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Even if we both know that in this world, everything costs something.

Chapter Sixteen

Bianca

It'sthesmellthathits me first. A horrid mix of antiseptic and artificial lemon, undercut with something medicinal that no amount of air freshener can mask.

It's the scent of fading lives and failing bodies, of memories slipping through fingers like sand.

Oakwood Care Center.

My steps falter at the entrance, and for a moment, I'm not Bianca Ravelli with her designer dress and gold crest around her neck. I'm just Bianca Sutton again, the hotel maid who scrubbed other people's messes by day and visited a mother who no longer recognized her by night.

Luca's hand presses against my back, steadying me with every step.

The same hand that had held a blade to Arben's palm hours earlier now guides me with unexpected gentleness. The contradiction makes my head spin. This man who deals in blood and threats, now stands beside me in the sterile corridors of my most private pain.

"Mrs. Ravelli! What an unexpected pleasure."

The night nurse hurries around her station, eyes darting nervously between my face and Luca's looming presence. Her gaze lingers on the Ravelli crest at my throat before sliding away.

"And Mr. Ravelli himself," she adds, voice dropping as she gives a slight, deferential bow of her head.

I glance at Luca, the realization settling cold in my stomach. His reputation, his influence…it reaches even here, to this quiet place where lives fade in dignified silence. Did he already know about my mother? Had his men been watching her too?

"Marina Sutton's room," Luca says. "We won't need an escort."

The nurse nods quickly, stepping back. "Of course, sir. Room 217. Down the hall to the left."

I lead the way, each step heavier than the last. I've walked this corridor a hundred times, but it's always been alone, my shoulders hunched against the weight of watching my mother disappear piece by piece.

But tonight, Luca's presence casts a shadow that both protects and threatens.

Room 217 is exactly as I remember—beige walls, generic landcape art, a single armchair pulled close to the bed where my mother spends her days. A few framed photos sit on the nightstand, but they're strangers to her now. Faces without names, moments without memories.

She's awake, perched on the edge of her bed in a pale blue nightgown, staring out the window at the distant London skyline. Her once-dark hair has faded to silver, pulled back in a loose braid I know the evening nurse must have done. My mother's hands, once nimble enough to braid my hair every morning before school, can no longer manage that simplest of tasks.

"Mom?" I step into the room, heart in my throat. "It's Bianca."

She turns, eyes focusing slowly on my face. There's no recognition there. Just the polite smile she gives to all visitors, whether she knows them or not.

"Hello, dear," she says, voice thin but pleasant. "Have you come to read to me?"

Every time, it stings.

And every time, I pretend it doesn't.

"If you'd like." I move forward, taking her frail hand in mine. "I brought someone with me today. Someone... important to me."

Luca steps into the room, and something shifts in the air. My mother's eyes widen slightly as she takes him in—his height, his presence, the controlled power evident in every line of his body.

"Would you like some tea?" I ask, trying to pull her eyes from Luca.

She nods, and I busy myself with the electric kettle on her nightstand, preparing the chamomile tea she's always preferred. Luca watches from near the door, a predator momentarily caged in this room of pastel colors and hospital corners.

"You have lovely eyes," my mother says suddenly, looking directly at Luca. "So gray. Like a wolf."

He steps closer, movements carefully measured as if approaching something wild and easily startled. "Thank you, Mrs. Sutton."