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I'm on my feet in an instant, hand reaching for the blade strapped under my desk. Only two people in this house would dare enter without announcement—my dying father or Matteo.

Lucky for me, Matteo appears in the doorway, his normally composed face tight with tension. His hair, usually slicked back and never out of place, shows signs of distress—stray strands breaking formation like soldiers deserting a losing battle.

"Sir, my apologies. But the Volkovs have moved the meeting," he blurts out, instantly forgiven for forgetting his fucking manners. "Tonight. Eight o'clock."

"Tonight?" I bark, eyes narrowing. "The meeting was scheduled for next week."

"Dmitri claims he has urgent business abroad. It's tonight or not at all." Matteo's voice carries the careful neutrality of a man delivering news he knows will ignite violence.

My fist slams against the desk, sending papers scattering like startled birds. "Fucking Volkovs."

This is deliberate. A power play designed to throw me off balance, to force me into their territory without proper preparation. But beyond the insult of rescheduling, there's something darker gnawing at the edge of my thoughts—the timing is too convenient after Bianca's mother recognized something in me.

"Where?" I demand, already calculating angles, escape routes, potential traps.

"The Crimson Room at Opheus." Matteo watches my reaction carefully. "They've reserved the entire establishment."

Opheus. Old money masquerading as new wealth. A restaurant where Russian oligarchs and British aristocracy pretend to be equals while exchanging secrets worth more than gold.

"The Crimson Room is secure?" I ask, knowing Matteo will understand what I'm really asking.

He nods once. "Alessio is on his way now to check over everything. Every inch, every shadow. Make sure it's as clean as possible given the timeframe."

I turn toward the window, staring out at the gardens where Bianca's blood still stains the balustrade from last night's claiming. My wife—marked by my blade, carrying my scent, wearing my name.

And now I must bring her into the wolf's den.

"Have Teresa prepare my wife," I tell Matteo, my voice dropping to a register that brooks no argument. "Something conservative but undeniably expensive. Nothing red. Nothing that resembles Volkov colors." I pause, considering the message I want to send. "Black. Gold accents. The Ravelli crest visible at all times."

Matteo nods, already turning to leave, but I stop him with one more instruction.

"And Matteo? Double the security detail. I want men inside the restaurant, outside on the street, and monitoring every approach. If the Volkovs try anything..."

I let the implication hang heavy in the air, but Matteo needs no reminder about the stakes here.

"Understood, sir."

When he's gone, I reach for my phone. There are preparations to make, variables to control. The Volkovs want to catch me unbalanced, but they'll learn what my enemies always learn too late—I'm at my most dangerous when cornered.

***

A few hours later, Bianca emerges from our bedroom looking like darkness given flesh.

Teresa has outdone herself. The dress is perfect. Black fabric flowing to the floor with a slit that reveals just enough leg to distract, but not enough to appear vulgar. The neckline is conservative by modern standards but frames the Ravelli crest that hangs from a gold chain at her throat perfectly.

She appears exactly as I instructed.

Her hair falls long down her back, and her lips are painted a shade that reminds me of the blood I tasted on her skin last night. The vulnerability of the woman who cried in my arms after visiting her mother is gone. In its place stands a queen preparing for battle.

"You look perfect," I tell her, adjusting the cufflinks at my wrists—black onyx set in gold, matching the Ravelli signet ring that marks me as heir.

Bianca studies me with those perceptive eyes, squinting across at me as she assesses my stiffened shoulders. "What's happening, Luca? Teresa wouldn't say, but she dressed me like I'm attending a funeral."

I cross to her, hand finding the curve of her ass in a touch that's both possessive and steadying. "The Volkovs have requested our presence. Tonight."

Her body stiffens beneath my palm. "The Volkovs," she says, her voice carefully measured. "And you're taking me right into their territory—the family that's been circling while your father weakens."

Something cold slides down my spine at her perception. She's learning too quickly, seeing too much.