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"Yes," I answer simply, leading her toward the door. I'm not ready to share my growing suspicions about my mother's death—not yet, not when we're heading into the wolf's den with Bianca as potential bait. "Tonight is about observation, my love. You will watch. You will listen. And you will remember everything."

"Am I your wife tonight?" she asks as we descend the grand staircase. "Or your weapon?"

The question stops me at the bottom of the stairs. I turn to her, taking her face between my hands with more gentleness than most would believe me capable of.

"Tonight, you are my greatest vulnerability," I tell her, the raw honesty burning my throat. "And that makes you my most powerful asset."

Her eyes widen slightly, understanding dawning. Whatever she sees in my expression makes her swallow hard before nodding once, resolute.

My hand slides down from her face to the neckline of her dress, finding the spot where my blade claimed her last night. Through the silk, I trace the outline of the healing cuts, feeling the slight ridge where skin has begun to knit together.

Her breath catches, pupils dilating as my thumb circles the mark.

"Fucking beautiful," I whisper, just for her ears.

The family crest etched into her skin pulses beneath my fingertips like a second heartbeat. A covenant written in blood that binds her to me more completely than any marriage certificate.

"Let's not keep the vultures waiting," she says, stepping past me toward the entrance where our security detail awaits.

Soon, Opheus rises from the heart of Mayfair like a modern temple dedicated to excess. Glass and steel wrapped around a historic façade, preserving the illusion of tradition while catering to those who worship at the altar of power.

The Bentley glides to a stop at the private entrance, where two of the Volkovs' men stand flanking the door. Alessio opens our door, his eyes scanning the surroundings with the cold calculation of a man trained to spot threats before they breathe.

"All clear, sir," he murmurs as I step out, then offer my hand to Bianca.

She emerges from the car with the grace that gives me flashes of watching my mother do the same thing, a performance so convincing one might forget she was cleaning hotel rooms mere weeks ago. Her hand finds the crook of my arm, and we ascend the steps together, the picture of untouchable wealth.

Inside, the restaurant's ambient lighting casts everyone in the most flattering light money can buy. Crystal chandeliers reflect off polished marble, creating constellations of light that dance across the ceiling. The main dining room is empty of regular patrons—cleared for the Volkovs, as promised.

A hostess with a forced smile leads us through the restaurant toward a door at the back, guarded by another pair of men with the dead eyes of former military. They watch us approach with the disinterest of predators who've already identified their prey.

The Crimson Room lives up to its name. Blood-red walls adorned with Russian art from the pre-revolutionary era—scenes of hunts and conquests, wolves chasing stags through winter forests, aristocrats presiding over feasts. The lighting is dimmer here, forcing shadows that breathe in the corners.

And at the center of it all, seated at a round table of polished ebony, waits Dmitri Volkov.

The old wolf rises as we enter, a smile stretching across his face like a wound.

"Luca Ravelli," he greets, his accent thicker than the last time we met. A deliberate choice, I note. A reminder of his otherness, his foreign power. "And the lovely Mrs. Ravelli. What an honor to finally meet the woman who tamed London's most notorious bachelor."

Dmitri stands a head shorter than me, his once-powerful frame now softened by age and wealth. But the danger hasn't diminished—it's simply transformed from physical threat to something more insidious. His white hair is swept back from a face creased with lines that speak of cruelty more than laughter.

Beside him stands a younger man—tall, lean, with the coiled readiness of a fighter in his prime. Demyan Volkov. The son and heir. His dark hair is cut short at the sides but longer on top, styled with deliberate carelessness that probably cost more than most men's entire wardrobes.

His eyes are cold blue, like glacier water, and instantly they fix on Bianca with an interest that makes my blood heat.

I don’t blink. Don’t fucking breathe.

Because if that asshole looks at her like that again, I’ll put his pretty face through the nearest wall and call it diplomacy.

"Please," Dmitri gestures to the chairs opposite them. "Join us. We have much to discuss."

I guide Bianca to her seat, my hand never leaving her lower back. Only when she's settled do I take my place beside her, deliberately angling my chair to keep both Volkovs in my direct line of sight.

"Unusual timing for this meeting," I observe, signaling to the waiter who materializes at my side. "Vodka. Beluga Gold. Neat."

It's a deliberate choice, of course. Their national drink, but ordered with the confidence of a man on his home territory.

Dmitri's smile doesn't falter. "Business waits for no man, not even the great Ravellis." He turns his attention to Bianca. "And you, my dear? What will you drink?"