Page 45

The first thing I notice about the brunch room is how the sunlight fractures through the crystal chandelier, scattering prisms of light across the gleaming ebony table. The surface is so polished I can see my reflection in it—distorted, wavering, like I'm drowning in black water.

Black orchids spill from silver vases along the center of the table, their twisted petals almost obscene in their decadence. Delicate threads of saffron-colored pollen dust the pristine tablecloth beneath them. Between the flowers, silver trays steam with what looks like an art exhibition rather than food: blood orange segments arranged like jewels, buttered brioche stacked in golden towers, soft poached eggs nestled in beds of microgreens, and paper-thin prosciutto draped over split figs.

And at regular intervals, crystal decanters catch the light, filled with what I now recognize as Dante's favorite bourbon, despite the early hour.

The room falls into immediate silence when Luca guides me through the doorway. It's not just quiet—it's the deliberate cessation of conversation, of movement, of everything but breath and calculation.

Dante lounges at one end of the table, sprawled in his chair like a bored lion, whiskey already in hand though it's barely noon. His eyes track us with predatory interest as Luca's hand presses against the small of my back.

Nico sits opposite, back straight, suit impeccable. He sips his espresso with such perfect calm it's almost unsettling—the cup never clicks against the saucer, his wrist never wavers. His eyes, though, are watchful above the rim.

Scattered around them are men whose names I've heard whispered in Luca's study—associates, lieutenants, business partners with specialties I prefer not to examine too closely. The Corsican with the scar across his throat. The Volkov heir with his calculating eyes. The Amsterdam connection with hands like hammers.

And their wives.

Beautiful women, diamonds dripping from ears and throats like frozen tears, lips painted in shades of blood and wine. They exchange meaningful glances as I enter, their whispers barely audible but unmistakably about me.

"Just look at that dress..." "...hotel maid..." "...won't last a month..."

Luca's hand tightens fractionally on my back, and I force my spine straighter. I may not belong here, but I'll be damned if I'll show them that.

Matteo stands near the head of the table, ever the faithful shadow, his hands clasped behind his back. One chair remains conspicuously empty—Vito's place at the head. No one mentions his absence.

"The newlyweds grace us with their presence," Dante calls, raising his glass in a mock toast. "How... domestic."

The way he says it makes the word sound like an insult. Like Luca has somehow degraded himself by taking a wife—by takingme.

"You look lovely, Mrs. Ravelli," Nico adds, his smile sharp as a blade. "Marriage agrees with you."

The wives exchange knowing glances, and I catch another whisper: "She's well-trained already."

I feel Luca's hand slide from my back as he pulls out my chair—the one directly to the right of Vito's empty seat. I sit like I belong there, like I haven't spent the last two weeks learning which fork is for seafood and how to pronounce the names of wines I've never tasted.

From this vantage point, I can see everyone at the table. Their eyes flick between my face and Luca's, searching for weakness, for leverage, for any sign that this marriage is less than it appears.

Luca settles beside me, his movements fluid and controlled. A maid appears instantly to pour espresso into the delicate cup before him. She doesn't look at either of us as she works, then melts back into the shadows.

"Tell me, Bianca," Dante calls from his end of the table, rolling the amber liquid in his glass. "Do you miss your old life yet? Or have you found comfort in the view from the top?"

Every eye at the table shifts to me. I can feel the weight of their expectation, their judgment. Luca remains still beside me, allowing me to answer for myself. Another test.

I take a careful sip of water before answering, buying myself precious seconds to compose a response.

"I find that height offers perspective, Dante," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "You see more clearly who stands with you... and who waits for you to fall."

A beat of silence, then Nico chuckles—a sound like ice cracking. "She's quick, brother. I can see why you kept her."

Dante's eyes narrow fractionally, recognizing that his barb failed to land. "Indeed."

Luca reaches for a platter of fruit, selecting the ripest pieces with almost surgical precision. He places blood orange segments and sliced figs on my plate, then his own. The gesture looks attentive, even tender to outsiders—a husband serving his wife. But I see it for what it is: control. This is what I will eat. This is what he has chosen for me.

"The Corsicans accepted our terms," Matteo says, seamlessly shifting the conversation to business. "The shipment arrives next week."

"Unless it's delayed," Dante interjects, eyes flicking to Luca. "Like our last delivery."

Something passes between the brothers. The kind of pause that usually ends with someone vanishing off a dock with weights tied to their ankles.

"The delay was addressed," Luca says, voice cool and measured. "Permanently."