Page 49

Just a beautiful woman working herself to exhaustion.

But there's something else. Something that makes my fingers itch to break Marcus Forbes's jaw all over again. Three years ago, Bianca disappeared for six months. No employment records, no credit card trails. She emerged with a new job and that engagement ring.

I tap my fingers against the arm of my chair, watching my father's face for any hint of recognition. His expression remains carved from stone.

"Bianca seems... resilient," Father continues. "Dante thinks she's your weakness. Nico thinks she's your shield." His mouth curves into what might be a smile on anyone else. On him, it's just teeth. "So tell me, what do you think she is, Luciano?"

I meet his gaze directly. "She's mine."

He laughs—a dry, scraping sound that sends him into a coughing fit. When he recovers, there's blood on the handkerchief he presses to his lips.

"Is that what you said when you claimed her from that hotel?" He tilts his head, studying me like a specimen. "Or did you take her because she reminds you of someone?"

My jaw clenches.

"She's nothing like Mother," I say, the words scraping my throat.

"No?" He leans forward, elbows on the desk, hunched like a vulture. "The same defiance in her eyes. The same grace under pressure. The same...effecton you."

The portraits of dead Ravelli patriarchs stare down from the walls, judging me as I try to keep my expression neutral. Generations of men who traded in blood and power watch this familiar wicked dance of hatred, love and devotion between father and son.

"What do you want, Father?"

He taps his fingers against the leather armrest—once, twice. A habit I've seen a thousand times. The rhythm of a man plotting.

"There was movement at the eastern warehouse again," he says, changing direction so smoothly I almost miss it. "The same night as your wedding."

"It's been handled," I reply.

"Has it?" He raises an eyebrow. "Or have you been distracted?"

The crystal decanter on the sideboard catches the light, refracting it across the room in shards of gold. I focus on one such shard as it dances across the antique leather book spines lining the wall.

"I don't miss details," I tell him. "Not even on my wedding night."

"Good." He slides a manila folder across the desk. "Because someone inside our organization is feeding information to the Volkovs. About shipment schedules. About security rotations." His voice drops lower. "About your new bride."

I reach for the folder, keeping my movements unhurried despite the rage building beneath my skin. Inside are surveillance photos—Bianca at brunch, Bianca in the garden, Bianca beside me at the wedding. All taken with telephoto lenses. All recent.

"The Volkovs have always been opportunistic," I say, closing the folder.

"Not like this." He gestures toward the oxygen tank with vague annoyance. "They smell weakness, Luciano. They think your marriage and my... condition... create an opening."

"Let them."

His eyes narrow. "You sound confident for a man who's been busy playing husband instead of heir."

The words hit their mark, as he intended. My father has always known exactly where to place the blade.

"What would you have me do?" I ask, voice flat. "Divorce her? Kill her? Or just keep her locked away until you decide she's been sufficiently vetted?"

He studies me for a long moment. "You care for this woman."

It's not a question. It's an accusation.

"She's my wife," I respond, giving him nothing.

"As Elena was mine." His voice drops to a cruel whisper. "And look what happened to her."