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I know Vito's wing lies in the east side, opposite from Luca's. I've caught glimpses of it during carefully orchestrated family gatherings, always with Luca's hand pressed possessively against my back, steering me away from the rooms where his father conducts the darker business of the family.

Tonight, there's no one to guide me. No one to stop me.

I move through the shadows like a ghost, following instinct more than knowledge. Portraits watch my progress from golden frames—Ravelli patriarchs with Luca's jawline, his eyes, his bearing of cold authority.

Among them, one woman stands out: Elena Ravelli, her beauty captured in oils that can't quite convey the life that must have sparked in those gray eyes—Luca's eyes.

The murdered mother. The fallen queen.

I pause before her portrait, studying the face of the woman whose death shaped the man who now owns me in every way that matters. Her lips curve in a smile that doesn't reach her eyes, secrets hidden behind careful poise.

Did she know? Was she part of whatever connects my past to the Ravellis? To the Volkovs?

A door creaks somewhere ahead, and I freeze, pressing myself against the wall beside Elena's watchful gaze. Footsteps approach, then fade as they turn down another corridor. A guard making his rounds, perhaps. Or one of the staff who keeps this massive estate functioning like a well-oiled machine.

When silence returns, I continue my forbidden exploration, moving deeper into the territory I've never been permitted to enter. The décor shifts into darker woods, heavier fabrics, art that speaks of conquest rather than beauty.

Vito's domain.

A set of double doors looms at the end of the hall, ornately carved with what I now recognize as the Ravelli crest. Light spills from beneath, a thin golden line that reveals the room beyond is occupied.

I should turn back. Return to the safety of Luca's wing before my absence is noted. But the pull of answers is stronger than the fear of consequences.

I edge closer, careful to avoid the pools of light that might betray my presence to whoever waits inside. Voices drift through the heavy wood—Matteo's low, measured tones, and another I don't recognize. They speak in Italian, the words flowing too quickly for my limited understanding.

One phrase cuts through, clear and chilling: "La madre di Bianca."

My mother.

I press my ear to the door, straining to catch more, but the conversation shifts to English.

"—exactly as we suspected," Matteo says. "The timeline matches."

"And Luca knows nothing?" The second voice asks.

"Not yet. But after tonight's meeting with the Volkovs..."

Their voices drop again, swallowed by the thick wood separating us. I clench my fists, frustration burning in my chest. So close to answers, yet still in darkness.

As I start to pull away, a floorboard creaks beneath my weight. The voices inside fall silent instantly.

Panic surges through me. I turn quickly, searching for an escape route as footsteps approach the door. Across the hall, another door stands slightly ajar, a haven from discovery.

I slip inside just as Vito's study door opens, pressing myself against the wall, heart hammering against my ribs.

Through the crack, I see Matteo's profile as he scans the empty hallway, suspicion etched in the lines of his face.

After an eternity, he retreats, the study door closing with him.

I exhale shakily, turning to survey my hiding place.

The room is small compared to the mansion's grander spaces—a private study or reading room, perhaps. Bookshelves line the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes that smell of age and secrets. A mahogany desk occupies one corner, its surface bare except for a crystal decanter half-filled with amber liquid.

But it's the photographs that draw me forward, arranged in meticulous rows along the back wall.

Black and white images chronicle the rise of the Ravelli empire. Men in suits shaking hands over signed contracts, family gatherings where smiles never quite reach eyes, celebrations of business successes whose true nature I can only imagine.

And there, in the center, a photograph that steals the breath from my lungs.