13. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Bianca
T he shower shuts off, but not before Luca cleans me tenderly. It's a ritual I've grown accustomed to, one I never expected from a man who's so dominant in the heat of the moment.
His hands are so gentle as he washes away the evidence of what we've done, what he's done to me, his touch a difference to the bruising grip that held me moments before.
The care he takes with me after these moments of passion is the most confusing part of it all. The way he wraps me in warm towels. The way he kisses my forehead.
It feels like something beyond possession—something I don't have words for yet.
We dress in silence. I slip into a dry replica of the cream dress—of course Teresa would have a backup prepared—while Luca dons a fresh suit from his many choices.
"You'll sit at my right hand today," he says, adjusting his cufflinks. "Speak when spoken to. Smile when appropriate. And remember—"
"I know," I cut in. "I'm a Ravelli now."
Something flickers in his eyes. "Yes. And that means something in our world."
"Your world," I correct. "Not mine."
He steps closer, one finger tracing the line of my jaw. "They're the same now, cara mia . The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."
The last word is punctuated with a soft press of his thumb against my bottom lip—a reminder of what that mouth was doing minutes ago, a promise of what it might do again. Not a threat. Worse than that. A temptation.
His thumb pulls away, and I feel the ghost of it linger as I follow him through the silent corridors.
The first thing I notice about the brunch room is how the sunlight fractures through the crystal chandelier, scattering prisms of light across the gleaming ebony table. The surface is so polished I can see my reflection in it—distorted, wavering, like I'm drowning in black water.
Black orchids spill from silver vases along the center of the table, their twisted petals almost obscene in their decadence. Delicate threads of saffron-colored pollen dust the pristine tablecloth beneath them. Between the flowers, silver trays steam with what looks like an art exhibition rather than food: blood orange segments arranged like jewels, buttered brioche stacked in golden towers, soft poached eggs nestled in beds of microgreens, and paper-thin prosciutto draped over split figs.
And at regular intervals, crystal decanters catch the light, filled with what I now recognize as Dante's favorite bourbon, despite the early hour.
The room falls into immediate silence when Luca guides me through the doorway. It's not just quiet—it's the deliberate cessation of conversation, of movement, of everything but breath and calculation.
Dante lounges at one end of the table, sprawled in his chair like a bored lion, whiskey already in hand though it's barely noon. His eyes track us with predatory interest as Luca's hand presses against the small of my back.
Nico sits opposite, back straight, suit impeccable. He sips his espresso with such perfect calm it's almost unsettling—the cup never clicks against the saucer, his wrist never wavers. His eyes, though, are watchful above the rim.
Scattered around them are men whose names I've heard whispered in Luca's study—associates, lieutenants, business partners with specialties I prefer not to examine too closely. The Corsican with the scar across his throat. The Volkov heir with his calculating eyes. The Amsterdam connection with hands like hammers.
And their wives.
Beautiful women, diamonds dripping from ears and throats like frozen tears, lips painted in shades of blood and wine. They exchange meaningful glances as I enter, their whispers barely audible but unmistakably about me.
" Just look at that dress... " " ...hotel maid... " " ...won't last a month... "
Luca's hand tightens fractionally on my back, and I force my spine straighter. I may not belong here, but I'll be damned if I'll show them that.
Matteo stands near the head of the table, ever the faithful shadow, his hands clasped behind his back. One chair remains conspicuously empty—Vito's place at the head. No one mentions his absence.
"The newlyweds grace us with their presence," Dante calls, raising his glass in a mock toast. "How... domestic."
The way he says it makes the word sound like an insult. Like Luca has somehow degraded himself by taking a wife—by taking me .
"You look lovely, Mrs. Ravelli," Nico adds, his smile sharp as a blade. "Marriage agrees with you."
The wives exchange knowing glances, and I catch another whisper: " She's well-trained already. "
I feel Luca's hand slide from my back as he pulls out my chair—the one directly to the right of Vito's empty seat. I sit like I belong there, like I haven't spent the last two weeks learning which fork is for seafood and how to pronounce the names of wines I've never tasted.
From this vantage point, I can see everyone at the table. Their eyes flick between my face and Luca's, searching for weakness, for leverage, for any sign that this marriage is less than it appears.
Luca settles beside me, his movements fluid and controlled. A maid appears instantly to pour espresso into the delicate cup before him. She doesn't look at either of us as she works, then melts back into the shadows.
"Tell me, Bianca," Dante calls from his end of the table, rolling the amber liquid in his glass. "Do you miss your old life yet? Or have you found comfort in the view from the top?"
Every eye at the table shifts to me. I can feel the weight of their expectation, their judgment. Luca remains still beside me, allowing me to answer for myself. Another test.
I take a careful sip of water before answering, buying myself precious seconds to compose a response.
"I find that height offers perspective, Dante," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "You see more clearly who stands with you... and who waits for you to fall."
A beat of silence, then Nico chuckles—a sound like ice cracking. "She's quick, brother. I can see why you kept her."
Dante's eyes narrow fractionally, recognizing that his barb failed to land. "Indeed."
Luca reaches for a platter of fruit, selecting the ripest pieces with almost surgical precision. He places blood orange segments and sliced figs on my plate, then his own. The gesture looks attentive, even tender to outsiders—a husband serving his wife. But I see it for what it is: control. This is what I will eat. This is what he has chosen for me.
"The Corsicans accepted our terms," Matteo says, seamlessly shifting the conversation to business. "The shipment arrives next week."
"Unless it's delayed," Dante interjects, eyes flicking to Luca. "Like our last delivery."
Something passes between the brothers. The kind of pause that usually ends with someone vanishing off a dock with weights tied to their ankles.
"The delay was addressed," Luca says, voice cool and measured. "Permanently."
The table falls silent again, all eyes carefully avoiding Luca's. I wonder, briefly, what "permanently" means in this context. Then decide I'd rather not know.
One of the wives—Alessandra, I think, married to the Corsican—leans forward, diamonds glinting at her throat. "Bianca, that dress is simply divine. Teresa's choice, I assume? She always had a knack for dressing Elena appropriately."
The name drops like a stone into still water. Elena. Luca's mother. The comparison isn't subtle.
Luca's hand finds my thigh under the table, squeezing once in warning.
"Actually," I say with a smile that doesn't reach my eyes, "Luca chose it himself."
Alessandra's perfectly sculpted eyebrows rise a fraction. "How... involved of him."
"My wife deserves my attention in all things," Luca says, voice carrying easily across the table without being raised. "A lesson some might benefit from."
The Corsican stiffens, but says nothing. His wife's smile freezes in place.
I notice how Matteo shifts his weight when Elena's name is mentioned—a minute tell, but there nonetheless. And how Nico's eyes cut to the empty chair at the head of the table, then back to Luca, calculating something I can't decipher.
"Speaking of attention," Nico says, setting his espresso down with barely a sound, "have we heard from our friends across the river? After that unfortunate incident last week?"
"What incident?" I ask before I can stop myself.
The table goes still. I've violated an unspoken rule—don't ask questions about business. Especially not in front of others.
Luca's fingers press into my thigh again, but his face betrays nothing. "A minor disagreement over territory," he says smoothly. "Nothing for you to concern yourself with, cara ."
"Oh, I wouldn't call it minor," Dante drawls, leaning forward. "Someone testing boundaries is never minor. Especially when they do it so... deliberately."
"Perhaps they need a reminder of what happens to those who cross us," says the Amsterdam connection, speaking for the first time. His accent is thick, his meaning thicker.
Nico smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Remember the Beneventi family? Three brothers, much like us, who thought they could expand into Ravelli territory." He looks directly at me as he continues. "None of them saw the end of that week. The youngest was fed to the furnace below Vito’s old mill. Took Matteo three hours to scrape his teeth from the grate.”
I don't flinch. Don't look away. "How creative."
Luca's lips curve slightly—approval, perhaps, for not showing weakness.
"Creativity has its place," he says, "but I prefer efficiency. Clean. Final." His voice drops. "One shot. One message."
The threat hangs in the air, clear to everyone listening. This isn't about some past vendetta. This is about now. About whoever dared challenge them recently.
A maid appears to clear the fruit plates, replacing them with poached eggs nestled on beds of smoked salmon. The domestic ritual continues despite the undercurrent of violence beneath every word.
I notice a young woman seated beside one of the lieutenants—new, perhaps, or just quiet. Her eyes meet mine across the table, and something passes between us. Not quite sympathy, not quite warning. Recognition, maybe. Of being an outsider in this world of blood and power.
She looks away quickly when her companion places a possessive hand on her wrist.
"Vito asked about you this morning," Matteo says to Luca, changing the subject again. "He'd like to see you after brunch."
I feel Luca tense beside me, though nothing shows on his face. "Of course."
"He asked about Bianca again, as well, sir," Matteo adds, eyes carefully neutral. "Seems quite interested in your new bride, but I'm sure he's just making sure she's settling in just fine."
Dante snorts. "Father's always had an eye for beautiful women."
"Father's interest is in family stability," Luca counters, voice sharp. "Something you might consider before your next indiscretion with the Volkov's escort."
Dante's knuckles whiten around his glass.
I listen carefully, noting the strange silence when Vito's name comes up. The way everyone watches Luca and Nico, as if measuring them against each other. The careful distance Matteo keeps from Dante.
There are alliances here I'm only beginning to understand. Fractures I'm starting to see.
When the main course arrives—some delicate fish I don't recognize—I'm no longer hungry. But I eat anyway, knowing that any sign of weakness will be noted, discussed, exploited.
"The gallery opening is next weekend," one of the wives says, clearly attempting to steer conversation to safer waters. "Will you be attending, Bianca? It would be a perfect introduction to London society."
Before I can answer, Luca speaks. "My wife's social calendar is quite full at present."
The message is clear: I am not to be paraded around. Not yet. Not until he decides it's time.
"Such a shame," the woman continues, undeterred. "It's the social event of the season. Everyone who matters will be there."
"Then I'm sure it will be tedious," Luca says dismissively. "Bianca deserves better entertainment than watching socialites pretend to understand art they can't afford."
I catch Dante and Nico exchanging a glance. This protective streak is new, perhaps. Or at least, public display of it is.
As brunch draws to a close, the tension that has simmered throughout begins to boil.
Dante leans in, glass dangling from his fingers. "Civilian wives don’t last long in this world. They either run, bleed, or get buried next to the last girl who thought she could survive the Ravellis."
Nico watches, saying little but missing nothing.
Luca stands suddenly, placing his napkin beside his plate with careful precision. The entire table falls silent as he moves behind my chair, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders. The weight of them feels like armor.
"We are done here. My wife is not your entertainment," he says, voice low but carrying across the hushed room. "She is not my weakness. She is mine. And that makes her untouchable."
His fingers trace along my jaw, tilting my face up slightly. Not to look at him, but to display me to the table. To make them see exactly what he's claiming.
"Anyone who forgets that will answer to me. Personally."
The silence that follows is absolute. Even Dante has nothing to say.
Luca's hand returns to my shoulder, a gentle squeeze signaling me to rise. I do, grateful that my legs don't betray my nerves.
"If you'll excuse us," he says, though it's not a request. "My father is waiting."
We leave them sitting there, frozen in the aftermath of his declaration. His hand returns to the small of my back, guiding me through the door and into the corridor beyond.
"You did well," he murmurs once we're out of earshot. "Better than expected."
The praise shouldn't warm me. Shouldn't matter at all. But it does.
"Dante hates me," I observe.
"Dante hates anyone he can't control," Luca corrects. "Which includes both of us."
We stop at a junction in the hallway, where the corridor splits—one path leading to Vito's wing, the other to the gardens.
"Go," Luca says, nodding toward the gardens. "I'll find you after I speak with my father."
I hesitate. "What does he want with you?"
Something darkens in Luca's eyes. "Nothing good."
He leans in, pressing a brief, possessive kiss to my lips—a reminder, a claim, a promise. Then he's gone, moving toward his father's wing with the lethal grace that defines him.
I watch him disappear, then turn toward the gardens. I need air. Space. A moment to process the currents of power and danger I've just witnessed.
The groundskeeper nods as I pass, the first acknowledgment I've received outside Luca's immediate circle. I find a stone bench beside a fountain, hidden from the mansion's many windows. From my dress pocket, I withdraw a small leather notebook—a gift from Teresa that appeared on my nightstand three days ago. Whether Luca knows about it, I can't tell.
I open to the first blank page and begin to write. Not my fears or my secrets—I'm not foolish enough to commit those to paper in this house of shadows. Instead, I write observations. The pattern of Dante's speech when he lies. The way Nico watches Luca's back when he thinks no one sees. The careful distance maintained between Matteo and Vito's empty chair.
The strange ripple that passed through the room at the mention of Elena Ravelli.
These are my weapons now. My only defense in a world I never chose.
The pen moves across the page, each word a piece of myself reclaimed from the Ravelli name that surrounds me. They've taken everything else—my freedom, my body, my past—but these thoughts are mine alone.
For now.