5. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Bianca
T he car door clicks shut with the weight of a coffin lid.
I didn't say yes. I didn't even speak. I just stood there... and this man… this cruel, dark, twisted man took that as enough to claim me.
Luca's fingers circle my wrist, his grip a steel bracelet. Blood crusts his knuckles - not his blood, though, someone else's.
The leather interior gleams black, matching his suit, his hair, his soul. A metallic thud echoes from the trunk with each turn we make through the back streets of rainy London, and my stomach fucking twists .
I don't want to know what - or perhaps who - is back there.
Luca's men occupy the front seats like stone chess pieces. Their eyes never meet mine in the rearview mirror. They know what I am now.
Property.
Property of Luca Ravelli.
The name "Ravelli" ripples through my mind like a dark tide. How did I not see it before?
I've heard whispers in the hotel halls. Seen headlines about bodies found in the river. The Ravelli family owns London's shadows - and no one dares cross them.
But when he stood there, blade against my skin, listening to me talk about Marcus... I swear something shifted in that dark gaze of his.
His eyes changed. Not softer, no. Those darkened depths will never be soft.
But they were focused.
Like I was the only person who existed in that moment.
"Your friend," he says now, breaking the silence in the car. "The one who betrayed you. What was her name?"
"Madeline?"
His fingers tighten on my wrist. Not painful, but... possessive.
"And where does Madeline live?"
"Why?"
"Because by tomorrow morning, she won't."
My breath catches as I turn my glare on him. And fuck, he means it. I hear it in his voice. That's the same tone he used when ordering that man's death through the wall.
Cold. Final. Absolutely chilling and ruthless.
"No."
His head turns, gray eyes piercing through me. "No?"
"I don't want her dead."
I don't. Not really. Despite everything, I don't want her blood on my hands. On his hands. For me. She can have Marcus. She can have my life if she wants it. It wasn't that fucking good anyway.
A smile curves Luca's mouth. It's a dangerous, appreciative snarl that makes my skin flush with a shiver. It's like I've just passed some test I didn't know I was taking.
"Interesting choice." His thumb strokes my pulse point. "Most would jump at the chance for revenge."
"I'm not most people."
"No," he agrees, his voice dropping lower. "You're not. That's precisely why you're here."
The robe gaps at my thighs, my damp clothes bundled uselessly in my lap. He's draped his wool coat over my shoulders - not for warmth, but ownership. Like hanging a flag over conquered territory.
"I need clothes." My voice scrapes raw. "Let me stop at my flat-"
"No."
One word, flat as a blade.
"But everything I own is there. My passport, my-"
"You own nothing now." His thumb traces my pulse point. "Everything you need, I'll provide. Everything you want, you ask for."
"You can't just-"
"I can. I did." His grip tightens, a warning. "That life is done. You chose this one."
"I didn't choose anything," I whisper, but the words feel hollow.
Because I did choose, didn't I? When I didn't run. When I didn't scream. When I stood there while he claimed me with his eyes and his hands and his silence.
The city blurs past the tinted windows, my old world dissolving like rain. Ahead lies only darkness, leather, and the man whose touch brands my skin with blood and promise.
His palm burns through the robe, resting heavy on my thigh the entire drive.
He doesn't move. Nor does he grope me.
It's just... there. Like he's marking territory.
I look down and notice how the dark ink swirls beneath his knuckles - thorned roses and what looks like Latin script, disappearing beneath his crisp shirt cuff.
My skin prickles beneath his touch, caught between the urge to shake him off and a treacherous desire to lean into that warmth.
A heavy gold ring glints on his middle finger, catching the passing streetlights. It's not a wedding band, but something ornate and ancient-looking, with a blood-red stone set deep in the metal.
My stomach clenches as his earlier words echo: You'll take the Ravelli name. You'll be mine permanently.
His voice rumbles low, thumb continuing to trace circles that make my skin jump. "See something interesting?"
I jerk my gaze away from his hands. "That ring. It's—"
"A family heirloom. Passed down through generations of Ravelli men." He twists the ring, the stone gleaming like fresh blood. How fitting. "Their wives wore matching ones. And you will be expected to do the same."
The implication hangs heavy between us. I press myself closer to the car door, but his grip tightens.
"I don't want your ring."
His laugh is dark velvet. "You don't have a choice, little rabbit."
"Stop calling me that." The words slip out before I can stop them, sharp and brittle in the leather-scented silence. "I'm not your rabbit."
And that… that gets his attention.
He moves like a snake, fluid and lethally fast. His fingers lock around my chin, forcing my face toward his with a yank that strains the muscles tightening around my throat.
The ring digs into my skin, cold metal and hot flesh a violent mix as terror rises up and vile threatens to spill out.
"You think you have a say?" His eyes are black holes in the dim car, consuming everything they touch. "Let me make this crystal fucking clear, little rabbit ."
His thumb traces my bottom lip, but there's nothing gentle in the touch.
"You're mine now. Every breath you take. Every thought you have. Every inch of skin under this robe. It's all fucking mine." His fingers tighten when I try to pull away. "You don't get choices anymore. You don't get preferences or opinions or even a fucking name unless I give it to you."
I bare my teeth, tasting blood from where I've bitten my cheek beneath his grasp.
"I'm not—"
"You're whatever I say you are." He leans closer, until his breath fans across my lips. "And right now? You're nothing but a frightened little rabbit who ran straight into the wolf's den. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."
His thumb presses harder, forcing my mouth open slightly.
"Now, tell me. What are you?"
Fear and anger combine to scorch my insides with fury. But what choice do I have?
"Little. Rabbit."
His grip gentles, but the victory in his eyes burns hotter than any slap.
"Good girl."
The praise slides down my spine like poisoned honey. I hate how it makes my skin flush, how something deep inside me preens at this wicked mans approval.
This isn't me. I don't submit. I don't yield.
But his thumb is still tracing my lip, and my body betrays me with a shiver.
"Was that so hard?" His other hand returns to my thigh, higher this time, fingers splayed possessively across bare skin where the robe has fallen open. "See how much easier things are when you behave?"
I want to bite him. Want to draw blood and show him exactly how behaved I can be. But the weight of his gun against my ribs earlier still echoes in my bones. The sound of that body hitting the floor next door. The casual way he ordered it cleaned up like the life that was once inside that body didn't matter to anyone.
So I stay silent, jaw clenched beneath his grip, eyes fixed on the passing streetlights beyond his shoulder.
His fingers flex against my thigh. "Makes it so much more satisfying when you finally submit."
"I haven't submitted to anything."
"No?" His head tilts, predatory amusement dancing in those cold eyes. "Yet here you sit, in my car, wearing nothing but a robe, while I decide your fate. Sounds like submission to me."
I stare out the rain-streaked window, watching my old life blur past.
While he might be right… what did I even have, really? A cramped flat I could barely afford. Double shifts scrubbing other people's messes.
Marcus...
God, Marcus.
I'd worked so hard to build something with him. Extra shifts for the wedding fund, cooking his favorite meals just to see him smile, planning our future in stolen moments between work and sleep. All while he was probably laughing at me, fucking my best friend the whole time.
Luca's hand presses against the inside of my thigh, and I suppress a shiver. I might not know a single thing about who this man is on the inside, but I already know he's nothing like Marcus.
There will be no fake smiles, no empty promises. Every threat, every claim that leaves his mouth drips with brutal honesty.
I was raised on nothing. Council flats and food banks. I never knew my father. Mum was working three jobs just to keep the lights on. I learned early that wanting more only led to disappointment.
But Luca... he radiates power like a dark sun. His suit probably costs more than I make in a year. The watch he offered - the one I should have taken and run - could have bought me a new life.
Instead, I'm here.
His hand on my thigh. His coat around my shoulders. His men driving us through the shadows of a London I never knew existed.
I own nothing now, he said. But I never really owned anything before. Just dreams that turned to ash and trust that shattered like cheap glass.
Slowly, the chaos of London disappears and iron gates loom ahead, black and twisted against the night sky. The car slows as we approach, and I catch glimpses of stone walls beyond, stretching impossibly high. Security cameras track our movement, red lights blinking in the darkness.
The gates part silently at our approach, and something changes inside my mind.
They're opening for me now. For what I've become.
His property. His possession. His world, and apparently, soon to be… his wife.
The driveway curves through manicured gardens, past fountains that whisper in the darkness. This isn't just wealth – it's power carved in stone and steel.
The mansion rises before us like a shadow given form, all sharp angles and gleaming windows. Lights spill across the courtyard, but they don't warm the cold air.
The scent hits me as we step out of the car. Rain on stone, expensive leather, and something metallic that makes my stomach turn.
Blood.
I hate that I know that smell now.
An older woman waits in the entryway, her gray hair pulled back severely, her clothes plain but pristine. Her eyes sweep over my hotel robe with quiet judgment.
"Teresa," Luca says to the woman, "prepare her."
She reaches for my arm. I jerk back. "I can dress myself."
"You'll do as you're told." Luca's voice carries no room for argument as I'm whisked inside so quickly I barely have time to see anything.
I'm guided into a bathroom by the woman as Luca turns to a nearby sink, rolling up his sleeves so his inked forearms move under the water easily.
I can't help but watch him as the water runs pink as he scrubs his hands, like he's washing away nothing more significant than garden dirt.
Teresa guides me toward a chair, laying out fresh clothes. But I can't look away from Luca's hands, from the casual way he cleanses himself of tonight's fresh dose of violence.
He catches me watching in the mirror, and his lips curve.
"You'll sleep in my wing tonight."
Teresa's hands tighten on my shoulders, either in warning or sympathy. I'm not sure which is worse. She looks kind, but I'm not about to go trusting anyone just yet.
"Your… wing? " I repeat, my voice hollow as I take in the bathroom.
This single room is bigger than my entire flat. Gleaming marble stretches in every direction, veined with gold that catches the light from crystal sconces. A sunken tub dominates one corner, deep enough to drown in.
Hell, the fucking shower could fit an orgy of six people in it.
"The east wing," Luca says, drying his hands on a towel. "My private quarters take up the entire floor."
An entire floor. Jesus Christ.
I run my fingers along the counter. The mirror stretches floor to ceiling, making me look small and lost in my fucking robe.
"The whole floor," I whisper. "Right. How big is this place?"
Teresa's lips twitch, almost a smile. "Big enough to get lost in, dear. Best stay close to someone who knows the way."
Luca's reflection watches me from the mirror as I take in the gold fixtures, the heated towel racks, the fucking chandelier hanging over a bathroom .
My old life feels like a dream – cramped spaces, shared walls, counting pennies for the electric bill.
"The clothes," Teresa prompts, gesturing to a pile of black silk on a velvet bench I hadn't even noticed.
I pick up what looks like a nightgown, the fabric liquid between my fingers. The price tag is still attached.
Four thousand pounds.
For sleepwear.
My knees go weak. "I can't—this is—"
"You can. You will." Luca's voice brooks no argument. "Everything you were ends tonight. Everything you'll become starts now."
I stare at my reflection, at the lost girl in the borrowed robe, at the man who holds my life in his blood-clean hands.
"Welcome home, little rabbit," he says, the words echoing off marble and gold, sealing me in this gilded cage.
Then he turns to Teresa without looking at me.
“Make sure she sleeps.” A pause, like there's a hidden message I don't understand in those words. “She’ll need her strength.”
My stomach twists.
“Tomorrow,” he says, voice calm, almost casual.
“She becomes a Ravelli.”