Angelo hated cathedrals, especially when they were repurposed for the mafia.
He stood in the midst of air thick with cigar smoke. The nave, once filled with wooden pews, now had a table full of aged wines, whiskey bottles, espresso machines, and charcuterie boards sprawled with food not just to satisfy, but to impress. Gnocchi, blood sausage, roasted lamb, and fancy metal plates with silver forks. The other side was a seating area with fancy armchairs, dark oak dining tables, and comfortable lounges.
The long stretches of stained glass windows threw fragments of colours over sharply dressed figures deep in criminal conversation or annoying laughter. The vaulted ceiling caught ever murmur and toast, echoing it all like a chant. Red, black, and white candles along with chandeliers cast flickering gold light over the stone, making shadows dance across statues of saints not blindfolded in crimson silk.
It was unholy. There was reverence, but not for the god it stood for. It was for family, power, for the unwritten rules of blood and loyalty passed through whispers. Laughter rung out where hymns once dead, deals struck where prayers were murmured. No one left without kissing a ring or making a vow. The cathedral was no longer a sanctuary from sin, but where sin dressed in silk, served wine, and was given a seat at the table like it belonged.
Angelo's mother was catholic – that's why he hated it so much. His mother might have actually fainted at the sight of a god's home being dressed in red, black, and silk. However, Angelo wasn't catholic, but that didn't make him any less pissed.
He stood near the back while underbosses, lieutenants, and enforcers entered without a blink of the eye. Jazelle was busy tonight, and she promised to get Angelo dinner later, but he didn't care if she didn't make it. No, what he cared about was that Jose was nowhere in sight. His one reliable person in this shitshow wasn't anywhere to be seen, and he didn't know if he was angry, disappointed, or glad.
Angelo was the Don's son, but tonight, he wasn't just a shadow anymore. Tonight would be the night he would take up the mantle of a true prince of the mafia, next in line to become Don, and all he wanted to do was run. Yet, like every time, he stood still, watching as everyone who passed him gave him a bow but failed to start a conversation. He was mute, afterall.
When the Don entered, Angelo didn't look at him. Two bodyguards flanked him, well known as his chosen guards, and everyone fell silent at the sight of him. They all turned and gave bows, men and women, and Angelo forced one as well. The Don didn't look at anyone, simply kept walking as he went along the red carpet to the altar stood, untouched.
A woman stood there already, and she laid out a silver ornate dagger and a square of red velvet, bowing to him as he approached. He didn't even acknowledge her, dressed in sleek black silks and beautiful, as he turned to the rest of the cathedral as the guards stood waiting at the bottom of the steps.
"Tonight," He said, loud and powerful. "I choose a predecessor. The circle chooses when the time comes after I die, but blood comes first." His eyes settled on Angelo. "Blaze Kuron, approach."
Angelo felt like a strap around his throat was just tightened, like a collar pulled when Lorenzo held out a hand towards him. He looked serious, but not happy or content. It was obvious he didn't want to do this, but there was no choice. Blood came before anything else in the mafia, so he approached… neither of them got to choose, in the end.
People started to part as Angelo came forward, walking down the red carpet with his eyes on Lorenzo. He didn't want to watch him, or look at him, but there was no option for otherwise. If he looked away, it showed fear, and looking at him showed respect. Who knew what the Don would do if he looked away? He could possibly just take that knife to his stomach, and surrounded by every important and powerful person in the mafia, he had no escape if that was what he wanted.
He walked up the steps one at a time, coming to stand in front of Lorenzo. The sneer on his face was clear, and Angelo didn't look away. His father took the blade from the square of velvet and put it against his own hand, cutting along the palm. Then he held it over the square of velvet, squeezing his hand as blood dribbled on the fabric.
Then he pulled his hand back and took a piece of gauze from the woman, proceeding to wrap his hand before he picked up the blade again and handed it to Angelo expectantly. Barely hesitating, Angelo took the dagger and cut his own hand the same. He was about to hold out his hand over the velvet, but Lorenzo stopped him by holding up his clean hand.
"Now burn it." He said. "Just barely."
Angelo looked at him, confused, and Lorenzo smiled a strange smile. "Your fire, your mark. The circle will carry it during your reign," His voice lowered. "However long you may last."
He squinted at his father, then simply opened his cut hand as fire bloomed at his wounded palm. Whispers and murmurs spread – most people in the mafia assumed it was a rumour, that whatever power Angelo had over flames was just something to scare them… but now they saw it for real.
Angelo dimmed the fire just enough to barely see the heat radiating from his hand, and if his skin was metal, it would be red-hot. Carefully, he looked at the velvet square, then placed his hand palm-down on it. After it started to scorch black, Angelo raised his hand away, leaving an ashen mark of his hand there… and he felt like the invisible collar around his neck had just now pulled tighter.
As the woman put the square of velvet into a heat resistant bag, the Don held out a ring to Angelo. He looked: it was a simple black ring with a carved silver insignia on the inside, which was a 'V' in a circle, barely overlapping like messy graffiti.
"Put it on," Lorenzo said firmly.
Angelo hesitated, but took the ring and placed it on his right ring finger. He stared at it for a long time: a simple black iron band with no distinguishable features on the outside, but on the inside held something wretched. Lorenzo began to speak again, louder.
"Your bond is forged," He said. "And with that, your oath made."
Angelo saw out of the corner of his eye, while he was staring at the ring, people had begun to kneel. His father was smiling in triumph, but Angelo hated it. He was supposed to feel honoured with all these people kneeling for him, but he didn't feel honoured… he just felt owned.