7. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Bianca
T he curtains tear open with a violent shhhk , flooding the room with winter light so sharp it slices through my eyelids.
"Up! Up!"
I flinch, the sudden brightness a blade across my vision. “What the—?”
“We have mere hours,” Teresa says briskly, already moving about the room with the precision of a woman used to controlling chaos. “You need to be fed, bathed, dressed, and seated before noon.”
I blink at her silhouette. She’s a blur against the light, dark clothes and gray hair tucked into something severe. Like a damn general preparing her soldier.
Only I’m not a soldier.
I’m the sacrificial lamb. Or little rabbit, if Luca has any say in this.
I blink, still slightly disoriented by the unfamiliar room. The bed beneath me is cloud-soft, sheets sliding like water against my skin.
I cup a yawn and look around. My gaze catches on the empty water glass beside the bed. The one Teresa brought last night.
A chill crawls up my spine.
I slept... deeply.
Too deeply.
"Did you—" I clear my throat. "Was there something in that water?"
Teresa's lips thin. "A mild sedative. On Mr. Ravelli's orders. He wanted you well-rested for the big day, my dear."
I flick my eyes to the nightstand again.
The glass is empty.
I don’t remember finishing it. I don’t remember lying down. I don’t even remember crawling beneath the silk sheets that now cling to my skin like smoke.
Just… fragments.
I remember the scent of rosewater. Teresa had drawn the bath herself. The water had been laced with oils and petals, pink blossoms floating around me as I sank beneath the surface.
And she’d watched me the whole time.
Not once did she speak as she scrubbed my back with a sponge soft enough to make me ache. Not once did she look away as I stood naked as the day I was born, dripping wet as she wrapped me in a towel thick as mink.
I was clean. Sanitized. Prepared.
She combed my hair, sang softly in Italian, and sat me on a velvet bench by the fire while she laid out the nightgown and handed me the glass.
Of course he did this.
Because I'm not a person to him—I'm property to be managed.
Amongst the haze inside my head, a silver breakfast cart appears beside the bed, laden with fresh berries, perfectly poached eggs, and orange juice in crystal.
Teresa beams at me as she arranges it over my lap. The silver tray shines in the light, the edges scalloped, a linen napkin folded beside the fine china. Steam curls from a delicate teacup, but it’s the single bloom in the tiny crystal vase that makes my breath catch.
A peony flower. Pale pink, ruffled and perfect.
My favorite.
Peonies grew wild behind the council flats where I grew up. My mother used to braid them into my hair, say they were too pretty for the ground.
I've never told anyone that. Not even Marcus.
The tray suddenly feels heavier, like it's laced with meaning I can't quite touch. Did he —? How does he—?
"Eat. You'll need your strength."
I can't tear my eyes from the peony. Its petals unfurl like secrets, each layer a deeper shade of pink than the last.
Teresa's gentle singing fills the room again, her voice low and sweet as she moves around the bed, straightening sheets and pulling the curtains wider.
The melody wraps around me, but I can't quiet place the song. Something old, something Italian. The words float past in a language I don't understand, but the tone reminds me of lullabies I used to love.
I reach out and touch the flower's edge with one finger. The petal is cool, still damp with morning dew.
"How did he—?" The question sticks in my throat. "Teresa, where is Luca?"
"Mr. Ravelli?" Teresa's eyebrow arches. "You think he sleeps here? Oh dear child, you have much to learn about the Ravelli family."
I push berries around my plate. "But this is his wing."
"His domain, yes. But the master keeps... separate quarters." Something flickers in her eyes. "For now."
I force myself to take a bite of egg, fighting nausea. The yolk breaks, golden and rich. Like blood spilling across pristine sheets.
Teresa's humming doesn't falter, but her eyes meet mine in the mirror as she opens the massive wardrobe across the room. There's knowledge there, in her eyes, wrapped in that slight curve of her lips.
The peony watches me while I pick at the eggs, its presence both comfort and warning.
Someone's been watching. Learning. Collecting little pieces of me I thought were still my own.
But how?
Teresa's song shifts to something darker, minor keys threading through the melody like thorns.
"You're not going to eat more than that?" Teresa clucks her tongue, snatching the half-eaten breakfast away. "Wasting good food when there's a wedding to prepare for? Your stomach will be growling right when you say 'I do.'"
The word wedding hits me and I nearly fucking choke.
"Come now, up!" She tugs at my arm with surprising strength. "We have three hours before the ceremony, and trust me, dear, you'll need every minute to look your best for Luca."
I look at her with a frown. "I'm not sure how to take that, Teresa."
"Well, darling," Teresa says, looking me up and down. "You’re beautiful, but you're not miraculous. Now get moving, we've got skin to glow and scars to hide. Luca's mother was the last bride to grace these halls. She set quite the standard, you know. "
I stumble after her into the bathroom—the same one from last night's hazy memories. The massive sunken tub already steams with fresh water, oils swirling on the surface like liquid gold, making the entire room smell like lavender.
"I can bathe myself today," I protest weakly.
Teresa ignores me completely, already untying my nightgown. "A Ravelli bride is attended to properly. It's tradition. And Elena Ravelli— may she rest in peace —would never forgive me if I let you walk down the aisle anything less than radiant."
The nightgown pools at my feet. I stand naked again, arms crossed over my chest, goosebumps rising despite the steam.
"This is ridiculous," I whisper, but step into the water anyway.
The heat envelops me as Teresa's hands guide me down. She hums that same Italian melody while working shampoo through my hair, her fingers massaging my scalp with surprising tenderness.
I should feel humiliated. I'm a grown woman being bathed like a child. Yet there's something... soothing about surrendering to her care.
No one has touched me this gently since—
"You remind me of my mother," I whisper, the words escaping before I can catch them.
Teresa's hands pause briefly. "Is that right, dear?"
"Yeah. She used to wash my hair all the time. Before the Alzheimer's took her memories." I close my eyes against the unexpected sting of tears. "She wouldn't recognize me now."
"And your father?" Teresa's voice is carefully neutral.
I laugh, hollow and sharp. "Never met him. Just another man who walked away from me without a care."
Her hands resume their gentle work, rinsing my hair with warm water from a silver pitcher.
"Don't take it to heart, tesoro . Men walk away. But Ravellis... they claim what's theirs forever. You will be in good hands with Luciano."
I step out from the bath and Teresa wraps me in a towel warmed on the heated rack, tucking it around me and patting the water droplets away.
"My dear, there will be a wedding on these grounds today," Teresa says, her eyes bright with something like excitement. "First time in fifteen years. The entire family is buzzing. Before we leave this bathroom, I need to make sure you understand the importance of today."
"I think I get it. I was engaged before," I murmur. "To Marcus."
Teresa's face hardens and she shakes her head at me.
"That boy wasn't worthy of you." She brushes a strand of wet hair from my face. "Luca Ravelli is many things—dangerous things—but he keeps his promises. He is a man of his word as much as he is a man of power."
She smiles faintly. “Weddings change things, dear. Even in a family like this. They bring back old ghosts. Stirs the blood. Creates tension where there isn't any.”
I swallow hard.
“I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“No,” she agrees. “But neither did he.”
That lands like a rock in my stomach.
Teresa leads me through a hidden door I hadn't noticed before, and my breath catches. The dressing suite stretches wider than my old apartment's living room, wrapped in black velvet walls that make the space feel infinite. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling, casting rainbow prisms across racks of designer gowns arranged by color. Like a Roman artist's palette gone dark.
Glass cases line the walls, displaying jewelry that looks more like beautiful weapons than accessories. Diamonds sharp enough to cut. Pearls heavy as bullets. Ruby chokers that could double as collars.
"This is..." I trail off, running my fingers along a silk sleeve of a gorgeous gown that now, apparently, is mine.
"Ravelli tradition." Teresa moves with purpose toward the darkest corner of the room. "Everything a woman could need is in here. If it isn't, find me and I will get whatever your heart, or your husband, desires."
She winks at me, then pulls out a gown that makes my heart stop.
"Teresa," I breathe, stepping closer to run my hands through it. "It's… beautiful. "
Black silk bleeds into molten gold at the hem, like someone dipped midnight in sunlight. The bodice is a masterwork of intricate beading, creating a pattern that looks almost like chains.
"I can't wear that though." My voice sounds small even to my own ears.
Teresa lifts a brow, the gown draped over her arm like a trophy. "And why not?"
She holds it up, the silk catching the light, deep Ravelli black threaded with dark gold embroidery.
"Because I'm not—" I swallow hard. "I'm not his bride. I'm just his... his object. His possession. Something he claimed because he could."
But even as I say it, the words taste wrong. Too brittle. Too defensive.
Because what kind of possession gets bathed in oils, wrapped in silk, and served breakfast with her favorite flower in a vase?
I glance at the gown again, pulse ticking in my throat. It's not white. It's not traditional. It's not innocent . But for a second—just one wild, shameful second—I wonder what Luca will think when he sees me in it.
And that realization guts me.
God. Am I really starting to care what he thinks?
Teresa’s eyes catch mine in the mirror—sharp, lined with age, but filled with the kind of knowing that only comes from surviving men like Luca Ravelli.
"Oh, tesoro ," she says, voice soft and certain. "Stop worrying yourself. You are his deepest desire made flesh. You just haven’t seen it yet."
She steps behind me, starts unlacing the back of the gown.
"And a Ravelli bride never wears white," she adds, her smile curling into something dark. "White is for innocence. For purity."
Her gaze meets mine again and I feel the towel wrapped around me drop to the floor.
"And you, my dear…" She smiles into the mirror, looking over me as orders my arms up to allow her to drape the gown over my head. "You're about to become something far more dangerous than pure."
I stand frozen as Teresa steps back, her gentle hands smoothing the fabric over my hips. The black silk clings to my body, the gold embellishments catching the light with every breath I take.
"Turn," she commands, and like a little rabbit, I obey without thinking.
The mirror reflects a stranger back at me.
A woman draped in darkness and gold, her skin luminous against the midnight fabric. My hair falls in glossy waves over my shoulders, and my eyes seem brighter, more defiant. The neckline plunges dangerously low, revealing more skin than I've ever shown in public.
I smooth a hand over my stomach, feeling the cool beading beneath my palm. I hate how much I love the way I look right now. Hate how right this feels—this dress made for a queen, not a hotel maid.
"Earlier, you mentioned Luca's mother," I say, breaking the silence. "Elena, right? You said she was a bride worth looking up to."
Teresa's hands pause on my shoulder. Her reflection in the mirror goes still, her face suddenly grave.
"Elena Ravelli was a force of nature," she says finally. "Beautiful. Fierce. The only person who could make Vito laugh."
"What happened to her?"
Teresa's eyes meet mine in the mirror. "She died under... suspicious circumstances. When Luca was fifteen."
My breath catches. "Suspicious how?"
"A hit meant for Vito. Or so they say." Teresa's voice drops to barely a whisper. "The family never healed. Especially Luca. He was there when it happened."
The weight of her words settles over me like a shroud. I think of Luca's cold eyes, his calculated movements. The way he looks at everyone like they're already dead.
Teresa turns me to face her, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
"Bianca, that boy has demons in his blood," she says, each word precise and heavy. That's the first time she has used my name, and I feel it. "You may be the only one who can anchor him."
"Me?" I shake my head. "I'm nothing to him. Just a witness he decided to keep instead of kill."
"If that's what you need to believe."
Teresa's lips curve into a smile as she leans in close, so close I see just how deep the secrets of this family lay within the depths of her eyes.
"But know this dear, he chose you. One of the most powerful men in the world, and he chose you. And you alone."
I take a breath with the weight of that statement.
Wrapped in silk and secrets, I stand here ready for a wedding I never asked for… to a man who already owns every piece of me.