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But this feels different.

My hand drifts to my stomach, where our child grows. This isn't just about me anymore. This isn't about pushing boundaries or testing limits.

For the first time, I understand why Luca's control can be a form of protection.

A flicker of impatience crosses Matteo's face. "We need to move. I'm afraid this isn't a request up for discussion, Mrs. Ravelli."

Matteo lunges forward with unexpected speed for a man his age. I slash wildly with the blade, catching his forearm, drawing a thin line of crimson across expensive fabric.

"Youbitch," he hisses, grabbing my wrist and twisting until the knife clatters to the floor.

I drive my knee upward, aiming for his groin, but he anticipates the move, slamming me against the bathroom wall hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. His forearm presses against my throat, just shy of cutting off my air completely.

"I've served the Ravelli family for thirty years," he growls, inches from my face. "I've watched men and women stronger than you break under Vito's command. Don't make this harder than it needs to be,Miss Sutton."

I spit in his face. "That's Mrs. Ravelli to you."

The blow comes fast—an open-handed slap that snaps my head to the side and fills my mouth with the metallic taste of blood.

"I suggest… for thebaby'ssake," Matteo whispers, his voice suddenly gentle in a way that terrifies me more than his violence. "Don't fight. Not now."

The mention of my child freezes me mid-struggle. My hands instinctively move to shield my abdomen, creating just enough space for Matteo to shove a heavy cloth bag over my head.

Disoriented and blind, I feel hands gripping my arms, dragging me from the bathroom. I kick and struggle against them, but Matteo's grip is unrelenting, his fingers digging bruises into my flesh.

"Luca will kill you for this," I gasp through the thick fabric. "He trusted you."

"Luca isn't here," Matteo responds, voice cold as he forces me forward. "And when he returns, it will be too late anyway."

Terror shivers through me at the finality in his tone. Not just for myself, but for the life growing inside me. For Luca, walking into a trap while his father springs another here at home.

We descend stairs I can't see, the air growing colder with each fumbled step I take. The familiar scents of the mansion slowly give way to something dank and ancient. There's stone beneath my bare feet now, not carpet or marble.

We must be somewhere beneath the mansion. A place I've never been shown.

When the bag is finally yanked from my head, I blink against the sudden light from a single bulb hanging overhead. The room around me is stone and shadows. It's completely medieval in its construction, with walls that weep moisture and air that tastes of earth and decay.

And seated before me in a wooden chair that looks suspiciously like a throne, oxygen tank at his side, is Vito Ravelli.

"Leave us," he commands, and Matteo steps back with a respectful nod and a low bow.

The heavy door closes behind him as he retreats up the stairs we descended, the sound of a lock engaging with grim finality.

"Sit," Vito gestures to a simple wooden chair positioned across from his own.

"I prefer to stand," I reply, arms wrapped around my middle. My cheek throbs from Matteo's blow, the taste of blood still metallic on my tongue.

"I said…sit," Vito repeats, voice hardening. "Before I have Matteo return to finish what he started."

My nose twitches, but I lower myself onto the chair, keeping my spine straight, chin lifted. Teresa's lessons in Ravelli pride suddenly feel like armor I desperately need right now.

"He found it," I snap, satisfaction of getting the first word in curling through me despite my fear. "He has proof you murdered Elena. You won't win, Vito. Not now."

If Vito is surprised by my knowledge, he doesn't show it.

Despite the oxygen tank at his side and the pallor of his skin, to this day, there's nothing weak about Vito Ravelli.

He sits in that wooden throne like a spider in its web. His hands rest on the carved arms, fingers splayed like he has all the time in the world. Even dying, he maintains perfect posture, his suit crisp despite the damp air down here.