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I should refuse. I should be marching out this door with a gun in my hand and pulling the trigger on my father, finally claiming his throne.

But the weight of these past few weeks presses down on my shoulders more than ever, and for once, I allow someone else to carry part of the burden.

Her towel drops to the floor as she leads me toward the shower, her naked body a work of art in the dim bathroom light. The water burns hot against my skin as she steps in beside me, taking the soap from my hands.

"Your tattoos," she says softly, fingers tracing the inked patterns that cover my chest, my arms, my back. "Tell me about them."

I close my eyes, surrendering to her touch as she washes away the day's violence from my skin.

"This one," her fingers trace the thorned roses that wrap around my forearm, "when did you get it?"

"Seventeen," I answer, voice rough with contained emotion. "After my first kill that wasn't orchestrated by Vito."

"What does it mean?" Bianca asks, her touch tender, like the words she's using to distract me from the darkness clawing at my every thought.

"The thorns represent blood debts. The roses, beauty in violence."

She hums softly, moving to the script etched across my collarbone. "Nel sangue il potere," she reads, pronunciation perfect despite her lack of Italian. "In blood, power."

"My father's favorite saying," I confirm, bitterness coating each word. "A reminder that power is taken, not given. That it requires sacrifice."

"And this?" Her touch feathers across the bishop piece inked over my heart, the one tattoo I've never explained to anyone.

I catch her hand, pressing it flat against the image. "My mother's favorite chess piece. She said bishops move diagonally because sometimes the most direct path isn't a straight line."

Water streams over us, washing away soap and memories, but not the weight of betrayal that sits heaviest against my chest. When we finally step from the shower, Bianca wraps a towel around her own body before using another to dry me with careful, tender movements.

There's a strangeness to her care tonight—an emotion I can't quite name shimmering beneath the surface of her actions. Something has shifted in her, beyond the revelations my father shared.

And maybe it's the clarity starting to take shape in my mind, but tonight…wow.

She's never looked more beautiful.

"Why didn't you tell me about the recording?" she asks as she dries my hair, standing on tiptoes to reach properly.

I shake my head. "I needed to be certain it was legitimate."

"And now you are." She steps back, studying my face. "What will you do?"

The question doesn't require an answer, and when Bianca looks in my eyes, she already knows. My little rabbit might be finding her way out of the little cave of darkness she's found herself in, but even she knows what happens to those who betray the Ravelli family—even if they bear the name themselves.

Especially then.

I dress quickly, selecting a fresh suit from the closet. Black, of course. Appropriate for confronting a ghost that's haunted me for fifteen years.

Bianca watches from the bed, the towel slipping to reveal the curve of her breast, the flat plane of her stomach. Something in her eyes catches my attention—a protectiveness I haven't seen before, directed not at me but at herself.

Later, I'll examine that look more closely. For now, there's only one thing that matters.

"Stay here," I tell her, voice brooking no argument as I slip the recording into my jacket pocket. "Whatever happens tonight, whatever you hear—don't leave this wing."

Bianca rises from the bed, the towel falling away completely. She crosses to me with that same protective look in her eyes, reaching up to straighten my tie with trembling fingers.

"What if he—" Her voice cracks. "What if something happens to you?"

I catch her hands, stilling their shake. "Nothing will happen to me, my love."

"You don't know that." Her eyes fill with tears she refuses to let fall. "He killed your mother, Luca. His own wife. You think he won't kill you too?"