket as I stepped forward, glaring daggers at my sister. "Valentina! Under your leadership?! Who the hell gave you the right to—"

I didn't get to finish the sentence.

Slow, unhurried footsteps echoed up the three marble steps behind me.

Uncle Matteo strolled lazily onto the dais, stopping right beside my shoulder.

With a heavy, theatrical sigh, he reached out and patted the carved raven on the back of my chair.

"The game is over. Come down from there, Chloe," Matteo murmured softly, looking at me like a pathetic clown who didn't realize the curtains had already closed. "Did you really think you were the Godfather?"

A vicious, razor-sharp grin stretched across his face.

"The only reason I told you to stand up here and bark your little commands was to let the entire Round Table see firsthand just how dangerously stupid you are."

He leaned in close to my ear, his voice dropping to a freezing, triumphant whisper.

"Besides... while you were riding back in the car tonight, the council already finished casting its ballots. Thirty votes for your sister. Zero for you. The chair you're trying so hard to warm... belonged to Valentina ten minutes ago."