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I approach with careful steps, stopping at a respectful distance. "You asked to see me, Don Vito."

"So formal," he chuckles, the sound turning into a wet cough that he covers with a handkerchief. When he pulls it away, I glimpse a spot of blood that he quickly conceals. "Please, sit. Teresa should be bringing tea shortly."

I take the seat opposite him, back straight, hands folded in my lap like a proper lady. Like the woman Teresa has been training me to be.

"It seems my son is quite busy these days," Vito observes, studying me with unnerving intensity. "Chasing ghosts, I hear. Digging up old bones. Literally, in some cases." His smile make my skin crawl. "Leaving his beautiful young wife to fend for herself."

"Luca does what needs to be done," I respond, voice carefully neutral. "As all Ravellis do."

"Indeed." He nods, seeming pleased with my answer. "And what about you, Bianca? What needs to be done in your estimation?"

The question is a trap, though I can't see its shape yet.

"I'm still learning my place in this family."

"Your place," he repeats, something calculating in his tone. "Yes, that's the question, isn't it? Where exactly do you fit in our... complicated family history."

My pulse quickens, but I keep my expression placid. "I'm Luca's wife. That's all that matters."

Vito laughs, a sound like broken glass. "Is that what my son tells you? That the past doesn't matter? That blood and heritage are irrelevant?"

Before I can respond, a server enters with the tea service—fine bone china that looks too delicate for Vito's gnarled hands. She sets it on the table between us, glancing at me with a warning in her eyes before silently retreating.

Vito gestures for me to pour, and I comply.

"Tell me," he says as I hand him his cup, "what do you know about your father?"

The question shakes me, but I manage not to spill the tea. "Nothing. He wasn't in the picture."

"Wasn't he?" Vito takes a sip, watching me over the rim of his cup. "How convenient for some that you grew up believing that."

My hand trembles slightly as I set down my own cup. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, my dear, that your mother made certain choices. Choices that reverberate around this building to this day." He leans forward slightly, oxygen tube stretching with the movement. "You see, Bianca, your mother… Marina Sutton… was quite valuable to our organization once."

My fingers tighten around the delicate teacup as Vito's words sink in.Valuable to our organization. The pieces start clicking together like tumblers in a lock—Luca's obsessive digging through old files, the missing records of Elena's murder, the way his jaw clenches whenever his father speaks of succession.

I set down the cup before I shatter it.

My heart pounds against my ribs. Luca's been searching for answers about Elena's murder, convinced his father knows more than he's saying.

"You see, the truth," Vito continues, "is a dangerous thing in our world, Bianca. It has teeth. And once it bites..."

He trails off, studying me with those cold eyes that remind me so much of Luca's when he was in that room, using pliers in a way they weren't designed to be used.

Vito coughs again, and I take the pause to use it for my own. "Don Vito, you say my mother was useful once. Why? She was just a nurse."

Vito smothers his coughing fit and shakes his head at me. "Dear girl, she was more than that. Her skills, her connections. Particularly her connection to a certain ambitious young lieutenant of mine."

The room seems to tilt slightly, reality shifting beneath my feet. "My father worked for you?"

"Oh, he did more than work for me," Vito smiles at me like the devil in a poorly disguised suit. "Alexei Petrov was like a son to me. Before he betrayed us all."

Alexei Petrov.

The name rings foreign yet familiar, like a half-remembered dream. My father—not some anonymous sperm donor who abandoned my mother, but a man with a name. A history. A betrayal.

"What did he do?" I ask, voice steadier than I feel.