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Volkov men, most likely.

Either way, they're too late.

I stride through the entrance, authority radiating from every movement. The receptionist looks up with a professional smile that falters when she meets my eyes.

"Mrs. Ravelli," I state, not a question. "Where is she?"

"I—I'm not authorized to—"

I place both palms on the counter, leaning forward until she shrinks back. "My wife. Now."

She swallows, fingers trembling as she types something into her computer. "Room 217. But visiting hours are—"

I'm already moving, cutting through the sterile corridors toward the room where Marina Sutton lives out her remaining years. Where Bianca has gone, alone and unprotected, to seek answers I've tried to keep from her.

I reach the door just as it opens from within.

Bianca freezes, eyes widening as she finds herself face to face with the husband she defied. For a moment, we simply stare at each other in the threshold—her hand still on the door handle, my body blocking her escape.

"Luca," she breathes, equal parts fear and betrayal in those fucking eyes.

"Get your things," I respond, voice dangerously soft. "We're leaving. Now."

She glances back into the room, where her mother sits by the window, oblivious to the tension crackling between us. "I can't just—"

"Now!"

Something hardens in her expression as she steps into the corridor, pulling the door closed behind her.

"I'm not a prisoner, Luca," she says. "I'm your wife."

"My wife," I repeat, advancing until she's backed against the wall, "who deliberately disobeyed me. Who put herself in danger after I explicitly forbade it. Again and again and again. When will you learn,little rabbit?"

"When I get answers," she counters, refusing to cower despite our difference in size, in power, in controlled fury. "About my mother. About those photographs. About why the Volkovs think they have a claim on me."

"And did you find them?" I ask, leaning closer until my breath fans across her face. "Did Marina Sutton suddenly remember the secrets of her past?"

A flicker of frustration crosses her features. "No. But I had to try."

"You had todefyme," I correct, fingers curling around her jaw. "You had to push boundaries I set for your protection."

"For my control," she shoots back. "Don't pretend this is just about keeping me safe. This is about keeping me in the dark. About ownership."

She's right, of course. And that only fuels my rage.

"Get your coat," I repeat, stepping back to give her space. "We're leaving."

Not waiting for her response, I turn toward the exit, expecting her to follow. When I hear her footsteps behind me, satisfaction curls in my chest despite the confrontation still to come.

We emerge into the parking lot, my security team already in position, hands on weapons, scanning for threats in the black of night. The sedan across the street remains, its occupants watching from behind tinted glass.

Let them watch. Let them see who she belongs to.

I guide Bianca toward the Aston Martin. She slides into the passenger seat without argument and as I circle to the driver's side, my phone vibrates again.

Matteo's name flashes on the screen.

"What now?" I bark, eyes still tracking the black sedan as one of its doors begins to open.