182 – Daphne POV
Well.
This is some weird creepy shit.
The entire hall is bathed in shadows, lit only by low-hanging iron chandeliers. The smell of old wood, cold stone, and cigar smoke lingers in the air. Everyone around me—hundreds of Castellano elites—is dressed in black suits, polished shoes, solemn faces like this is a funeral, not a crowning.
I cross one leg over the other, arms folded loosely, watching from my seat at the side of the chamber. Front row, of course. I wouldn't miss this for anything.
And there at the center—Raffaele.
Standing in front of a carved marble dais where the five ancient elders sit like withered statues.
He holds a ceremonial dagger—curved, gilded, definitely unhygienic, and probably a couple centuries old. No way anyone's sanitized that thing. The man looks calm on the outside, but I can tell his grip is just a little too tight.
He draws the blade down his palm in one clean slice.
Blood wells instantly.
