Crown of Blood (The Ravelli Empire #1)

3. Chapter One

Chapter One

Bianca

T he London Underground smells like boiled socks and broken dreams.

I take the stairs two at a time because the escalator’s broken again, and I’m too tired to pretend patience tonight. My feet are raw inside cheap flats, blisters blooming in places no shoe should rub. My uniform’s sticking to the backs of my thighs, still damp from ten hours of cleaning up other people’s mess—stray hair in hotel sinks, damp towels that smell like cologne and entitlement, and one particularly charming American who called me “sweetheart” while asking if I’d join him in the shower.

I didn’t say yes. I didn’t say no, either.

I just smiled like I always do and added his room to the list of shit I won’t remember by morning.

A train shrieks past as it slows to a halt in the tube, the wind slapping the damp strands of hair against my face. I don’t fix them. What’s the point? Marcus won’t care what I look like anyway. He doesn’t even notice when I wear mascara anymore. Doesn’t kiss me when I get home. Just mutes the TV, if I’m lucky, and asks if I remembered to buy oat milk despite the fact I've told my fiancé that I'm not buying that shit because it's twice the price of normal milk.

I press into the carriage and there's standing room only. Elbows and briefcases, a fucking Tuesday-night special.

Shifting to create even a hint of space for myself, a damp backpack digs into my spine as the doors close.

The train starts to move and I catch a glimpse of myself through the windows that are scratched so badly my reflection looks like it’s been clawed at.

Eyes hollow. Lip cracked. That stain on my collar hasn’t come out, no matter how hard I scrub.

I almost forgot it was there.

Just like Marcus forgot how to say I love you without checking his phone halfway through.

By the time I climb the stairs to our building, the rain is less a drizzle and more a vertical slap. My tights are soaked. One heel on my shoe has started to peel, clicking off-kilter with every step like a metronome for failure.

I smell like bleach, sweat, and faint lemon-scented lies as I juggle the Tesco bag against my hip and dig for my keys. Of course the lock sticks. It always does—like the door’s warning me not to go in.

And tonight, maybe I should have listened.

The second the door creaks open, I smell it.

Something warm… musky… Sharp around the edges.

Sex.

The bag starts to slip down my shoulder as I freeze, the wine bottle clinking against the counter as I set it down so softly it doesn't make a sound.

I move down the hallway, but glance over my shoulder to the front door. No extra coat on the hook. No shoes by the door that aren’t mine or Marcus'.

I push forward, each step heavier than the last. The hallway stretches like a tunnel, dark at the edges where the afternoon light can't reach. My fingers trail along the wall—touching, testing, like I'm making sure what's real.

The living room door is cracked. Just enough.

Just enough to ruin me.

Because I see them.

Marcus. My fiancé .

The man who proposed with a ring that turned my finger green. The man who used to kiss my thighs like I was sacred. The man who used to beg me to come before him—because he said watching me fall apart was his favorite thing in the world.

Now he’s behind my best friend. Madeline.

Her head is thrown back, black hair stuck to her forehead, lips parted in the kind of moan I haven’t heard in our bedroom in months. Her face is slack with pleasure, eyes fluttered shut, and she laughs —a little breathy giggle that shakes her shoulders as she takes him like he belongs right there, deep inside her.

Marcus’s mouth is open, his jaw clenched. Tears sting my eyes, but I fight them back and focus on his expression.

God… he looks alive. Starved.

Like she’s air and he’s been suffocating. He's gripping her hips like he might shatter her. The same way he used to hold me in the dark and swear he couldn’t sleep unless I was wrapped around him.

The couch creaks with each thrust. Our couch. The blue one we fought about in IKEA because I liked the velvet and he said it would show stains.

Now it’s rocking beneath them, sweat-slick skin catching the lamplight, their bodies tangled in a way that makes me feel like a stranger in my own life.

And I just… stand there.

Rooted like a corpse, limbs cold, stomach hollow. Grief doesn’t hit me. It just… seeps. Slow and suffocating. Like my insides are filling with cement.

I used to be her.

That used to be me.

But somewhere between our engagement and now, something cracked. And I ignored it. I told myself he was tired. Stressed. That I was being too sensitive when he stopped touching me with hunger. When he stopped seeing me.

And now I see everything. Every missed call. Every cold night. Every headache and late shift and "forgot my charger so I’ll sleep at the office"—

It all makes sense.

Marcus’s head lifts like a string pulled tight. His eyes land on mine, wide and frantic, lips parting as if he’s going to say my name.

He pulls out of her like he’s been burned. Madeline yelps, scrambles to cover herself the moment she turns to see me. But it’s too late. Everything is exposed. Every betrayal is dripping down her thighs.

“Bianca—”

I shake my head. Once.

And once only.

My body turns before my mind does. Legs moving on instinct, carrying me down the hallway past the photos of us smiling at Brighton Beach. That stupid selfie where I had ice cream on my nose and he said he wanted to remember me like that forever.

Past the heart-shaped key holder he bought me for our very first Valentine's Day together. Past the life I built on top of rot.

I grab my bag from the counter. The wine bottle clinks like a casket nail.

I don’t remember deciding to walk back to the hotel. My feet just take me there, soaked through and humming with pain, like they’re more familiar with the path than I am.

The rain is relentless, a steady hiss that fills my ears like white noise. I keep my head down, hoodless, hair slicked to my face. Cars splash puddles against my calves and the freezing cold wind slices straight through my wet tights.

But it’s better than standing still. Better than the sound of her laugh echoing in my skull. Better than the image of his reddened handprint on her pale ass like it belonged there.

Every step is an attempt to scrub that scene from my brain. It doesn’t work.

By the time I reach the back staff entrance, I’m dripping. Mascara smudged halfway down my cheeks. Fingers numb. That stupid Tesco bag slung like dead weight on my arm.

I don't even bother sneaking in. I don't have the energy to lie with my face, only with my mouth.

James is still behind the front desk—bless him, he’s always working the late shifts to help pay for his kids childcare.

He lifts a brow the second he sees me. “Shit, Bianca… Everything alright?”

I nod, then shake my head, then settle somewhere in between.

“There’s a leak in my flat.” The lie tastes bitter, but it's easier to swallow than the truth. “Ceiling’s dripping like a bastard. Maintenance can’t come until morning.”

His gaze lingers on my face for a second too long. I must look like hell.

But he just sighs and pushes back from the desk. “I’m not supposed to comp staff rooms without manager sign-off.”

“I know.”

“You’re gonna owe me.”

“I know that too.”

He huffs, but grabs a key from behind the counter and slides it toward me. Room 309. One of the shittier suites—the ones with the squeaky beds and threadbare towels. I could kiss him for it.

“Just for tonight, Bianca.”

“Just tonight,” I echo, curling my fingers around the key like it’s a lifeline. “Thanks.”

The elevator ride is worse than the rain. Small. Bright. Quiet enough that I can hear the wet squish of my shoes and the soft hitch of my breath as I press the button for the third floor.

I don’t sob. Not really.

But the tears come falling in the silence anyway. My mascara’s already ruined, so I don’t bother wiping them. Just let them fall, one by one, onto the navy carpet as the floor numbers tick up like a countdown to my collapse.

The room is exactly what I expect. Beige wallpaper. A bed that dips in the middle. A bathroom that smells faintly of old soap and bleach.

But it’s warm, it's dry, and it’s mine.

For now.

I strip out of the wet uniform piece by piece, dropping it on the floor like a snake shedding skin that no longer fits. My wine sits unopened on the nightstand, and although it's tempting me, I really don’t have the fucking energy to drink it now.

Instead, I crawl beneath the thin comforter, let the silence wrap around me, and stare at the ceiling with eyes too dry to cry anymore.

No messages from Marcus. No missed calls. Not even a lie to hold onto.

Just silence. And me.

Alone.

Just one night. Then I figure out what’s left of me.

A thud against the wall startles me awake. For a moment, I'm disoriented—this isn't my bed, these aren't my sheets. Then reality crashes back.

The voices filter through the wall, deep and male. One speaks in careful, measured tones that make my skin crawl.

“You were warned.”

It’s not the words that jolt me upright in the bed. It’s the weight in them. Like each syllable could crush a man if spoken just a little louder.

“I—I didn’t know he’d talk. I swear, I didn’t know.”

A second voice answers. It sounds younger. Shakier. Less practiced at hiding the fear oozing through the hotel wall.

“I fucking warned you… If he talked, we bury your whole family.”

I sit up straighter, the bedsheets tangled around my legs.

That line doesn’t sound metaphorical. Not like some vague threat you throw around in frustration.

Bury your whole family?

My heart pounds against my ribs as I strain to listen. Maybe it's just a movie playing too loud—the walls in these old London hotels are paper-thin. But the voices sound too raw, too immediate.

A heavy thud shakes the wall again, followed by the distinct sound of something—or someone—hitting the floor.

"Please, I'll fix it. Give me one more chance—"

The sharp metallic click cuts through the wall like a blade. My whole body freezes, recognizing that sound from countless crime shows—a silenced gun being fired.

Another thud follows, heavier this time. The floor beneath my feet vibrates with the impact of what can only be a body hitting the ground.

My hands fly to my mouth, trapping the scream that threatens to escape. The scratchy sheets pool at my feet as I stumble backward, away from the wall, away from the violence vibrating through it.

Silence descends. The kind that rings in your ears and makes your breath sound too loud.

"Clean this up." The measured voice again, calm as if ordering room service. "I want no trace."

Footsteps move across the floor next door. My legs give out and I slide down against the far wall, as far from the shared wall as possible in this tiny room. The sound of drawers opening and closing filters through, followed by running water.

They're... cleaning.

My legs tremble as I slide off the bed.

I should call someone—security, the police, anyone. But my phone’s still in the pocket of my soaked uniform, and the hotel room phone might as well be a mile away. I can’t move. Not when I’m frozen here in nothing but my underwear and a threadbare tank top, too scared to breathe, let alone run.

More shuffling sounds next door. Something heavy being dragged. Keys jingling.

I hold my breath as footsteps move past my door. The elevator dings down the hall. Then silence.

My hands shake as I count to sixty, then count again. When I finally force myself to move, it's on trembling legs that barely hold my weight. I creep to the door and press my eye to the peephole.

The second my eyes lock on the corridor outside, the door explodes inward, ripping a scream from my throat that dies the instant I see him.

Tall. Dark. Beautiful in a way that makes my blood run cold.

Like I'm staring at a cobra, knowing it's the last thing I'll ever see.

"Let me in, little rabbit. We heard you breathing. And in my world, people who listen at doors end up with their ears cut off and their bodies buried in places no one visits."

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

His voice matches the one through the wall. Measured. Careful. But there's something else there now—a hint of amusement that makes my skin crawl.

I stumble backward, but his eyes lock onto mine.

They're black as pitch, unblinking, drinking in every tremor that runs through my body. My bare feet scrape against the carpet as I try to retreat, but there's nowhere to go. The window's too high, the bathroom's a dead end, and he fills the only doorway.

“You heard things you shouldn’t have,” he growls deeply, head tilting like he’s curious , not angry. “Now I have to decide if you’re a problem… or something I want to keep.”

I try to speak. Try to lie. I didn’t hear anything. I swear. I was asleep. I’m no one.

But no sound comes. Just silence.

He steps in closer and his scent hits me harder. It's like smoke, leather and something so expensive only a man oozing with this much power can wear it.

His body blocks the door, the hallway, the world, so all I can see is him.

Everything about him says money and murder.

He’s tall. So fucking tall. And broader than any man has the right to be, all carved muscle beneath a half-unbuttoned white dress shirt. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, revealing tattoos that snake over thick, veined muscle—black ink patterns that look more like warnings than art.

I'm shaking as I look over his ink, watching it disappear beneath the fabric of his shirt. I can’t help but imagine how they curl over his biceps and shoulders, linking with the ones that swirl their way across the strong line of his neck, all the way up to his chin.

He wears danger like expensive French cologne, and those eyes… they don't watch me. They pin me. He looks at me like a problem he wants to unwrap. Like if I breathe wrong, he’ll end me… but if I breathe right, he’ll own me.

Even rumpled from whatever violence he’s just done, this man is immaculate .

I should scream. I should fight.

But all I do is whisper, “You're going to kill me.”

His mouth curves. Not quite a smile. More like a rabid wolf sensing fear and baring its sharp teeth.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist like a steel trap. I try to twist away but he just tightens his grip, thumb pressing against my pulse point.

"Please—"

"Shhh." He pulls me closer, into the shadow he casts. "Time to go, little rabbit."