"Darling, I heard the Family physician is doing the final blood confirmation today," Giorgio said quietly, his arm settling naturally around my shoulders. We stood beneath the corridor outside the medical wing—a pristine white building tucked behind the main estate, where all matters of flesh and lineage were handled with surgical precision. The line was silent and orderly, like people waiting for an irreversible verdict. Other couples from allied Families stood ahead of us, their unions equally arranged, equally binding.
"You've always hated the sight of blood, but don't worry." His voice dropped to something meant to sound tender. "I'll stay with you."
His tone was gentle and restrained, the kind practiced countless times before mirrors and in the company of men who valued performance above all else. I once would have believed it. Now it only felt precise and hollow, like the click of an empty chamber.
I lowered my eyes, fingers tightening around the document in my palm. It bore the Corleone seal pressed in crimson wax—a serpent coiled around a dagger. This was no ordinary formality, but the final confirmation required before the union ceremony. A ritual of loyalty and binding that predated the modern world, rooted in the old ways brought over from Sicily. Once completed, my name would be fully written into his world. My blood would belong to his Family.
The line moved forward slowly. The corridor smelled of disinfectant mixed with herbs—rosemary for remembrance, sage for purification. Some people whispered prayers under their breath. Others nervously rubbed their knuckles, their eyes fixed on the doors ahead. When it was my turn, an assistant in a white coat led me into a cool-toned room where metal instruments gleamed under the lights like sleeping weapons.
Giorgio's fingers brushed my wrist, the pressure exact and deliberate, reminding me he was behind me. It was a signal, not comfort. A reminder of ownership.
The Family physician—an old man with steady hands and eyes that had seen too much—made a small cut across my palm with a blade that had drawn the blood of generations. The pain was sharp and clean. Blood slid down my skin into a glass container etched with the Corleone crest, mixing with the clear solution inside. I did not flinch. I made no sound.
"Does it hurt?" Giorgio asked, his voice low and gentle, yet lacking weight. "Hold on, it'll be over soon."