8. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Luca
I stand in the cathedral hall where my mother's casket once rested, watching shadows dance across black marble floors like ghosts that refuse to leave.
The same gilded candelabras line the aisle, their flames flickering like dying breaths. Incense coils in the rafters, heavy and ancient like the walls surrounding me.
Everything here smells of smoke, blood, and sanctified lies.
Fifteen years ago, I stood in this very spot and watched them lower her into the ground—Elena Ravelli, the only woman my father ever bled for. A brutal, bloody murder of the woman who gave me life, taking her away from me too soon.
Today, I stand at the altar waiting to crown a queen of my own.
Not for love.
For legacy.
For the throne my mother promised me in whispered bedtime stories before the bullets found her.
One day, Luciano, she’d said, her fingers brushing through my hair. You will rule this family with both fire and mercy. But to do so, you must first learn how to bleed for something.
I never forgot those words.
Dante materializes at my shoulder. "Quite the show you're putting on, brother." His fingers dig into my shoulder, grip tight enough to bruise. "Father's impressed. Or concerned. Hard to tell these days with all the tubes in his face."
I don’t react. "Your support is touching, fratellino. "
"Just remember—" Nico appears on my other side, completing our trinity of tension. "One wrong move..."
"And what?" I turn, meeting his gaze. "You'll add another body to the family plot?"
That silences them both—momentarily.
The heavy doors at the far end groan as the cathedral fills with guests. The elite of our underworld arrive like vultures circling a fresh kill. I clock them one by one: soldiers from Naples, Corsican arms dealers, Volkov's bratva, the Iranian syndicate from Tehran, the Dutch kingpins, and even two of the Fukuda boys from Kyoto.
Enemies pretending to be allies. Allies pretending they’re not waiting to slit each other’s throats the moment Vito finally croaks.
They came for blood, but they’ll get a wedding instead.
Ravelli style.
"Still don’t buy it," Dante mutters. "This stunt? This bride? It’s not about tradition. It’s a power grab."
"Maybe I just want what our parents always wanted for us," I murmur, barely hiding the venom beneath the smile.
Dante laughs, but there’s no warmth in it. "You mean dead mothers and absentee fathers?"
I ignore him. My eyes scan the crowd, landing on Vito seated near the front.
My father’s hands shake as he grips Dmitri Volkov’s meaty palm. Even diminished—lungs failing, oxygen tube shoved up his nose—he commands respect. The wheelchair doesn’t matter. The decay doesn’t matter.
Power still clings to him like he's the devil himself.
Dmitri towers over him, white hair slicked back, suit creased to perfection.
“A joyous occasion, old friend,” he says in a voice like crushed gravel. “Though I admit surprise at such... hasty arrangements.”
Father’s lips curve, but the smile never reaches his eyes. “You should know by now, Dmitri. When a Ravelli moves, we move decisively.”
Enzo stands behind the chair, hands locked on the handles like they’re an extension of his trigger fingers. The oxygen tank strapped to the back clicks softly, each hiss a reminder that our king is dying—and the vultures know it.
Nico leans closer. “Funny how you’ve never wanted a wife. Never needed one. Until now.”
I fix my cufflinks. Onyx, the same shade as fresh-spilled blood. “Times change.”
The organ begins to play. A slow, haunting prelude that stretches through the cathedral like a warning. The sound of fate, creeping closer.
My brothers step back, their disapproval thick in the air. Matteo nods from the front pew, hands folded over his cane like a bishop presiding over the ruin of empires.
Then, the cathedral doors swing open.
And silence falls like a guillotine.
I face forward, toward the doors. Toward the woman I claimed from the blood and shadows of this city. Mother would hate what I've become. But she made me a promise, and now she's not here to help me.
So I've only got one choice. To do what I do best… and take it for myself.
The heavy cathedral doors swing open, and Bianca steps into view.
For a moment—just one—I forget how to breathe.
Bianca glides down the aisle, a vision in black silk and gold.
The silk clings to her curves like it was sewn into her skin just this morning, molten gold threading catching the candlelight with every step. The gown bares her shoulders, exposes the soft rise of her breasts, then cuts back in with the discipline of a blade. Her legs move beneath the fabric like poetry.
And those eyes...
Those amber eyes cut straight through me.
She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t glance around the room for an exit. She walks like a woman with no chains—her chin held high, mouth set, jaw clenched.
It’s a lie, of course. But it’s a beautiful one.
She walks like she chose this.
But she didn’t.
I chose her . Not the other way around.
And she’s walking because she knows what happens if she doesn’t.
Still, that defiance? That’s real.
And it makes my blood burn.
Teresa walks beside her, hands folded neatly at her waist like a chaperone. Matteo and Alessio flank the procession a few steps behind, my cousins forming a barrier between her and any escape route she might have calculated.
Not that she'd try. I already know she's smart enough to know better.
I watch Bianca’s every move—the sway of her hips, the controlled fury behind her steps.
When she reaches the altar, she stops just short of me, slowly reaching my eyes with the look of a ghost.
I take her hand. Her skin is cool, but her pulse races under my thumb. Good. She should fear this. Fear me.
The priest begins the ceremony, droning in Latin, invoking blessings from gods I stopped believing in a long time ago.
I don’t listen. I watch her.
The way she swallows. The way her hand twitches in mine. The breath she holds when the priest asks her to repeat her vows.
“And do you, Luciano Ravelli, take this woman—”
“I already have,” I interrupt, voice low and lethal.
The priest blinks, flustered. I slide the ring onto her finger—thick gold, Ravelli crest carved into the band like a brand. It’s too big for her delicate hand. That pleases me more than it should.
The moment the metal touches her skin, the shift happens.
I feel it in the room. In the weight of the crowd’s gaze. In the tension winding through the marble pillars holding this sacred cathedral up.
The crown just tilted. The power of this family has just pivoted, and everyone in this room knows it.
She's mine now.
My queen. My weapon. My key to the throne.
And now there is only one thing left to do: kiss my bride.
I grasp her chin between my thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up to mine. Her pulse jumps beneath my touch—a trapped bird beating against its cage.
"With this kiss," I murmur against her mouth, "I claim what's mine."
I crush my lips to hers, swallowing her sharp inhale. She tastes like fear and fury and something sweeter—something I want to devour.
My tongue traces the seam of her lips, demanding entry. When she hesitates, my grip on her jaw tightens.
Open for me, little rabbit.
Her lips part on a gasp, and I plunge inside, claiming every inch of her mouth like I'll claim the rest of her later. She makes a sound—half protest, half surrender—as my tongue strokes against hers.
Her hands come up to my chest, pressing against my suit jacket. Not to push me away. No. To my delight, I feel her fingers curl into the fabric, gripping tight like she needs an anchor in this storm I'm dragging her into.
Something shifts in that moment.
The tension in her spine melts beneath me. Her mouth softens under mine. And when my tongue slides deeper, hers rises to meet it—tentative at first, then with growing hunger.
There you are, my wife.
I release her jaw to wrap my hand around the back of her neck, angling her head to take the kiss deeper. Harder. My other arm bands around her waist, crushing her against me until I feel every curve through the silk of her dress.
The cathedral fades away. The witnesses. The priest. The politics.
None of it matters.
Only this: her surrender. Her submission.
When I finally break the kiss, her lips are swollen. Her eyes are glazed. And that defiant chin? It stays lifted, even as she struggles to catch her breath.
Perfect.
I take her hand—my ring already glinting on her finger—and lead her down the aisle. The crowd parts for us, respect and fear creating a path for the Ravelli heir and his new bride. Her fingers tremble in mine, but her spine remains straight, her chin lifted.
Defiant even in surrender.
I lean close, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"Are you scared, little rabbit?" The question is a whisper meant only for her.
She turns her face to mine, those eyes meeting mine directly. "No."
A single word. Delivered without hesitation.
I stop walking, turning to face her fully. My hand slides up to grip her throat—not squeezing, merely holding. A reminder of who holds her life.
"You should be." My voice drops lower. "You've just married a monster."
Her pulse jumps beneath my palm, but her gaze never wavers. "Perhaps. But at least you're honest about what you are."
Unexpected. This woman continues to surprise me. I expected tears. Trembling. Begging. Not this steel wrapped in silk.
"You know, becoming my wife doesn't save you. I could destroy you." My thumb traces her jawline, teasing her soft lips with a stroke of my thumb. "I can still break you into pieces so small you'd never find yourself again."
"You could try."
A laugh escapes me—genuine, startled. Several heads turn at the sound. Luca Ravelli doesn't laugh. Not at weddings. Not at funerals. Not ever.
But this woman—this maid I claimed from a hotel room—has pulled one from me without effort.
I lean closer, my forehead nearly touching hers. "Well then. Do you know what happens now, Mrs. Ravelli?"
Fear finally flickers in those golden eyes. "What?"
I slide my hand into her hair, gripping the roots just tight enough to sting. "To claim you, I must have you."