Page 47

There are alliances here I'm only beginning to understand. Fractures I'm starting to see.

When the main course arrives—some delicate fish I don't recognize—I'm no longer hungry. But I eat anyway, knowing that any sign of weakness will be noted, discussed, exploited.

"The gallery opening is next weekend," one of the wives says, clearly attempting to steer conversation to safer waters. "Will you be attending, Bianca? It would be a perfect introduction to London society."

Before I can answer, Luca speaks. "My wife's social calendar is quite full at present."

The message is clear: I am not to be paraded around. Not yet. Not until he decides it's time.

"Such a shame," the woman continues, undeterred. "It's the social event of the season. Everyone who matters will be there."

"Then I'm sure it will be tedious," Luca says dismissively. "Bianca deserves better entertainment than watching socialites pretend to understand art they can't afford."

I catch Dante and Nico exchanging a glance. This protective streak is new, perhaps. Or at least, public display of it is.

As brunch draws to a close, the tension that has simmered throughout begins to boil.

Dante leans in, glass dangling from his fingers. "Civilian wives don’t last long in this world. They either run, bleed, or get buried next to the last girl who thought she could survive the Ravellis."

Nico watches, saying little but missing nothing.

Luca stands suddenly, placing his napkin beside his plate with careful precision. The entire table falls silent as he moves behind my chair, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders. The weight of them feels like armor.

"We are done here. My wife is not your entertainment," he says, voice low but carrying across the hushed room. "She is not my weakness. She is mine. And that makes her untouchable."

His fingers trace along my jaw, tilting my face up slightly. Not to look at him, but to display me to the table. To make them see exactly what he's claiming.

"Anyone who forgets that will answer to me. Personally."

The silence that follows is absolute. Even Dante has nothing to say.

Luca's hand returns to my shoulder, a gentle squeeze signaling me to rise. I do, grateful that my legs don't betray my nerves.

"If you'll excuse us," he says, though it's not a request. "My father is waiting."

We leave them sitting there, frozen in the aftermath of his declaration. His hand returns to the small of my back, guiding me through the door and into the corridor beyond.

"You did well," he murmurs once we're out of earshot. "Better than expected."

The praise shouldn't warm me. Shouldn't matter at all. But it does.

"Dante hates me," I observe.

"Dante hates anyone he can't control," Luca corrects. "Which includes both of us."

We stop at a junction in the hallway, where the corridor splits—one path leading to Vito's wing, the other to the gardens.

"Go," Luca says, nodding toward the gardens. "I'll find you after I speak with my father."

I hesitate. "What does he want with you?"

Something darkens in Luca's eyes. "Nothing good."

He leans in, pressing a brief, possessive kiss to my lips—a reminder, a claim, a promise. Then he's gone, moving toward his father's wing with the lethal grace that defines him.

I watch him disappear, then turn toward the gardens. I need air. Space. A moment to process the currents of power and danger I've just witnessed.

The groundskeeper nods as I pass, the first acknowledgment I've received outside Luca's immediate circle. I find a stone bench beside a fountain, hidden from the mansion's many windows. From my dress pocket, I withdraw a small leather notebook—a gift from Teresa that appeared on my nightstand three days ago. Whether Luca knows about it, I can't tell.