Luca survived. But barely. He was kept in a coma—not because the doctors gave up, but because his body needed silence to heal. They said it was standard. A controlled sleep. But to me, it felt like waiting at the edge of a cliff, breath held, one breeze away from falling.

I never left his side. I didn’t go to meetings. I didn’t answer press calls. I didn’t respond to the endless messages Matteo forwarded me. The world spun. Deals moved. But I stayed. One hand always wrapped around his. One eye is always on the monitors. His chest rose slowly, steady, like the world hadn’t tried to take him from me yet.

They let me stay past visiting hours. Matteo pulled strings. Nurses looked the other way. Even the guards stepped out when I asked.

Every night beside Luca’s bed felt longer than the last. I counted breaths. Monitors. IV drips. At night, I whispered stories. Memories. Strategy plans he used to poke holes in. I told him how the estate had quieted, how the city was watching, how everyone waited—for him. For me. For what we’d become when he woke.

I filled the room with the sound of my voice, afraid that if I ever stopped talking, he might stop fighting. So I talked to him about the night I realized I wasn’t invisible. About the way he once smiled when I beat him in chess. Little things. Important things. Our things.

I played his favorite songs. The quiet ones. Piano-heavy. Sad. I whispered lyrics into the dark. The nurses stopped checking on us. I think they started rooting for us. The woman they once whispered about in hallways had become something else. And Luca—he was more than a soldier now. He was my anchor. My proof that softness didn’t mean weakness.

Dante visited three days in. He didn’t bring flowers. He just stood at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets, jaw tight.

“She was never coming for me, was she?” he asked. His voice was hoarse, like it hadn’t spoken in days. I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on Luca.

“No,” I said softly. “She was coming for herself. For a version of her that never existed. You were just a weapon in her hands.”

Dante let out a sound—half laugh, half sigh. He looked thinner. Paler. Hollow around the eyes like someone who’d lost more than blood. He dropped into the chair beside me with a kind of surrender I recognized too well.

When Dante visited, something inside me went still. I didn’t know what he wanted. Maybe forgiveness. Maybe closure. He didn’t ask for either. He just stood there, staring at Luca like a man seeing the difference between what he had and what he threw away. When he sat, it wasn’t to comfort me. It was to admit defeat. And I let him sit. Because even kings need to kneel when the war ends.

When he finally said, “I’ve lost everything,” I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. I was afraid I’d see the boy I once loved and confuse him with the man I no longer needed. His voice cracked when he spoke, but not from emotion. From exhaustion. The kind that seeps into bone. The kind only truth can cause.

I said nothing. Because no answer could fix what was already burned. Regret wasn’t a key. It was a prison. And he had locked himself in long ago.

He left after an hour. Didn’t say goodbye. Just stood, looked at Luca once, then walked out like a man hoping to disappear before the world made him watch more.

That night, Luca stirred. His fingers twitched under mine. His brow creased. The nurse rushed in, checked the monitors.

“Still stable,” she said. “Good signs.”

I didn’t move. I just kept my fingers curled around his, whispering, “Come back. It’s not finished yet. We’re not finished yet.”

The next morning, Matteo summoned me. His message was brief. Five words.

“Council meeting. Be on time.”

I almost didn’t go. I didn’t want to leave Luca’s side. But I also knew this moment had been coming long before the blood dried at the docks.

At the council chamber, the table gleamed under too-bright lights. Glass. Oak. Power carved into edges. Matteo nodded toward the seat at his right. It wasn’t just open, it was expectant. I stood behind it. Let them look at me. Let them see every scar, every inch of me forged by fire and failure.

The council chamber was filled when I entered. Men in suits. Women in silk.

I wore black. No jewels. No makeup. Just the blood under my nails and the scar healing on my shoulder. They looked at me the way cities look at storms: some with fear, some with awe, all with caution.

They asked no questions. They’d seen enough. The docks. The press. The betrayal. My survival. I realized then that I wasn’t being asked to lead—I was being confirmed. Vetted by consequence. Voted by fear and respect alike. Matteo didn’t speak again. He let me feel the weight of what was about to be mine.

At the council chamber, the table gleamed under too-bright lights. Matteo stood at the head. He didn’t ask how I was. Didn’t ask about Luca. He knew better.

“They’re voting,” he said simply. “To name you interim Don.” The words didn’t echo. They landed like bricks. Solid. Final. A door I could open or bolt shut.

I took the seat finally. My fingers touched the polished wood. Cold. Heavy. Familiar. I looked each of them in the eye. One by one. Slowly. Not as Aria the wife. Not Aria the ghost. Aria Corvatti. Heir. Leader. Shadow and flame. I was ready. But I had one question. And I asked it with steel in my voice.

“Do you follow me because I’ve bled—or because I’ve led?”

Silence answered first. Then heads nodded. Some quickly. Some slow. One man said, “Because you stayed standing when the rest ran.” That was enough. I leaned back slightly. Felt the room shift. This was no longer Matteo’s kingdom. It wasn’t mine yet either. But it would be. Soon.

I swallowed. “And if I say yes?”

He smiled. “Then Velmorra becomes yours.”