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I feel her tense beside me, recognizing the small power play in addressing her directly.

"The same," she answers, voice steady. "When in Rome..."

Demyan laughs loudly. A sound like broken glass underfoot.

"Or rather, when with Russians." His eyes never leave her face. "Though I must say, Mrs. Ravelli, you don't look like a woman who follows the crowd."

"She doesn't," I interject, keeping my voice light despite the rage building beneath my skin at his obvious interest. "That's why she's a Ravelli now."

Dmitri watches this exchange with the amused detachment of a man who has orchestrated exactly the scene he wished to see. The waiter returns with our drinks, and the old Russian raises his glass.

"To new friendships," he toasts. "And old bloodlines."

The emphasis on the last word is subtle but unmistakable. I touch my glass to his, maintaining eye contact as we drink. The vodka burns cold down my throat, a contradiction that matches the calculation behind this meeting.

"Now," Dmitri sets his glass down with a decisive click. "Let us not waste time with pleasantries. I've asked you here to discuss a matter of mutual interest."

"And what might that be?" I ask, though suspicion already coils in my gut like a serpent.

"The future," Dmitri answers simply. "Your father's health deteriorates by the day. London whispers about succession plans. About stability of our world." His gaze shifts to Bianca. "And of course… about new blood in old families."

Demyan leans forward, his cologne heavy with notes of amber and cardamom invading the space between us. "We've heard interesting things about your wife, Ravelli. A civilian, no? No connections. Found in a hotel, of all places." His smile is sharp enough to cut. "Quite the romantic tale."

"I wasn't aware the Volkovs trafficked in gossip," I reply, my tone deliberately dismissive.

"Not gossip," Dmitri corrects, reaching for his wallet. "History. Family history, to be precise."

He withdraws a photograph, aged and creased, placing it on the table between us. I don't need to look to know Bianca's gaze has fixed on it with laser focus. I feel her body go rigid beside me.

The photo shows a woman. Dark hair. Amber eyes. A smile that carries both warmth and warning.

A smile I've seen before.

On my wife's face.

"Marina Sutton was quite beautiful in her youth," Dmitri observes, watching Bianca's reaction with predatory intent. "Though she went by a different name then."

"What is this?" Bianca asks, her voice admirably steady despite the tremor I feel in her body.

"The past," Demyan answers, leaning closer to her than necessary. "And perhaps… the future."

My hand finds Bianca's knee under the table, squeezing once in silent warning.Don't react. Don't give them what they want.

"If you have a point, Dmitri," I say, ice coating each word, "I suggest you make it before my patience expires."

The old Russian reclaims the photograph, tucking it carefully back into his wallet.

"The point, young Ravelli, is that bloodlines matter. Loyalties matter. And sometimes, what we think we know about who belongs to whom..." he pauses, his gaze lingering on Bianca, "is not as certain as we believe."

"My wife belongs to me," I state, each word a bullet. "Her past, her present, her future. All mine."

Demyan's laugh scrapes across my nerves. "So possessive, Luca. So territorial." His eyes rake over Bianca with an intimacy that makes my fucking trigger finger itch. "I wonder if the lady feels the same devotion."

"I assure you," Bianca speaks for the first time since the photograph appeared, her voice cool and controlled, "my loyalty to my husband is absolute."

"For now," Dmitri murmurs, almost to himself. "For now."

Dinner arrives—courses of Russian delicacies served on gold-rimmed plates. Caviar. Aged vodka poured from crystal decanters. Each dish is paired with subtle probing questions, veiled references to connections between our families that extend beyond business.