11. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Luca
I wake before the sun, my body trained to rise with the darkness.
But for once, I don't move.
Bianca's pressed against my chest, her cool breath soft and even on my sink, dark hair spilled across my pillow like ink.
My fingers hover over the bruise blooming on her collarbone. A deep purple that darkens to black at the edges, the exact shape of my mouth.
Now she's marked. Claimed. Mine .
The memory of last night burns through me—her perfect ass raised for my palm, those breathy little sounds she tried to swallow, the way she finally broke and begged.
But it's not just the conquest of years of planning that has me transfixed. It's this. The quiet. The peace in her features that I haven't known since before my mother's blood stained cathedral steps.
Bianca shifts closer, seeking my heat. Something cracks in my chest. She fits here like she was carved from my rib, designed to fill this empty space beside me.
And that... that's dangerous.
Because this world I've built isn't made for softness. It devours innocence. Breaks beauty. And she needs to learn that before someone decides to teach her.
I slip from the sheets like a shadow, practiced in the art of silence. Years of careful training by my father make even my breaths soundless as I stand beside the bed, watching her.
Bianca curls into the warm hollow I leave behind, seeking me even in sleep. Her lips part on an exhale, dark lashes fluttering against pale cheeks.
The bruise on her neck looks bad.
But it's not just about marking her anymore.
I want to build walls around her. Keep the sun from touching her skin unless I allow it. Shield her from every threat in my blood-soaked world.
My father's labored breathing in the cathedral echoes in my mind - the wet, rattling sound of death claiming what was once untouchable. The great Vito Ravelli, reduced to fucking wheelchairs, oxygen tanks and morphine drips.
I trace the curve of Bianca's shoulder.
My new wife doesn't understand the precipice we stand on. How the vultures circle, waiting for my father's last breath. Dante thinks brute force will win him the crown. Nico plays both sides, as always.
And here I am, with a civilian bride who heard too much.
My fingers find the Ravelli ring on her hand. The same ring my mother wore before they gunned her down. I was fifteen, covered in her blood, when she whispered her last words: "The throne will be yours, my son. When you are ready, take it. Take it, and own it."
Now, with Bianca, I finally can.
The old alliances are fracturing. Our territory bleeds at the edges. But I see the path forward - through legitimate business, strategic marriages, calculated violence.
Not with Dante's brass-knuckled chaos or Nico's double-dealing games.
These thoughts are poison. Weakness I can't afford in these dark times. But they burn through my veins anyway as I draw the sheet over Bianca's bare shoulders, tucking the silk around her like armor.
My lips brush her forehead, barely a touch. She sighs, turning into it, and that small gesture of trust splits me open.
Mine to own. Mine to shield.
I'll never tell her any of this. These thoughts die in the dark where they belong. The moment I admit how deeply she's burrowed under my skin is the moment someone will try to use her against me.
I'll burn this city to ash before I let that happen.
Leaving her behind, I move like a ghost through my own kingdom.
The Ravelli estate swallows even the smallest of sounds. A deliberate design choice my grandfather made when he built these walls with blood money. The thick carpets in the hallways absorb my footsteps as I see the darkness in the sky outside begin to lighten.
Cold marble replaces plush wool as I descend the grand staircase. The chill seeps through my bare feet, a familiar sensation that grounds me every morning. The portraits of Ravelli patriarchs watch from golden frames, their painted eyes following my movements with judgment etched in oil and canvas.
Two guards stand at attention as I pass the entrance to the east wing. They nod silently, eyes forward, hands clasped behind their backs. Their weapons remain hidden but accessible. The way father trained them the moment they swore to protect our family at all costs.
"Sir." The acknowledgment comes in a whisper as I pass Alessio, who materializes from the shadows near my father's study. He holds a tablet displaying security feeds, but knows better than to speak further unless addressed.
The mansion breathes around me—the gentle hum of climate control, the distant click of a door closing somewhere in the west wing, the faint scent of gunmetal and leather that never quite leaves these walls.
A maid sees me approaching and flattens herself against the wall, eyes downcast. The massive crystal chandelier above casts fractured light across her face.
She's new. Afraid. As she should be.
The main kitchen in the middle of the estate is Teresa's domain. I smell espresso before I enter. The scent mingles with freshly baked bread and the faint metallic undertone that permeates every corner of this house.
Teresa stands at the marble island, her back straight as a blade. The morning light is brighter in here, shining down through bulletproof windows, catching on the silver in Teresa's hair. She doesn't turn when I enter, but a cup slides across the counter toward me.
"Your father is awake," she says, pouring the dark liquid into a demitasse cup.
I take the espresso.
"Your father insisted on staying up late with the Volkovs." Teresa's hands move swiftly as she prepares a second espresso. "He refused the oxygen tank overnight. Again."
I lean against the counter, the marble edge cold through my shirt. "How bad?"
"Three coughing fits. I had Matteo escort him to bed around two." She slides a plate of fresh cornetti toward me. "He's reviewing contracts in his study now."
"Of course he is."
The espresso burns my tongue as Teresa's eyes rake over me, catching on the loosened collar of my shirt.
Her lips twitch. "Should I have the maids prepare your suite for deep cleaning this morning?"
"No need." I set the empty cup down and Teresa quickly slides the second across the counter. "Though you might want to check on my wife later. She may require your... expertise with covering certain marks."
Teresa's eyebrow arches as she wipes down the already spotless counter. "I see the claiming went well then."
"She's stronger than she looks." I roll my shoulder, remembering the sting of Bianca's nails. "More fire than fear."
"Good." Teresa nods once, sharp and approving. "You need someone who won't break easily." She pauses, dark eyes finding mine. "But remember – even the strongest blade can shatter if struck wrong."
I push away from the counter. "Just make sure she's presentable for dinner."
The side door whispers open on well-oiled hinges. Matteo's reflection appears in the polished steel of the refrigerator, his shoulders tight with tension.
Teresa's spine stiffens. Without a word, she collects her cleaning supplies and exits through the staff door, leaving only the lingering scent of lemon polish behind.
Matteo's footsteps are nearly silent as he approaches, stopping at a precise distance from where I stand. His hazel eyes remain fixed on the marble countertop.
"There was movement last night." His voice barely carries across the space between us.
He slides a manila folder forward across the counter. The paper makes a whisper-soft sound against the stone but I don’t reach for it.
I finish my espresso first, then take a long steady breath and set the porcelain cup down, letting the silence stretch.
Then I open the file.
Eight photographs fan out like a grim deck of fate.
The Brixton warehouse. Eastern wall scorched black with fire accelerant. Bullet holes spiderwebbed through one loading dock door. Security keypad ripped out at the root. Two guards face-down near the chain-link perimeter—alive, but unconscious.
The attack is crude and completely reckless.
But timed perfectly.
Because they chose last night .
They chose my wedding night. When security would be focused on the cathedral, on protecting the family gathered there. When they thought I'd be distracted by claiming my new bride.
"Someone thinks they see weakness."
Matteo's jaw tightens. "They don't see weakness. They see opportunity, sir."
"Explain." I keep my voice flat, controlled.
"Your brothers weren't at their posts last night. Dante left the warehouse district exposed." Matteo's fingers drum once against the counter. "And Nico's crew was pulled to cathedral security without proper replacements."
"On whose authority?"
"That's the interesting part." Matteo meets my gaze. "The order came through proper channels. Signed. Stamped. But when I traced it back—nothing. Ghost protocol."
I study the crime scene photos again. The timing, the execution, the deliberate sloppiness of it all. Someone wants me to notice. Someone wants me to react.
"Your father asked about the bride this morning." Matteo's tone shifts, careful. "He seemed... particularly interested in her background."
"Did he." It's not a question.
"He mentioned Elena. Said something about history repeating itself."
My hand clenches, crumpling the edge of one photo.
"And what exactly did he say about my wife?"
"That she might be more valuable than anyone realizes." Matteo straightens his cuffs, but doesn't look me in the eye.
The implication hangs heavy in the air. My father never says anything without purpose. Every word is a test, a trap, or a warning.
Nothing more, nothing less.
My pulse doesn't quicken. My breathing remains steady. But beneath my skin, rage coils like a serpent preparing to strike.
I trace the edge of one photo with my index finger, pushing aside my father's interest in my wife for now.
"No casualties then?"
“None, sir,” Matteo replies, his voice trained to stay flat after twenty years of loyal service. “Minor damage. Two unconscious. The breach lasted exactly seven minutes before the security override reset. Alessio’s combing through the code now. We suspect someone inside.”
I close the folder slowly.
My hands are steady, but inside, violence beats against its cage. Not because of the attack. But because of the timing . Because of what they think they've discovered: that I have something worth protecting now, so I have become weaker.
They think marriage made me vulnerable.
Let them.
Let them all believe I’m softened. Distracted. Caught up in the curve of her hip and the sound of her voice, the feel of her tight cunt wrapped around me.
Let them take one more step toward what they think is weakness. Because when I strike back, they won’t just bleed.
They’ll beg for death.
"Send Enzo to tidy up." I keep my voice low, measured. "Quiet and clean. No retaliation yet."
Matteo's shoulders tense. "Sir, with respect—"
I silence him with a look. The kind that reminds him why I stand where I do, why even my father's most trusted advisor knows when to hold his tongue.
He swallows whatever argument he was about to make.
Good.
Because this isn't about revenge. It's not even about the warehouse.
This is about her .
I return to my wing, footsteps silent against the marble floors. The door to my bedroom stands ajar, exactly as I left it.
She's still there. Still sleeping.
I lean against the doorframe, watching the silk sheet rise and fall with each breath, right where I pulled it over her.
I cross the room and pull a leather chair beside the bed. The sound should wake her—I've seen how light she sleeps, how quick her instincts are. But she doesn't stir. She already trusts me enough to stay under.
Dangerous, that trust. For both of us.
I study her face, so different from the defiant creature who challenged me in that hotel room. Who stood before me in that cathedral. Who yielded to me in this very bed.
Each version of her slots into place like she was made for this life. It seems I have bided my time perfectly, waited and waited for the right innocent little rabbit to finally fall into my trap.
The photos from the warehouse attack sit heavy in my pocket. Someone timed this—waited until my wedding night, until I was distracted. They're testing me, seeing if she makes me weak.
But they don't understand.
She doesn't make me weak. She makes me focused .
The truth hits like a bullet: I will burn this city to ash to keep her safe. I will paint these walls with blood if anyone tries to use her against me.
I rise from the chair, careful not to wake her.
At the window, I pull out a cigarette and light it with a flick of my lighter. In the distance, the city sprawls before me, waking up slowly as it's bathed in golden morning light that's so rare in these parts.
London will rise as always, unaware of the blood that will soon stain its streets.
The cigarette burns between my fingers as I watch her reflection in the window.
So peaceful. So fucking innocent.
But Matteo's mention of my father's interest in her still rings in my ears. Vito Ravelli doesn't waste his dying breath on meaningless inquiries. If he mentioned her, it wasn’t by accident.
Maybe it's a bluff. Maybe it's leverage. Or maybe... there's something I've overlooked.
The thought makes my jaw clench. I will need more information about the woman I've brought here. I will need her investigated. Every detail of her life laid bare before I plant my seed and put my trust in someone I know nothing about.
I make the vow silently, letting it sink into my bones: Until I'm given reason not to, if they touch her—if they even dare to look at her wrong—I will paint these streets red until they forget her name exists outside of mine. Until they understand that hurting her means war.
And Luca Ravelli has never lost a war.
I take one last drag, crushing the cigarette into the crystal ashtray.
She's mine to protect. Mine to keep.
Mine to destroy, if necessary.
But first, I need to know what my father knows.