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I stare at her, trying to imagine the woman from the portraits around the mansion. Someone so elegant, so refined committing such an act.

"What did she do?"

"She took a pair of scissors from her sewing basket and drove them through his eye." Teresa's voice remains matter-of-fact, though her eyes hold a distant memory. "Then she woke Luca, wrapped him in a blanket, and carried him to her room, never saying a word about what happened."

"Did Luca know?"

"Not until years later. After she died." Teresa reaches for my hand. "But that's the point, Bianca. Women in this family have always done what was needed to protect their own. Elena would be proud of what you did last night."

The words wash over me like a blessing. It's unexpected and… strangely comforting.

To be compared to Elena, the woman whose memory still holds such power over Luca, feels like an affirmation.

"I'm afraid," I admit, whispering into the slight breeze that hints at the season's changing. "Not of what I did. But of how... right it felt. In that moment, when I pulled the trigger, there was no hesitation. No doubt."

Teresa squeezes my hand. "That's not something to fear. It's something to understand. Don't forget… it's in your blood."

"You knew, didn't you?" I turn to face her fully. "About my Volkov blood?"

Teresa's fingers tighten around mine. Her other hand smooths an invisible wrinkle from her skirt.

"Yes." She meets my gaze directly. "I knew your father, Alexei. He was... different from the other Volkovs. Gentler, though no less dangerous when needed."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because, dear, knowledge is power in this world, and sometimes the safest place for power is in darkness." Her thumb traces circles on my palm, motherly and warning at once. "You've always had this in you, Bianca. The willingness to protect what's yours, whatever the cost. Luca saw it that first night in the hotel. I'm certain it's why he chose you, even if he didn't know it himself."

"I thought he chose me because I witnessed something I shouldn't have."

"Men like Luca eliminate witnesses," Teresa says simply. "They don't marry them."

***

Soon, night falls over the estate like a veil of mourning.

The mansion is quieter than usual, staff moving through corridors with hushed voices and downcast eyes. Not out of grief, because few will truly mourn Vito Ravelli, but out of respect for the rituals of the shift of power.

A Don has fallen. Another rises to take his place.

In our bedroom, Luca waits for me, seated in the armchair by the fireplace. Firelight dances across his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his face, the shadows beneath his eyes.

"Come here," he says, almost smiling.

I go to him without hesitation, allowing him to pull me onto his lap. His arms encircle me, one hand splaying protectively over my stomach.

"I have something for you," he says finally, reaching for a leather-bound book on the side table. "Something I think belongs to you now."

I take it from him, running my fingers over the worn cover. It's old, the leather soft with age and use, secured with a faded ribbon.

"What is it?"

"My mother's journal." His voice carries a weight I've rarely heard. "Her private thoughts. Her secrets. I've never read it."

My breath catches. "Luca, I can't—"

"You can. And perhaps more importantly, youshould." His lips brush my temple. "She would have wanted you to have it. The woman who saved her son. The woman carrying her grandchild."

Tears sting my eyes as I carefully untie the ribbon. The pages are yellowed, filled with elegant handwriting that flows across the paper like art. English mostly, with occasional passages in Italian.