6. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Luca
T he double doors creak open like a warning.
Inside, the Ravelli mansion’s inner sanctum waits—an oil-painted mausoleum dressed up in power. Heavy wood panels line the walls, soaked in cigar smoke and blood-soaked memories. Generations of Ravellis stare down from their portraits, all stern brows and cold eyes, like they're daring me to prove I belong here.
I walk the length of the room, each step echoing off marble.
Vito Ravelli, my father, sits behind his desk like a dying god on a throne. The oxygen tank at his side wheezes in time with his breath, tubes snaking under his nose like serpents trying to keep him tethered to this world.
But don’t be fooled by the atrophy—there’s steel in his spine still.
The fire that burns white hot remains, the kind of evil that’s burned entire empires down.
The oxygen machine beside him hisses again, a mechanical heartbeat counting down his remaining breaths. One glance at him and all I can see is his once-powerful frame has collapsed inward, his cheekbones now almost sharp enough to cut glass… but his eyes remain unchanged.
They remain cold. Calculating. Disappointed .
"You're late."
I move to stand before him, not sitting until invited. Never sitting until invited.
The portraits of dead Ravelli's stare down from the dark walnut panels—generations of men who lived and died by the same code that's branded into my bones.
"The Malenko situation is handled." I keep my voice flat, emotionless. The way he taught me. "Permanently."
Vito's skeletal fingers tap once against the leather armrest. "The leak?"
"Sealed." I don't mention the girl. Not yet.
My father studies my face, hunting for weakness. For hesitation. For the slightest crack in the armor he forged around me since childhood. I give him nothing.
"And the merchandise?"
"Rerouted through Marseilles. Dante is overseeing delivery personally."
He nods, a barely perceptible movement. His oxygen tank clicks, pushing another breath into his failing lungs.
“You were sloppy again, Luciano,” he mutters, adjusting the rings on his skeletal fingers. “That floor was meant to be empty. Someone broke protocol.”
A long silence hangs between us like a guillotine.
Then, before I can say anything, my father's dark eyes sharpen. “The girl.”
Fuck.
Of course he knows. He always fucking knows.
Even with one foot in the grave and a machine breathing for him, Vito Ravelli misses nothing.
Information moves through this house like blood through veins, and my father’s still the heart of it—blackened, rotting, but pulsing all the same.
I shouldn’t be surprised he knows about Bianca. I should be surprised it took him this long to mention it.
“She’s alive.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken accusations. The way he's staring tells me he knows I'm withholding something.
He always fucking knows.
"I want you to call everyone." I break protocol. Speak without being spoken to.
It’s a crack in the facade. A step out of line. And we both know it.
Vito’s eyes narrow a fraction. The oxygen machine hisses again as my father's fingers still on the armrest, the gold of his signet ring catching the low light like a blade.
I exhale, slow. Lower my voice, just enough to give respect. “Please, father.”
That earns me a pause.
"I need a full family meeting."
A vein pulses faintly at his temple. "For what purpose, Luciano?"
I meet his gaze directly, feeling the weight of the Ravelli legacy pressing down on my shoulders. The crown he refuses to pass to me, even as death creeps through his veins.
"Because tomorrow, father, you eldest son will marry."
Something flickers across my father's face—surprise, suspicion, perhaps even the slightest hint approval. But it vanishes before I truly capture what it means.
"Who?" The question cuts through the room.
"Someone who will serve our interests." I offer nothing more.
The air in the sanctum doesn’t shift when I finish speaking. My father merely exhales through his tube, a subtle wheeze that sounds too much like laughter.
And then, without so much as a nod, he presses a button beneath the edge of his desk. Somewhere deeper in the house, I know the bell that has just chimed through all the signals.
The summons has been sent.
I wait in patient silence. But it's okay. Let them think this is about strategy. About alliances and appearances. Let them believe I’ve softened.
They’ll see the truth soon enough. They will see everything when I crown her in blood and bury anyone who stands in our way.
Footsteps echo minutes later, heavy through the hallways, but unhurried regardless. The heavy wooden doors behind me groan again, and then they appear.
Dante enters first—my middle brother, all raw power and bloodied violence. Six-foot-five of pure muscle and scars, dressed in a tactical black five-piece suit. His eyes scan the room for threats before landing on me.
The whiskey in his hand doesn't hide the fresh bruises on his knuckles. Someone bled for him today. Someone bleeds for him every day.
"This better be fucking important." Dante's voice rumbles like distant thunder as he claims the corner of the room, back to the wall—always watching, always ready.
Nico follows, my youngest half-brother.
Leaner than both Dante and me, he moves like a shadow, his deep green eyes betraying nothing as he sips his whiskey. Nico is the family's quiet weapon. The bookkeeper of our sins.
While Dante's violence is a sledgehammer, Nico's is a scalpel—clean, cold, and clinical.
"Rare to see you summon us all, father." Nico's voice is soft but carries weight. He chooses the armchair farthest from Dante, crossing one leg over the other.
Matteo Greco enters last.
The man is not blood, but almost. Our consigliere for twenty years, salt-and-pepper hair combed back perfectly, hazel eyes missing nothing. Matteo is the quiet knife, the man who cleans our messes and makes our sins disappear beneath paperwork and whispers that eventually go away without consequence.
"Don Vito. Luca." Matteo nods respectfully to each of us, taking position beside my father's desk. His fountain pen—Vito's gift—sits in his breast pocket like a silver promise for years of loyalty.
Father watches from his chair, oxygen hissing, eyes burning with curiosity.
"I've made a decision." I keep my voice level, commanding. "Tomorrow, I will marry."
Silence crashes through the room like breaking glass.
Dante barks out a laugh. "The fuck you will."
"Who?" Nico's question cuts through, precise and to the point, like always.
"A woman who witnessed Malenko's execution." I meet each gaze unflinchingly. "She lives because I permit it. She'll be a Ravelli by sunset tomorrow."
Dante's glass shatters in his grip. "This is bull shit. You're making a play. Using some whore to claim the throne while Father's still breathing."
"Convenient timing," Nico murmurs, eyes narrowing. "Father's illness accelerates, and suddenly you need a wife."
"Our father dying doesn’t matter."
"Oh, I think it does." Dante says. His voice is low, steady. "Like I said, you’re positioning yourself."
I tilt my head, unable to hide the smirk that creeps on my lips. "Am I?"
"You are," Nico mutters. "You think putting a ring on some girl’s finger makes you heir?"
"No." I glance back to Vito who's just watching his son's fight while remaining silent. "But I think showing initiative while the rest of you drink yourselves stupid might."
The tension in the room sharpens. Matteo watches silently, fingers steepled, seeing angles the others miss. Dante steps forward, his eyes tracking me up and down, like he's searching for weakness that doesn't exist.
"We all want the throne," he says darkly. "Don't pretend you're above it, brother ."
"I'm not pretending anything."
I approach my father's desk, placing both hands on the dark polished wood.
"Think what you want. Tomorrow, she will be mine. And soon—" I meet Vito's eyes. "The crown will surely follow. Unless you want to name another heir, father?"
My father manages to shift his failing old body in his chair, sitting somewhat upright despite his obvious weakness.
"Luca, as always, you have much to learn." His fingers tap against the armrest, each strike deliberate. "A wife doesn't make a king. A loyal son does."
The words slice clean, but I don't flinch. I've weathered worse cuts from sharper blades.
Dante shifts in his chair, settling back with an ankle crossed over his knee, thick arms folded over his chest. The smirk playing at his lips tells me everything—he thinks the throne is already his. That brute force will win what strategy cannot.
He's wrong.
"Then perhaps," I say, letting my voice carry just enough suggestion, "with my future wife at prime age for conceiving, I'll give you both."
The promise of an even younger heir hangs heavy in the air. If he will not consider me or my brothers, then a grandson delivered by my bride will be in line next.
My father's eyes narrow, calculating the possibilities, weighing bloodlines against time.
"Matteo." Vito's command cuts through the tension. "Make the arrangements for the wedding. Tomorrow, as my son wishes to marry, we will celebrate."
Our consigliere nods, already pulling out his phone.
"But understand this, Luca." My father leans forward, tubes stretching with the movement. "This is your gamble. Your choice. And with that, these are your consequences."
I meet his stare, unflinching. "As all things should be, father."
The threat beneath his words is clear—if this fails, if my new bride proves unstable or disloyal, the blame falls solely on my shoulders.
But they don't understand. Not yet. They haven't seen her eyes, haven't felt the steel in her spine.
They don't know what I already do: Bianca will either make me king... or help me burn this empire to ashes trying. One way or another, she’ll bring this family to its knees.
My wing is silent by the time I return. The family meeting went exactly as planned—they think they've cornered me, but I've already won the game.
Security cameras blink red above the door as I move inside, motion sensors armed, every entrance guarded.
The rest of the Ravelli mansion wears the mask of civility—fine art on the walls, ancient silver treasures in the cabinets.
But make no mistake… this place is a fortress. Not a home.
A prison where loyalty is bought in blood, and enemies bleed into the floorboards like wine.
My private floor stretches before me, a showcase of marble and dark shadows. No one enters my wing without my permission. This isn’t just my sanctuary.
It’s where I devour what’s mine.
I remove my coat and lay it across the back of my sofa where the last embers of the fire slowly die. The master suite doors part under my touch, and I move inside as moonlight spills across the floor.
The sight of her stops me dead.
Bianca lies stretched across my bed like a fallen angel, dark hair spilling over my pillows. Teresa dressed her in one of the silk nightgowns I ordered—ivory against black sheets, the fabric clinging to every curve. One strap has slipped off her shoulder, exposing the delicate line of her collarbone.
My little rabbit, finally in my lair.
The moonlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows bathes her skin in silver, making her look like something otherworldly as she breathes softly in her sleep.
Something that shouldn't exist in my world of shadows, violence and blood.
I approach silently, drawn to her warmth.
The nightgown—worth more than anything she would have ever owned—has ridden up, revealing the curve of her ass and the length of her deliciously thick thighs.
She’s cleaner now. Hair washed, loose around her face like a halo dipped in ink. No longer wet and tangled from the rain. Her skin looks softer, no longer streaked with tears and mascara but bathed in rosewater and soap.
My gaze catches on the empty water glass beside her. Good girl.
Teresa followed my instructions about the sleeping aid. She did well. I’ll remember to reward her tomorrow.
In sleep, the defiance melts from Bianca's face. Those sharp eyes that challenged me are closed, those lips that spat venom are parted softly.
But even unconscious, she's not fully tamed. One hand clutches the sheet, knuckles white. Fighting. Always fighting.
" La mia piccola guerriera ," I murmur, pride coiling low in my gut.
My little warrior.
I move closer, breath slowing as I loosen my tie, drinking in the sight of her. So clean. Pure. Unmarked.
For now.
The edge of her nightgown clings to the curve of her hip, slipping dangerously high. One more inch and I’d see everything.
I crouch beside the bed, close enough to feel the heat of her body, to inhale the scent of rose and clean skin.
My hand moves before I even think.
Two fingers brush the silk fabric, lifting the hem slowly, silently. Just a glimpse of what lies beneath.
The lace hugs her ass perfectly. Black, sheer, feminine—meant to be peeled off by teeth or torn in a fit of lust.
I want to tear it off. I want to see her flinch when she wakes to find me between her legs, tongue deep in what already belongs to me.
I want to slide my fingers between her thighs and feel how wet she is for the man who holds her life in his hands. I want to spread her open and taste what’s mine before anyone else ever could.
Don't get me wrong… this isn't about desire.
This is about power. About control and the throne that's rightfully mine.
But watching her sleep, seeing the way her lips part on each exhale... Something darker stirs in my chest. Something that wants more than just her body or her obedience.
I want to own every breath. Every heartbeat. Every defiant glare and sharp-tongued retort this woman throws at me. I want to break her down and rebuild her in my image until she craves my control as much as I crave giving it.
I straighten slowly, eyes locked on her sleeping form.
My cock is hard, throbbing behind my zipper, pulsing with the same need I’ve buried since I first laid eyes on her. But I leave her untouched. Unclaimed.
For tonight.
I lean down, letting my breath kiss her ear, my voice a whisper against the shell of it.
"Tomorrow, you become mine."
My voice barely disturbs the silence.
"And once that ring touches your finger, I’ll carve my legacy into your skin and fuck my crown into your womb."