Page 53

His eyes land on me, gray and fathomless as winter oceans.

"You're awake." His voice is rough, as if he hasn't fully shaken off whatever darkness followed him home last night.

I nod, watching as he moves to his closet. "You came in late."

"Business with my father." He drops the towel, unashamed of his nakedness as he reaches for clean boxer shorts.

The muscles in his back ripple beneath skin marked with violence and ink—scars that tell stories of blood, tattoos that whisper power. My gaze drops lower, to the sculpted curve of his ass, hard with muscle that flexes with each subtle movement.

His body is a weapon, and despite everything, my treacherous pulse quickens at the sight.

"Must have been serious business," I say carefully. "There's blood on the sheets."

His stiff movements pause, just for an instant, before he continues dressing. "Observant as always, little rabbit."

He turns, now wearing black slacks but still bare-chested. There's a fresh cut across his knuckles, red and raw against his olive skin.

"What happened?" I ask, sitting up straighter.

Luca approaches the bed, his eyes never leaving mine. He extends his injured hand, palm up, like an offering.

"A disagreement with an employee," he says, the corner of his mouth lifting into a cruel smirk. "He questioned a shipment schedule. Said it couldn't be changed."

I take his hand in mine, examining the cuts.

They're not deep, but they must sting. Fresh blood in the creases of his knuckles tells a story of violence that would horrify a normal person. But I'm not normal anymore, am I?

"After meeting with your father?" I ask, understanding dawning.

A schedule change wouldn't normally warrant Luca's personal attention—let alone his fists. This wasn't about business. This was about release. Violent release.

His eyes meet mine, surprised by my perception. For a moment, the mask slips.

"The man will live," he says quietly. "But he'll remember who gives orders in this family."

I run my thumb across his abraded knuckles, feeling the slight tremor in his hand that betrays how deeply his father's words cut him. Luca Ravelli doesn't lose control—he weaponizes it, channels it. Whatever Vito said in that study turned my husband's precision into something rawer, something dangerous enough that an unlucky employee bore the brunt of it.

"Vito has that effect." His fingers curl around mine, warm and sure. "He mentioned you."

My pulse quickens. "What about me?"

"He's... curious." Luca's eyes evade me for a moment. "The Volkovs have been asking questions. About us. About you."

"The Volkovs," I repeat, remembering the whispers at brunch. "The Russian family Dante mentioned? They seemed dangerous."

A shadow crosses his face, something dark and unreadable. "They are. Especially to my family. They're the ones everyone believes killed my mother."

I freeze, the revelation hitting me hard. "Your mother was murdered?"

"So they say."

"You don't believe it?"

His jaw tightens. "Let's just say, after discussing with my father yesterday, I'm reconsidering old stories. And in three weeks, we'll be sitting across from them at a meeting my father arranged."

I tug him closer, until he sits on the edge of the bed. "Tell me about it."

"No." There's no anger in the refusal, just finality. "Just know that my father is inviting the wolves to our door, and you—" he touches my cheek, gentle despite the danger in his eyes, "—need to be very careful."