Chapter Eleven: The Kiss of Death
It all began with a whisper.
Not from a person.
But from the veil.
That fragile line between life and death.
Between who Luna was—and who she was about to become.
The ritual was scheduled for the Blood Moon.
Three days left.
That's all she had.
Three more sunrises with Dominic.
Three more nights cocooned in sheets that still smelled like him.
Three final chances to say goodbye without completely breaking down.
Standing barefoot in the corridor, she watched the clouds gather. The night air was thick with iron and secrets.
Behind her, the compound was alive with quiet chaos.
People were busy preparing spells they didn't fully grasp, murmuring prayers to gods they didn't truly believe in.
And she?
She was still.
Like the eye of a storm.
Elio made his move at dawn.
A press conference in Milan. Cloaked as charity, presented like prophecy.
He wore a black suit. No tie. No warmth—just power.
"We offer peace to the forgotten children," he told the cameras. "We offer salvation to the bloodline that has lost its way."
And then, he smiled.
A small, soulless thing.
"But to rise again, we must first purify the flame."
In his hand?
A lock of hair. Silver and wild.
The camera zoomed in.
And Luna collapsed.
The lock belonged to a girl.
Twelve years old.
From a tiny orphanage in Florence.
She was Luna's half-sister.
The result of one of her father's "war crimes dressed as love stories," as Mirella had once put it.
Her name was Rosalina.
Luna had only seen her once—hidden behind a curtain in the chapel. Big eyes. Small hands. Fragile voice.
They had never spoken.
But they were the same.
And now Elio had her.
Dominic punched the mirror.
His knuckles split open.
Antonio didn't blink. He just handed him a towel.
"We can't storm the Vatican," he said quietly. "Not without paying the price."
Dominic didn't care.
"She's just a child."
"She's bait."
"She's family."
Luna stepped into the room, her eyes red.
"I'll go," she said.
Antonio turned to her. "Luna—"
"I'll go," she repeated, her voice steady. "He wants me. I'll give him exactly what he desires."
Dominic grabbed her arm. "Absolutely not."
She met his gaze, her eyes glowing silver.
"Watch me."
That night, she found the letter.
Tucked inside an old altar book in the witch's chamber. Pressed between pages soaked in rosewater and death magic.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Luciana.
Her mother.
The woman who died giving her life.
" My Luna,
They will make you choose. Life or fire. Love or power.
Whatever you do—choose yourself.
You were never meant to be a lamb. You are the storm, figlia mia. They'll try to tame you. Let them try.
And if you ever find him—the one who sees you before the beast—love him fiercely. Burn together. Or not at all.
Remember: the moon never apologizes for rising.
—Luciana"
Luna wept in silence.
Not out of sadness.
Out of rage.
And clarity.
They had taken everything from her. Her name. Her childhood. Her choices.
But they wouldn't take this ending.
It would belong to her.
On the second night, the visions began.
She woke up gasping. Drenched in sweat. Eyes aglow.
Dominic sat beside her, holding her hand.
"You stopped breathing," he whispered.
"I was somewhere else," she replied.
"Where?"
She looked at him, lips trembling.
"In the place I go when I die."
The veil had thinned.
She could see it now.
The colors behind the world.
The shadows moving beneath stone and skin.
She could hear whispers in languages she'd never learned.
And feel the presence of every ancestor waiting to pull her under.
Dominic noticed.
"You're not sleeping anymore."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"I'm scared I won't wake up."
He kissed her, forehead to mouth to soul.
"If you go," he whispered, "I'll follow."
She shook her head, tears streaming.
"No. You have to live. Even if I don't."
"I'm not strong enough."
She tightened her grip on his hand.
"You are."
Then she added softly—
"Just promise me one thing."
"Anything."
"Don't let them bury me in white."
By the third night, the compound felt cold.
Not in temperature.
In spirit.
People moved like shadows. The walls oozed candle wax and unspoken dread.
Antonio found her in the chapel, arms lifted, chanting in tongues she had no business knowing.
"Luna," he said gently, "you need to rest."
She looked at him, but her eyes weren't hers.
They were ancient.
"I'm preparing."
"For what?"
"For the kiss."
"What kiss?"
"The one that kills me."
At midnight, the moon turned red.
Not a soft blood-orange glow.
No. It was crimson.
Sharp-edged.
Hungry.
The wolves outside howled in unison.
And Luna knew—they were ready.
But the question was:
Was she?
Dominic stood in the courtyard, blade in hand.
Not the ritual dagger.
His own.
The one he'd vowed never to use again.
Antonio watched from the shadows.
"She's not coming back the same," he warned.
Dominic didn't flinch.
"She was never meant to stay the same."
Inside, Luna had painted her body with ash and silver.
No robes.
No silk.
Just markings of her lineage.
The moon on her breast.
The wolf on her shoulder.
The flame between her thighs.
She stepped out barefoot, holding the blade.
Everyone in the chamber knelt—except for Dominic.
He walked to her, took the blade.
Their eyes locked.
No words.
Just an unspoken goodbye.
She lay on the altar.
Beneath the open sky.
Hair fanned out like a crown of smoke.
"Ready?" he asked.
She nodded once.
"Say the words," he instructed.
She whispered them.
In Latin. In Italian. In every language of pain.
And then—
He kissed her.
Soft. Final.
And plunged the blade into her heart.
She gasped once.
And died.