Page 48

I open to the first blank page and begin to write. Not my fears or my secrets—I'm not foolish enough to commit those to paper in this house of shadows. Instead, I write observations. The pattern of Dante's speech when he lies. The way Nico watches Luca's back when he thinks no one sees. The careful distance maintained between Matteo and Vito's empty chair.

The strange ripple that passed through the room at the mention of Elena Ravelli.

These are my weapons now. My only defense in a world I never chose.

The pen moves across the page, each word a piece of myself reclaimed from the Ravelli name that surrounds me. They've taken everything else—my freedom, my body, my past—but these thoughts are mine alone.

For now.

Chapter Twelve

Luca

ThemomentIstepinto my father's office, the temperature drops. It's always been this way—like crossing a threshold into winter, no matter the season outside.

My shoes sink into the Persian rug as the heavy walnut door shuts behind me. The room smells exactly as it has since I was a child: aged cigar smoke embedded in the dark wood panels, leather worn smooth by decades of power, and that distinct cologne my father imports from Milan that no one else is permitted to wear.

Vito Ravelli sits behind his desk. As always, that fucking oxygen tank is wheezing beside him like a dying serpent. It looks as though this machine is new, though.

The look in his eyes, however, isn't.

"You're late, Luciano."

I don't respond. We both know I'm precisely on time—it's just that everyone else arrives early to Vito's summons, desperate to please.

The stained glass window behind him casts colored shadows across his gaunt face, fracturing him into pieces of red and blue and gold. The Ravelli crest—a raven clutching a bloody dagger—stretches across the central panel, throwing a crimson stain across my father's silver hair.

"Sit," he commands.

His lips press into a thin, bloodless line. Even dying, Vito Ravelli expects obedience. Especially from his sons.

I settle into one of the two leather armchairs facing his desk. The leather creaks—a sound that used to terrify me as a child, when being summoned here meant punishment. Now it's almost comforting, like an old enemy you've learned to respect.

"You've been busy, son," he says, the wheeze in his voice cracking slightly. "Your new wife. The warehouse incident. The Volkovs making noise again." He pauses, letting silence spill between us. "A son with ambitions rarely sleeps."

I cross one leg over the other, bringing my hands to rest in my lap. "Was there something specific you wanted to discuss, Father?"

The oxygen machine clicks, pushing another breath into his failing lungs. The sound is obscene in the quiet grandeur of this room—a mechanical reminder that even the great Vito Ravelli is mortal.

"Your wife," he says, dark eyes unflinching. "Tell me about her."

Something cold slides down my spine. "You've met her. And from what I hear, you are doing your homework."

"I've seen her," he corrects. "That's not the same thing."

He reaches for a crystal glass on his desk, fingers trembling slightly before he steadies them through sheer force of will. The amber liquid catches the light as he brings it to his lips.

The truth is, I haven't been away on business. Not entirely.

I didn't tell Bianca where I've been either. Let her think it was business, shipments, territory. She doesn't need to know I've had men photographing every person she's ever spoken to, documenting every place she's ever lived.

Not yet.

I've been digging into every corner ofBianca Sutton's life. Three days of meticulous investigation, pulling apart her past thread by thread. The hotel was just the beginning—a job she'd held for eighteen months, perfect attendance, no complaints. Before that, two other service positions. Always reliable. Always invisible.

Her mother's care facility costs more than Bianca's salary could cover. The payments come through, though—regular as clockwork from an account I can't trace. Someone's been watching over her, and it's not the worthless ex-fiancé.

The flat she shared with Marcus was in his name. Her bank account showed a pattern of small deposits—tips, probably—but nothing suspicious. No hidden wealth, no secret contacts.