Page 51

"Luciano." My father's voice pulls me back to the present. "Are you listening?"

I blink, forcing the memory down, locking it away with all the others. "Every word."

He studies me with those dark eyes. "The Volkovs have requested a meeting. With you and your bride."

"Out of the question," I respond immediately.

"It wasn't a suggestion." He leans back in his chair, one hand resting on the armrest, fingers tracing the worn leather. "The invitation has already been accepted."

"Without consulting me?" My voice drops dangerously low. "That isbullshit."

"You forget yourself!"

My father's voice carries a deadly roar I remember from childhood. The kind that preceded bruises and broken bones, bullets and instant death.

Even still, I lean forward, planting my hands on his desk. The wood creaks beneath my grip. "And you forget who handles our external operations. Who keeps this empire running while you waste away in this room."

His oxygen tank hisses. "Careful, boy."

"No." The word comes out like a blade. "I won't have her anywhere near Dmitri Volkov. The man's a rabid dog who-"

"Who controls the eastern ports we need." My father's eyes flash with a warning not to over-step again. "Your personal feelings about your new toy don't override family interests."

The rage burns white-hot in my chest. "She's mywife."

"You were occupied when the decision was made." His gaze is unflinching. "Besides, it presents an opportunity. If they're targeting Bianca, let them think they have access. Draw them in. Then eliminate the threat."

"Using my wife as bait," I say flatly, shaking my head.

"Using your wife as anasset." He corrects, lips twisting in what might be approval. "Unless you've grown too attached to think clearly."

The accusation hangs between us, a test I've faced a thousand times. Show weakness, and he pounces. Show strength, and he finds new ways to test it.

"When?" I ask.

"Three weeks from now. The Volkovs will send a car." He slides a second folder across the desk. "Their heir, Demyan, has taken a particular interest in your bride."

I take the folder without opening it. "And what does Matteo say about this arrangement?"

"Matteo serves the family." My father's response is immediate, the words practiced and sure. "As do we all."

I straighten, tucking the folders under my arm. "Is that all, Father?"

He studies me for a long moment, oxygen hissing beside him, blood-colored light staining his collar.

"Almost." He reaches into his desk drawer, removing a small velvet box. "I want you to give this to your wife."

I make no move to take it. "What is it?"

"A gift." He pushes it forward. "A tradition, actually. Elena wore it to her first meeting with rival families."

The mention of my mother's name in conjunction with Bianca sends a wave of unease through me. I take the box with careful control.

"Father, I do not understand what game are you playing," I say quietly.

He smiles—a real smile this time, and somehow that's more terrifying than his usual mask.

"The same one I've always played, my son. The one where our family, our legacy, our empire… survives."