by Monica Burns
Turning her head back toward the altar, Cleo watched her mother reverently unwrap the Dagger of Cassiopeia from its velvet scarf. The Prima Consul’s careful movements emphasized the underlying solemnity of the happy occasion. Marcus stood beside her mother as an official witness to the ceremony at Dante’s request. Her parents officiating at her blood bonding ceremony. It was a moment Cleo would never have dreamed possible until a matter of days ago.
Marcus met her gaze and smiled. It was easy to smile back. She’d spent time over the past two weeks getting to know her father, and she liked him. Her gaze shifted back to her mother. There was still tension between her parents, and for the first time since discovering her father was alive, Cleo found herself hoping Atia and Marcus would find the happiness denied to them for years.
With the Dagger of Cassiopeia resting on her fingers, Atia lifted the blade and held it up high. Eyes closed, Atia’s lips moved in a silent prayer before she offered the blade to Cleo. Without hesitation, Cleo accepted the dagger then locked her gaze with Dante’s.
“My heart for your heart,” she said in a strong voice.
Withdrawing her hand from Dante’s, she clenched her jaw and dragged the dagger’s finely honed edge across her palm in a swift, deep stroke. Nerve endings cried out in vicious protest, but the pain faded quickly to a minor throb. His touch gentle, Dante took the blade from her.
“My blood for your blood,” Dante said quietly as he cut his palm then silently added an endearment to the traditional vow. “Mea amor.”
He clasped her bleeding hand in his, the blood from their lacerations mixing together in a physical manner that represented their commitment to each other. Atia beamed at them as she handed a strip of linen to Dante. His movements deft, he wrapped one end of the cloth around Cleo’s wrist then over their clasped hands, binding her to him before he released the material. Using the remaining strip of cloth, Cleo repeated the movement and bound Dante to her in the same fashion. Her heart pounding, she looked up at him with a smile.
“Our blood and hearts are one.”
Atia made a quiet sound, and Cleo turned her head to see her mother’s eyes glistening with tears before she cleared her throat.
“Two Sicari hearts that once beat alone now beat as one.” Atia smiled at them as she grasped their joined hands. “Let all who stand with you today know that Jupiter and Juno have smiled on you. May the love you share be as strong and deep as the love of Maximus and Cassiopeia.”
As Atia finished speaking, applause echoed in the ceremonial hall. Cleo and Dante turned their heads at the noise, laughing at the enthusiastic reception to their bonding. With a gentle tug on their bound hands, Dante forced Cleo to look at him.
“There’s never been a woman more beautiful or more worthy of being the Sicari Lord’s wife, carissima,” he said softly.
Cleo’s throat closed up with emotion, and she wondered if it were possible to die from sheer happiness. His free arm wrapping around her, Dante pulled her tight and captured her mouth in a hard kiss. The moment he lifted his head, well-wishers surged forward. Her parents were the first to congratulate them as they circled the stone altar. Cleo smiled at her mother before Atia pulled her close in a tight hug.
“I couldn’t be happier for you, carissima,” her mother whispered in Cleo’s ear. “He’s a good man, and it’s obvious he loves you very much.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
Atia stepped back and touched her cheek as Marcus stepped forward to hug Cleo and press a gentle kiss to her brow. “I expect you to keep my successor on his toes, cara.”
“I don’t think there’s any question she’ll do just that,” Dante said with a grin as he released Atia from a warm hug. Cleo didn’t respond. She simply arched her eyebrows and smiled sweetly at her new husband.
“Something tells me she’s already plotting your surrender.” Marcus chuckled.
“I surrendered to her a long time ago.” Dante leaned into her and brushed his mouth across her cheek. The tenderness in his voice was a warm breeze on her skin.
“As I knew you would,” a gravelly voice echoed over her shoulder. Cleo immediately turned her head to see Placido smiling at them with delight. With her free hand, she warmly hugged the elderly Sicari.
“If I were younger, bella, I would have made our newest Sicari Lord work much harder to earn your affection.” Placido playfully smacked Dante on the cheek in a gesture of fondness. A broad grin on his face, Dante squeezed the shoulder of the old warrior with his hand.
“You might have made me work harder, but I still would have won her heart.” Dante’s words made Placido wag a finger at him.
“Confidence can be a dangerous thing, my boy,” Placido warned with a chuckle before he turned back to Cleopatra. “If I were—”
Angry shouts outside the ceremonial hall interrupted Placido’s admonishment, followed by the harsh ring of swords crashing together. A woman screamed, and less than a second later a man stumbled into the hall. Blood darkened his fingers from where he pressed his hands against a wound in his side. His sword dragging on the ground behind him, the man staggered forward until he sank to his knees.
“Christus, it’s the Praetorian from the Tarpeian Rock,” Cleo gasped as she looked at Dante’s grim features.
Another scream echoed in the hall, and Cleo jerked her gaze back toward the Praetorian to see Marta racing forward to shield the man with her body from two Sicari fighters. Dante didn’t answer but strode toward the wounded Praetorian, pulling Cleo along with him. One of the fighters dragged Marta away from the man she was protecting, while the other prepared to deliver a lethal blow.
“Stop.”
Dante’s voice wasn’t loud, but it rang out clearly in the large room. The fighter appeared ready to protest, before he reluctantly lowered his sword. A frantic look on her face, Marta twisted free of her captor and rushed to the wounded Praetorian’s side. She whispered something to him, but the man shook his head viciously.
“I wish to speak to the Sicari Lord,” he rasped. “Where is he?”
“You’re hurt.” Dante turned his head toward the healer standing on the edge of the circle of people surrounding the fallen Praetorian. “Noemi. See to his wound. Angelo, you and Samuel take him—”
“No.” The Praetorian almost shouted the word. “I’ve come to speak with the Sicari Lord.”
Desperation lingered in the man’s voice as he rejected Dante’s offer of help. Still bound to Dante by the blood bond cloth ties, Cleo quickly unwrapped the linen from her wrist. When he murmured a protest of surprise, she carried his hand to her mouth and kissed his fingertips.
“You have a job to do.” Her quiet explanation made him cup her cheek.
“I love you, Cleopatra.”
“I know.”
Turning back to the Praetorian crumpled on the floor, Dante knelt down so he was eye level with the man. “Either you’re a very brave man, Praetorian, or a fool. Which is it?”
“A little . . . of both, I think.” The wounded man grimaced as he shifted himself up into a sitting position. “Now take me to see . . . the Sicari Lord. I have a proposition for him.”
“I am the Sicari Lord, Praetorian.”
“Vorenus?” There was a distinct note of regret in the injured man’s voice, as if he expected Dante to tell him Marcus was dead and the news would sadden him.
“He has turned over his duties to me.”
“Then he still lives.”
“I do.” Marcus stepped forward into the Praetorian’s line of sight. “What is your name, Praetorian?”
“Verdi. Draco Verdi.”
“Tell me, Draco Verdi,” Marcus said quietly. “What is so important that you were willing to risk your life by entering the Absconditus to find me?”
“The Tyet of Isis.” The Praetorian’s words made Dante inhale a quick breath, and he shot a look up at his mentor, who had gone rigid.
“What about it?” Marcus asked quietly.
“I wish to r
eturn the contents.” Verdi’s face contorted with pain as he shifted his body slightly.
Dante met Marcus’s skeptical gaze, while a murmur of disbelief swept through the circle of warriors surrounding them. Placido emerged from the crowd like a boxer charging into the center of a boxing ring.
“Don’t trust him, boy,” the old Sicari Lord snapped with the vigor of a man half his age. “Praetorians can’t be trusted.”
“Draco Verdi is as much a man of honor as any Sicari here.” Marta stepped forward to glare at the ancient warrior. “I vouch for him.”
Placido eyed her with a mix of irritation and assessment at her defiant manner. When it was clear she wasn’t about to retreat beneath the old Sicari Lord’s harsh stare, Placido bowed slightly in Marta’s direction with a begrudging respect. A quick glance over his shoulder told Dante that his bride was as bewildered as he was by Marta’s championship of the Praetorian. Beside him, Marcus bent down to whisper in Dante’s ear.
“Trust isn’t the issue right now. The man will die if Noemi doesn’t heal him soon. Whether he’s lying or telling the truth, we need him alive to find out what he really wants.”
“Agreed,” Dante said with a sharp nod. He turned his head back to the wounded Praetorian. “Our healer will tend to your wound, and then we’ll talk.”
“I don’t—”
“The only reason you’re still alive, Verdi, is because of your assistance to Vorenus at the Tarpeian Rock.” Dante eyed the man harshly.
“My life . . . is of little consequence . . . unless I end the fighting between us.” Verdi reached for the breast pocket of his leather jacket, and two swords immediately pressed against his throat. The Praetorian closed his eyes then looked at Dante. “I brought it with me.”
Dante stiffened at the soft statement and stretched out his hand toward the man’s pocket. Strong fingers gripped his wrist. Startled, he met Marcus’s gaze.
“One can never tell where a serpent might hide. The Absconditus cannot afford to lose its leader.”
For a moment, Dante thought of protesting. He’d sensed nothing malevolent from the Praetorian, but he also recognized the wisdom of Marcus’s words. If Verdi excelled at hiding his thoughts, the man could have come here with assassination in mind. The Praetorian could have easily dusted the lining of his pocket with a poison that would penetrate the skin to reach the bloodstream.
“My word . . . I mean no harm,” Verdi rasped with another contorted expression.
“We shall see, Praetorian.” Slowly, Marcus reached into the man’s jacket and pulled out a box.
The circle surrounding them tightened as Dante and Marcus both stood upright. Dante frowned as the two of them studied the box. His mentor looked up at him as if to ask permission, and Dante nodded sharply. His mouth taut with tension, Marcus carefully opened the case. Inside was a crumbling piece of parchment and two flash drives.
“Jupiter’s Stone,” Marcus breathed with amazement.
“To earn . . . your . . . trust.” The Praetorian’s breathing had grown increasingly labored, and in the next moment he slumped to the floor of the ceremonial hall.
“Draco.” Although Marta’s exclamation was soft, the panic in her voice made several of the fighters in the circle eye her with suspicion and disapproval.
“Samuel. Angelo. Take him to the infirmary. Noemi, do what you can.” Before Dante had even finished speaking, two fighters stepped out of the crowd. As they carried the unconscious Praetorian out of the ceremonial hall, the healer and Marta followed close on their heels.
“Marta.” The woman halted the moment Dante said her name, but she didn’t turn to face him. “Do you know how the Praetorian gained access to the compound?”
She didn’t move for a long moment. Then, as if it pained her to do so, Marta turned around to face Dante with her shoulders back and head high. “I let him into the complex.”
Her answer didn’t surprise Dante. He’d assumed as much. “And your reason for such a treasonous act?”
“Draco saved my life when I was in the . . . he protected me after . . .” The moment her voice faltered, Dante clenched his jaw with regret. He should have questioned her in private and not subjected her to an open inquisition.
“We can discuss this—”
“I have nothing to hide.” Marta’s chin tilted upward with defiance. “Draco Verdi protected me while I was in that Praetorian hellhole. He’s a good man, and I’d trust him with my life. Draco came here to offer the Sicari a truce. He wouldn’t let me be his messenger. He insisted on doing it in person.”
“So you let him past our defenses.” Placido’s accusation was harsh as he chastised her from the edge of the circle of fighters. At Dante’s hard look, the ancient warrior batted the air with his hands in a gesture of exasperation.
“Yes, and I’d do it again,” Marta snapped as she sent the old Sicari Lord a rebellious look. “He knew there would be skeptics, and he believed putting his life on the line was the only way to convince Sicari such as you that he was sincere.”
Placido flushed at Marta’s fierce response and looked away from her defiant gaze. Satisfied that she’d silenced the old Sicari Lord, Marta turned back to Dante.
“Draco is the leader of a large contingent within the Collegium that was on the verge of overthrowing Nicostratus before he was killed. With the Patriarch gone, not even Monsignor Gregori has the power to prevent Draco from extending his hand in peace and friendship to us.” She fixed her gaze on Marcus. “You above all other Sicari should believe his sincerity, il mio signore. He helped save your life at the Tarpeian Rock not too long ago.”
Marcus met her gaze steadily as he nodded in agreement. “It’s true that without Verdi’s help I would have found it difficult to defeat the Praetorian Dominus.”
Hands clasped behind his back, Dante’s palm stung where the Dagger of Cassiopeia had sliced through his skin. It was a vivid reminder of Cleopatra and their bond. He reached out with his thoughts to brush against hers. The warmth of his wife’s reflections blended with his although she offered him no advice, only her gentle support.
“Under the circumstances, I’ll postpone any decision as to your punishment until after I’ve spoken with Verdi about his proposal.” The flash of relief in Marta’s eyes made him realize that despite her show of fearless defiance, she was more frightened than anyone suspected. “Since it’s obvious you’re concerned for the man’s welfare, go see how he’s doing.”
Marta nodded her thanks before spinning around and racing out of the room. As she disappeared through the doorway, a low rumble rolled through the large hall. It was a sound of skepticism battling with hope. Beside him, Marcus cleared his throat.
“Did someone forget to order wine for the occasion, or am I mistaken?”
The retired Sicari Lord’s gaze scanned the faces in the crowd that surrounded them. Almost immediately, everyone’s mood lightened and the guests broke apart to head toward the buffet that had been set up at the farthest end of the great hall. Marcus turned to Dante, his expression grave.
“The document and flash drives must be destroyed.”
“You can’t do that,” Atia exclaimed quietly as she moved to stand at Marcus’s side. Placido, Lysander, and Cleopatra completed the circle. “As Prima Consul, I can’t allow it.”
“Would you jeopardize the possibility of peace between the Praetorians and the Sicari?” Marcus blew out a harsh breath as he met Atia’s gaze.
“You can’t possibly expect me to just stand by while you destroy a document the Sicari have been searching for since the time of Maximus.”
“It’s not your decision to make,” Lysander said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“And exactly who do you think gets to make the decision?” Atia arched her eyebrow in an imperious manner and glared at her Celeris.
“It’s the Sicari Lord’s responsibility,” Marcus responded in a gentle, yet firm, tone.
Snapping the box closed, Marcus handed it to Dante. His ment
or’s words emphasized to Dante what he already knew. The decision to destroy or preserve the document was his decision and his alone. As the reigning Sicari Lord, his word was law not only in the Absconditus, but within the Order itself. Even before Marcus indicated his opinion about what to do with the parchment, Dante had known what was at stake. The document and the digital files had to be destroyed if there was to be peace between the Sicari and Praetorians.
“Then Dante must choose to keep the document.” Placido’s voice was inflexible steel. “We can’t trust a Praetorian to tell us the truth, let alone suggest there be a truce between us.”
“Can we afford not to believe him?” Dante said as his gaze met the old warrior’s.
The ancient Sicari Lord sneered with disgust but didn’t reply. Dante turned his head to meet the inscrutable gaze of his half brother. Resignation stretched the scarred tissue on Lysander’s face taut, emphasizing his grotesque disfigurement. If anyone had reason to despise the Praetorians it was him.
“I don’t think you really have a choice.” His half brother’s response made Atia and Placido both gasp with outrage, but Lysander didn’t bother to acknowledge their objections. “As long as that document exists, there will always be someone trying to steal it and solve its puzzle. And that someone could just as easily be a Sicari as a Praetorian.”
“Verdi brought us a peace offering.” Marcus’s forefinger tapped against the lid of the box the Praetorian had risked his life to deliver. “If the man is telling the truth about wanting an armistice between us, then we can’t possibly keep the document or the digital files.”
Throughout the debate, Cleopatra had remained a warm, comforting presence at Dante’s side. His gaze didn’t leave the box he held as he reached for his wife’s hand. Their fingers laced together until the wounds on their palms connected again. A pulse of energy zipped its way up his arm, and he waited for her to say something. When she didn’t speak, he gently squeezed her hand.
“You have nothing to say, mea amor?” He turned his head toward her. A warm, loving smile curved her mouth.