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One Month Later

I stand in the private dining room of our wing, surveying the intimate table set for eight. The most trusted members of Luca's inner circle will join us tonight to celebrate the consolidation of his power. The secure establishment of his reign as we finally move into the 'business as normal' stage of the transition.

Teresa bustles in, arms laden with tiny knitted booties and caps, and a delicate silver-framed photograph.

"For the nursery," she explains, setting them down. "Ravelli tradition. Every baby needs something made by the women who came before."

I lift the silver frame, my breath catching at the image inside.

It's my mother, decades younger, looking radiant as she cradles a newborn baby against her chest.Me…against her chest.

Her smile is luminous, her eyes bright with the same fierce love I now feel for my own child.

"Teresa… How did you—?"

"Marina has been moved to a private wing at St. Catherine's," Teresa explains gently. "Luca arranged it last week. She will have better care now, a private bathroom and access to the best specialists in London."

Tears prick my eyes as I trace my mother's face behind the glass. "Has she...improved?"

Teresa's expression softens. "She had a moment of clarity yesterday. She recognized your name when I visited. She asked if you were happy." Her hand covers mine. "I told her you were. That you found where you belong."

I blink back tears, overwhelmed by this unexpected gift. Even as Luca started to build his new empire these past few weeks, he had thought of my mother. Of preserving what fragments remain of the woman who risked everything to protect me.

"Thank you," I whisper, setting the photograph carefully among the baby clothes. "It's perfect."

She begins to respond, but the door opens to admit Alessio, his expression grave despite the festive occasion.

"Sir," he addresses Luca, who enters behind me. "This just arrived. Hand-delivered to the main gate."

He holds out a small package wrapped in plain brown paper.

Luca takes it, weighing it in his palm before carefully unwrapping it. Inside lies a velvet box, the kind used for precious jewelry.

When he opens it, I hear his sharp intake of breath.

Inside, nestled against black velvet, is a Ravelli signet ring—identical to the one Luca wears right now, but the one inside the box is covered in dried blood.

Beside the ring, a handwritten note stands out on expensive stationery:

"To the False King. Your throne is built on sand. Your queen carries poisoned blood. Your heir will never wear this crown. The true Ravelli will claim what's his. Blood will have blood. —Dante"

Luca's fingers close around the ring, knuckles white with fury.

"Sir?" Alessio asks, hand moving toward his weapon. "Your orders?"

Luca's voice is deadly calm. "Whatever resources it takes. Whatever methods necessary. Find my brother and bring him to me."

Alessio nods, already moving toward the door to relay the command.

When we're alone, Luca turns to me, the bloodied ring still clutched in his fist. "This changes the timeline. We need to accelerate our legitimate business acquisitions. Strengthen our position. Prepare for whatever he's planning."

Fear threads through me, not for myself, but for our child. For the future we've begun to build.

"He'll come for us, won't he?" I ask, one hand protectively covering my growing belly.

"Yes," Luca doesn't offer false comfort. He never has, and I know he never will. "But he'll find us ready."