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Through it all, Bianca maintains perfect composure, answering when addressed directly but volunteering nothing.

I watch her with growing pride and a sharp edge of unease—pride at her poise, unease at the way Demyan’s gaze keeps dragging back to her, over and over, like a starving man chasing the scent of blood.

His eyes cling to her like a compass that’s pointing north. To want. To need.

And I see it clear as day—the filthy thoughts crawling behind his stare.

As the final plates are cleared, Dmitri leans back in his chair, fingers drumming against the arm. "You know, Luca, your mother and I were well acquainted."

The mention of Elena sends ice through my veins. "Indeed you were. I remember."

"Such a tragedy, her death." His voice carries a false note of sympathy that makes my hand itch for the knife concealed at my ankle. "The cathedral steps, wasn't it? Such a public place for such a private matter."

"Some might call it poetic," Demyan adds, swirling the last of his vodka. "The Madonna falling before God's house."

My vision edges with red. "I wasn't aware poetry interested you, Demyan."

"Oh, I appreciate beauty in all its forms." His gaze slides to Bianca again. "The symmetry of life and death. The rhyme of history repeating itself."

"If you're threatening my wife," I say, voice dropping to a register that has made harder men than him tremble. "I suggest you reconsider your position."

Dmitri waves a hand dismissively. "No threats, Luca. Merely observation. Your father made certain choices. You seem to be making others." His eyes narrow slightly. "I wonder if you know the true cost of those choices."

Before I can respond, my phone vibrates in my pocket—the specific pattern that indicates a message from Matteo.Urgent.

"If you'll excuse us," I rise, offering my hand to Bianca. "Business calls, even at this hour."

"Of course," Dmitri inclines his head. "Family business waits for no one."

Demyan stands as well, moving around the table to take Bianca's other hand, raising it to his lips before I can intervene. "A pleasure, Mrs. Ravelli. I look forward to continuing our acquaintance."

I feel her fingers tighten around mine, the only outward sign of her discomfort as he holds her gaze a beat too long.

"Until next time," Dmitri calls as we leave, his voice following us like a shadow. "Blood always finds its way home, Luca. Remember that."

The moment the Bentley doors close behind us, sealing us inside the bulletproof cocoon, I pull out my phone to check Matteo's message.

Elena's case files. Secure room breached. Files missing. Inside job.

The words swim before my eyes, fury building in my chest until it threatens to consume me. First the warehouse attack on our wedding night. Then Dante's betrayal with the shipments. Now this—the most sacred, the most private violation.

Bianca's voice breaks through the red haze of my rage. "Luca? What did that photograph mean? The woman looked like—"

"Not now," I cut her off, harsher than intended. "Not here."

Her body stiffens beside me, withdrawing into herself.

I holster my phone and turn to her, taking in the perfect mask she's maintained all evening, now beginning to crack under the strain. Something inside me shifts—the need to protect warring with the need to possess.

Possession wins.

"You let him touch you," I say, voice dangerously soft.

Her eyes widen. "I didn't—"

"You let Demyan Volkov kiss your hand. The hand that wears my ring. The hand that bears my mark." I move closer, crowding her against the leather seat. "Do you know what that does to me, Bianca? Do you know what it makes me want to do?"

Her breath comes faster, pupils dilating as fear and desire war across her face. "Luca, I couldn't just—"