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My truth.

The only truth that matters.

The bedroom is empty when I enter, but I hear water splashing behind the partially closed bathroom door. Steam curls into the room, carrying the scent of rosemary and mint: Teresa' special calming blend.

I don't knock. I can't wait another second with the weight of confession heavy in my pocket.

Bianca stands with her back to me, wrapped in nothing but a towel.

She turns at the sound of my entrance, and for just a moment, something raw and vulnerable flashes across her pale face before she masks it with a careful smile.

"Luca," she says, my name a breath rather than a word. "You're home."

The towel slips slightly as she moves, revealing the healing mark of my family crest above her breast. The sight of it—my claim, my ownership—centers me in the storm of rage swirling through my blood.

"He didn't hurt you." I'm not sure if I'm asking or observing.

Bianca shakes her head. "No."

"What did my father say to you?" I ask closing the distance between us.

Bianca clutches the towel tighter around her, throat working as she swallows. "He told me about my father."

Of all the answers I expected, this one blindsides me. "Your father?"

"Alexei Petrov." She speaks the name like a foreign word, unfamiliar on her tongue. "A lieutenant who worked for the Ravellis until he defected to the Volkovs. Apparently for my mother's sake. For mine."

The pieces shift again, rearranging themselves into a pattern I should have seen sooner. Marina Sutton. The translator whose photo appeared in both my father's private collection and Dmitri's wallet.

The connection I've been hunting all this time—hidden in plain sight, sleeping in my bed, carved with my mark.

"What else?" I demand, voice rougher than intended.

"That he's been watching me my whole life. That my presence in your bed isn't the coincidence we believed it to be."

I laugh—a sharp, bitter sound that echoes off marble walls. "Of course not. Nothing in this house happens by chance, little rabbit. Haven't you learned that by now?"

Her eyes never leave mine, searching for something beyond the rage that simmers beneath my skin. "He said when you discover the truth about my bloodline, about my father's betrayal, you'll turn on me. Is that true, Luca?"

The question hangs between us, heavy with implication.

I reach for her, one hand gathering her damp hair at the nape of her neck while the other traces the mark on her chest.

"The only truth that matters," I tell her, voice dropping to a whisper against her temple, "is that you're mine. Whatever blood flows in your veins, whatever name your father carried—it changes nothing."

She sags against me, relief evident in every line of her body. I hadn't realized how much tension she'd been carrying until it drains away, leaving her pliant in my arms.

"I found proof," I murmur against her hair, the confession torn from somewhere deep and raw. "About my mother's murder."

Her hands come up to frame my face, forcing me to meet her gaze. "Vito?"

I nod once, the single movement containing fifteen years of suspicion, investigation, and grief all in one.

"Oh, Luca," she breathes, and I see it in her eyes—not pity, which I would despise, but understanding. The recognition of betrayal in its purest form. "I'm so sorry."

Her lips find mine, gentle in a way we rarely allow ourselves. Not a claiming, not a punishment, but comfort, love and care offered freely. Her fingers work at my shirt buttons, pushing the fabric from my shoulders.

"Let me," she whispers against my jaw. "Let me take care of you tonight."