14. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Luca
T he moment I step into my father's office, the temperature drops. It's always been this way—like crossing a threshold into winter, no matter the season outside.
My shoes sink into the Persian rug as the heavy walnut door shuts behind me. The room smells exactly as it has since I was a child: aged cigar smoke embedded in the dark wood panels, leather worn smooth by decades of power, and that distinct cologne my father imports from Milan that no one else is permitted to wear.
Vito Ravelli sits behind his desk. As always, that fucking oxygen tank is wheezing beside him like a dying serpent. It looks as though this machine is new, though.
The look in his eyes, however, isn't.
"You're late, Luciano."
I don't respond. We both know I'm precisely on time—it's just that everyone else arrives early to Vito's summons, desperate to please.
The stained glass window behind him casts colored shadows across his gaunt face, fracturing him into pieces of red and blue and gold. The Ravelli crest—a raven clutching a bloody dagger—stretches across the central panel, throwing a crimson stain across my father's silver hair.
"Sit," he commands.
His lips press into a thin, bloodless line. Even dying, Vito Ravelli expects obedience. Especially from his sons.
I settle into one of the two leather armchairs facing his desk. The leather creaks—a sound that used to terrify me as a child, when being summoned here meant punishment. Now it's almost comforting, like an old enemy you've learned to respect.
"You've been busy, son," he says, the wheeze in his voice cracking slightly. "Your new wife. The warehouse incident. The Volkovs making noise again." He pauses, letting silence spill between us. "A son with ambitions rarely sleeps."
I cross one leg over the other, bringing my hands to rest in my lap. "Was there something specific you wanted to discuss, Father?"
The oxygen machine clicks, pushing another breath into his failing lungs. The sound is obscene in the quiet grandeur of this room—a mechanical reminder that even the great Vito Ravelli is mortal.
"Your wife," he says, dark eyes unflinching. "Tell me about her."
Something cold slides down my spine. "You've met her. And from what I hear, you are doing your homework."
"I've seen her," he corrects. "That's not the same thing."
He reaches for a crystal glass on his desk, fingers trembling slightly before he steadies them through sheer force of will. The amber liquid catches the light as he brings it to his lips.
The truth is, I haven't been away on business. Not entirely.
I didn't tell Bianca where I've been either. Let her think it was business, shipments, territory. She doesn't need to know I've had men photographing every person she's ever spoken to, documenting every place she's ever lived.
Not yet.
I've been digging into every corner of Bianca Sutton 's life. Three days of meticulous investigation, pulling apart her past thread by thread. The hotel was just the beginning—a job she'd held for eighteen months, perfect attendance, no complaints. Before that, two other service positions. Always reliable. Always invisible.
Her mother's care facility costs more than Bianca's salary could cover. The payments come through, though—regular as clockwork from an account I can't trace. Someone's been watching over her, and it's not the worthless ex-fiancé.
The flat she shared with Marcus was in his name. Her bank account showed a pattern of small deposits—tips, probably—but nothing suspicious. No hidden wealth, no secret contacts.
Just a beautiful woman working herself to exhaustion.
But there's something else. Something that makes my fingers itch to break Marcus Forbes's jaw all over again. Three years ago, Bianca disappeared for six months. No employment records, no credit card trails. She emerged with a new job and that engagement ring.
I tap my fingers against the arm of my chair, watching my father's face for any hint of recognition. His expression remains carved from stone.
"Bianca seems... resilient," Father continues. "Dante thinks she's your weakness. Nico thinks she's your shield." His mouth curves into what might be a smile on anyone else. On him, it's just teeth. "So tell me, what do you think she is, Luciano?"
I meet his gaze directly. "She's mine."
He laughs—a dry, scraping sound that sends him into a coughing fit. When he recovers, there's blood on the handkerchief he presses to his lips.
"Is that what you said when you claimed her from that hotel?" He tilts his head, studying me like a specimen. "Or did you take her because she reminds you of someone?"
My jaw clenches.
"She's nothing like Mother," I say, the words scraping my throat.
"No?" He leans forward, elbows on the desk, hunched like a vulture. "The same defiance in her eyes. The same grace under pressure. The same... effect on you."
The portraits of dead Ravelli patriarchs stare down from the walls, judging me as I try to keep my expression neutral. Generations of men who traded in blood and power watch this familiar wicked dance of hatred, love and devotion between father and son.
"What do you want, Father?"
He taps his fingers against the leather armrest—once, twice. A habit I've seen a thousand times. The rhythm of a man plotting.
"There was movement at the eastern warehouse again," he says, changing direction so smoothly I almost miss it. "The same night as your wedding."
"It's been handled," I reply.
"Has it?" He raises an eyebrow. "Or have you been distracted?"
The crystal decanter on the sideboard catches the light, refracting it across the room in shards of gold. I focus on one such shard as it dances across the antique leather book spines lining the wall.
"I don't miss details," I tell him. "Not even on my wedding night."
"Good." He slides a manila folder across the desk. "Because someone inside our organization is feeding information to the Volkovs. About shipment schedules. About security rotations." His voice drops lower. "About your new bride."
I reach for the folder, keeping my movements unhurried despite the rage building beneath my skin. Inside are surveillance photos—Bianca at brunch, Bianca in the garden, Bianca beside me at the wedding. All taken with telephoto lenses. All recent.
"The Volkovs have always been opportunistic," I say, closing the folder.
"Not like this." He gestures toward the oxygen tank with vague annoyance. "They smell weakness, Luciano. They think your marriage and my... condition... create an opening."
"Let them."
His eyes narrow. "You sound confident for a man who's been busy playing husband instead of heir."
The words hit their mark, as he intended. My father has always known exactly where to place the blade.
"What would you have me do?" I ask, voice flat. "Divorce her? Kill her? Or just keep her locked away until you decide she's been sufficiently vetted?"
He studies me for a long moment. "You care for this woman."
It's not a question. It's an accusation.
"She's my wife," I respond, giving him nothing.
"As Elena was mine." His voice drops to a cruel whisper. "And look what happened to her."
The room goes still, the air suddenly thick with ghosts. This is the closest my father has come to discussing my mother's death in fifteen years.
"Is that a threat?" I ask, each word precisely measured.
He sighs, suddenly looking every one of his sixty-seven years. "It's a warning, my son." His hand trembles as he reaches for his glass again. "Love makes men weak. Weak men lose empires."
"Is that what you told yourself?" I feel my muscles clench at the disrespect, but I can't help myself. "When Mother died?"
His eyes flash, a glimpse of the predator still lurking behind the illness.
"Your mother's death was a tragedy. A price we all paid for prominence in this world."
"The Volkovs," I say, the name bitter on my tongue.
"So we believed." Vito nods slowly. "The attack was meant for me. Elena was just... collateral damage."
I remember blood. So much blood. Splashed across cathedral steps, soaking into my suit as I held her. I was fifteen, frozen in horror as my mother's life drained onto marble that had seen generations of Ravelli prayers.
"And now they're targeting Bianca," I say, connecting the threads he's laying out.
"Perhaps." He steeples his fingers. "Or perhaps someone closer to home is using them as convenient scapegoats." His gaze is steady, penetrating. "Just as they may have fifteen years ago."
The implication sends ice through my veins. "You think Mother's death wasn't the Volkovs?"
"I think," he says carefully, "that a man in my position collects many enemies. Some wear their hatred openly. Others..." He trails off, letting the silence speak for him.
I move closer to the desk, hands braced against the cold obsidian surface. "If you know something about Mother's death—something you've kept from me all these years—"
"I know that power is never given, Luciano." He cuts me off, voice suddenly hard. "It's taken. Claimed. Held against those who would rip it away."
His hand gestures to encompass the room, the mansion, the empire beyond.
"Everything I built, everything your grandfather, and his father before him built was on blood and loyalty. And if you want to protect what's yours—your wife, your future, this family —you'll remember that lesson."
The emotions start to take hold, and the dark memory crashes over me.
The cathedral bells tolled three times as I knelt beside her on the steps. Blood soaked through the knees of my dress pants. Her blood, my mothers, cooling rapidly in the autumn air.
"Luca," she whispered, her hand clutching mine with fading strength. "Listen to me."
My father's men swarmed around us, guns drawn, screaming into radios as bullets flew around us. But all I could see was her face—Elena Ravelli, beautiful even as death claimed her.
"The throne will be yours, my son." Her eyes locked onto mine, fierce even as they dimmed. "When you are ready, take it. Take it, and own it."
Her fingers pressed something small and cold into my palm. Her wedding ring—the Ravelli crest etched in gold, still warm from her skin.
"Promise me," she gasped, blood bubbling at the corner of her mouth. "Promise me you won't become him."
Before I could answer, before I could promise anything or ask questions, her hand went limp in mine.
My father arrived moments later, his face a mask of stone. He didn't kneel beside her. Didn't touch her. Just stood there, looking down at his wife's body with eyes that revealed nothing.
"Get him up," he ordered, and hands pulled me away from her, dragging me backward as I struggled to hold onto her for just one more second.
"Clean this up," Vito said to his men, his voice colder than I'd ever heard it. "Discretely."
As they led me away, I looked back over my shoulder. My father hadn't moved. He just stood there, watching as they covered my mother with a black coat, as if she were nothing more than a stain to be hidden from public view.
That was the moment I knew: I would never be like him. I would be worse.
"Luciano." My father's voice pulls me back to the present. "Are you listening?"
I blink, forcing the memory down, locking it away with all the others. "Every word."
He studies me with those dark eyes. "The Volkovs have requested a meeting. With you and your bride."
"Out of the question," I respond immediately.
"It wasn't a suggestion." He leans back in his chair, one hand resting on the armrest, fingers tracing the worn leather. "The invitation has already been accepted."
"Without consulting me?" My voice drops dangerously low. "That is bullshit. "
"You forget yourself!"
My father's voice carries a deadly roar I remember from childhood. The kind that preceded bruises and broken bones, bullets and instant death.
Even still, I lean forward, planting my hands on his desk. The wood creaks beneath my grip. "And you forget who handles our external operations. Who keeps this empire running while you waste away in this room."
His oxygen tank hisses. "Careful, boy."
"No." The word comes out like a blade. "I won't have her anywhere near Dmitri Volkov. The man's a rabid dog who-"
"Who controls the eastern ports we need." My father's eyes flash with a warning not to over-step again. "Your personal feelings about your new toy don't override family interests."
The rage burns white-hot in my chest. "She's my wife ."
"You were occupied when the decision was made." His gaze is unflinching. "Besides, it presents an opportunity. If they're targeting Bianca, let them think they have access. Draw them in. Then eliminate the threat."
"Using my wife as bait," I say flatly, shaking my head.
"Using your wife as an asset ." He corrects, lips twisting in what might be approval. "Unless you've grown too attached to think clearly."
The accusation hangs between us, a test I've faced a thousand times. Show weakness, and he pounces. Show strength, and he finds new ways to test it.
"When?" I ask.
"Three weeks from now. The Volkovs will send a car." He slides a second folder across the desk. "Their heir, Demyan, has taken a particular interest in your bride."
I take the folder without opening it. "And what does Matteo say about this arrangement?"
"Matteo serves the family." My father's response is immediate, the words practiced and sure. "As do we all."
I straighten, tucking the folders under my arm. "Is that all, Father?"
He studies me for a long moment, oxygen hissing beside him, blood-colored light staining his collar.
"Almost." He reaches into his desk drawer, removing a small velvet box. "I want you to give this to your wife."
I make no move to take it. "What is it?"
"A gift." He pushes it forward. "A tradition, actually. Elena wore it to her first meeting with rival families."
The mention of my mother's name in conjunction with Bianca sends a wave of unease through me. I take the box with careful control.
"Father, I do not understand what game are you playing," I say quietly.
He smiles—a real smile this time, and somehow that's more terrifying than his usual mask.
"The same one I've always played, my son. The one where our family, our legacy, our empire… survives."
I turn to leave, the folders and velvet box in my hands.
"Luciano," he calls, stopping me at the threshold. I look back to find him suddenly smaller in his chair, the weight of decades bearing down on his shoulders. "Your mother would be proud of you."
Fuck.
In fifteen years, he's never said anything like it.
"Elena saw something in you I couldn't," he continues, raising his glass a tilting it at me. "A king, not just a soldier."
I say nothing, suspicious of this sudden sentimentality.
"Protect your wife, Luca," he says, using the shortened name my mother preferred. "But remember—in our world, what we love most becomes our greatest weakness."
I leave without responding. In my pocket, my fingers close around the velvet box. Whatever game my father is playing, whatever web he's weaving around Bianca, I won't let her become another Elena.
Another sacrifice on the bloody altar of Ravelli ambition.
She's mine.
And what's mine, I protect.