17. Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
Luca
A week passes like water through my fingers.
Each day, Bianca grows more comfortable in my home. In my bed. In my life. Small changes I notice because I'm always watching—the way she no longer flinches when a guard appears, the ease with which she navigates the corridors that once felt like a maze to her.
With the Volkov meeting less than two weeks away, I find myself watching her more closely, preparing her without telling her the full extent of what she might face in that room of wolves.
She still keeps secrets. As do I. But there's a rhythm between us now, a dance of power and submission that somehow feels like... balance.
After the night in my playroom, something shifted. My admission—those fucking words I never meant to say—changed things between us.
For seven days, I've watched her recalibrate, finding her footing in this new territory where she has both a collar and a crown.
I've taken her each night since—sometimes in my playroom, sometimes gently, sometimes with a brutality that leaves marks.
But each time, she meets me halfway. Each time, she gives herself more completely.
And each time, I find it harder to remember why I ever thought I could keep my heart locked away from her.
Today marks a week since I opened my sanctuary to her. Since those words slipped past defenses I've maintained my entire fucking life.
My father has been silent, conserving his strength for whatever game he's playing. Dante watches Bianca with narrowed eyes whenever they cross paths. Nico maintains his carefully crafted distance, observing everything, revealing nothing.
And the Volkovs continue to circle, their shadows growing longer by the day.
My phone buzzes against the mahogany desk in my study. Matteo's name flashes on the screen.
"Speak," I answer, eyes still on the documents before me—shipment manifests for our Rotterdam operation, numbers that don't align with what I expect.
"We have a situation, sir," Matteo's voice comes through, careful and measured as always. "The Albanians are short on their payment. Again."
I lean back in my leather chair, fingers tapping against the armrest.
This is the third time in as many months that Arben Behar has failed to deliver. The first time, I sent a warning—a finger from one of his lieutenants delivered to his breakfast table. The second time, Dante paid him a visit that left three of his men in the hospital—two with shattered femurs, one with a fractured spine. They could start a wheelchair league with my father at this point. Hell, maybe even give him a run for his money.
This time requires a personal touch.
"How much?"
"Two hundred thousand," Matteo responds. "They claim supply chain issues, but our sources indicate they're diverting funds to expand into Kensington."
West London. My territory. My fucking streets.
"Set up a meeting," I say, voice deceptively calm. "Tonight. The usual location."
"Sir." Matteo pauses. "Perhaps Dante would be better suited—"
" No . I said I'd handle it."
"Very well. Eight o'clock. I'll make the arrangements."
I end the call, setting the phone down with a heavy sigh. The Rotterdam documents can wait. This payment issue—this disrespect —cannot.
A soft knock interrupts my thoughts. The door opens, and Bianca appears, dressed in a simple black sweater and dark jeans. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, and there's a restlessness in her movements that I've come to recognize over the past week.
"I'm going to lose my mind if I stay in this house another day," she announces without preamble.
I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. My little rabbit, still defiant despite everything.
"Is that so?"
She approaches my desk, perching on the edge of it like she belongs there. Like this space, my private domain, is as much hers as it is mine.
And fuck it—maybe it is.
"Luca," she says, her voice dropping to that tone that somehow bypasses all my defenses. "Please. I need air that doesn't taste like these walls."
I study her face. There's no fear there anymore. Just determination and a yearning for more than the gilded cage I've built around her.
"Actually," I say, rising from my chair. "As it turns out, I have business in the city tonight. Perhaps you'd like to accompany me."
Her eyes light up before suspicion narrows them. "What kind of business?"
"The kind that reminds people why the Ravelli name carries weight." I move around the desk, coming to stand before her. "The kind that might shock a hotel maid."
She doesn't flinch at the reference to her former life. Instead, she lifts her chin, meeting my gaze directly.
"I'm not that girl anymore, am I?"
No. She's not. She's something far more dangerous. A woman who's beginning to understand her own power in my world.
"Get dressed," I tell her, fingers tracing the line of her jaw. "Something elegant but practical. We leave in an hour."
Her smile is like a knife. Beautiful, sharp, and all the more dangerous for how much I want to feel it against my skin.
***
The Bentley glides through London's evening traffic, its bulletproof windows tinted to obscurity. Bianca sits beside me in the back seat, a vision in a fitted black dress that hugs her sexy fucking ass, her hair swept up in an elegant twist that exposes the pale column of her throat.
Around it, a delicate gold chain holds the Ravelli crest. The necklace was a gift I left on her pillow this morning. A visible brand for anyone who might question who she belongs to.
From the color of the jewelry, it would just be a necklace to a normal woman. To those in the know, it's a message written in gold.
"Where are we going?" she asks, watching the city lights flash by.
"Westminster," I reply, my hand finding its place on her thigh. The fabric of her dress is soft beneath my palm, but I can feel the heat of her skin through it. "I have a meeting with someone who seems to have forgotten how business works."
Her eyes meet mine, understanding dawning. "And you're bringing me because..."
"Because a man should never hide his true nature from his wife." I squeeze her thigh, fingers digging into soft flesh. "And because it's time London sees who stands beside me."
The car turns onto a narrow street that tourists never find, then slows to a stop before an unmarked door beside the Westminster clock tower. Big Ben. A location so famous, it's one of the most photographed buildings in the world.
But few know the entrance we take exists. And fewer still have permission to use it.
The underground network beneath this historic landmark has served my family for three generations.
Alessio opens the car door, standing at attention as I step out, then offer my hand to Bianca. She takes it, emerging with the grace of a woman born to power rather than thrust into it weeks ago.
"Mr. Ravelli," the doorman greets me with a slight bow, eyes carefully averted from Bianca's face. "They're waiting below."
I nod once, my hand finding the small of Bianca's back as I guide her through the door and into a narrow corridor lined with century-old stone. The air changes here—it's cooler, heavy with history and secrets.
"What is this place?" Bianca whispers, her heels heavy against the stone floor as we approach an antique elevator cage.
"One of London's better-kept secrets," I reply, opening the wrought iron gate. "The Ravelli family's money helped rebuild the underground level after the bombings in World War II. In exchange, we gained a private meeting space beneath one of the most secure locations in London."
She glances around, brows knitting. "Isn't this... government property?"
I smirk, pressing the button for the lift.
"And who do you think prefers us handling the criminals, cara mia ? Saves the taxpayers the trouble of sorting the bad guys from the worse ones."
The elevator descends slowly, gears grinding with a sound that echoes through the narrow shaft. Bianca's hand finds mine in the dim light, and I lace our fingers together, sensing her nervousness despite the brave face she wears.
"Are you afraid, little rabbit?" I murmur, bringing her knuckles to my lips.
She meets my gaze steadily. "Should I be?"
"Not of me." I press a kiss to the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse jump beneath my lips. "Never of me."
The elevator stops with a shudder, and I slide the gate open to reveal a space that few outside my circle have ever seen.
The underground chamber sprawls beneath the foundations of the Houses of Parliament, a cavernous space transformed into a testament to power and luxury. Crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, sending golden light across mahogany tables and leather chairs.
A bar stands against one wall, stocked with bottles of any liquor one might fancy. At the center, a massive table stretches out, its surface inlaid with a map of London crafted from different exotic woods.
Men stand as we enter—five of Arben's lieutenants, all armed, all wary. And Arben himself, seated at the head of the table like he belongs there.
I scoff and shake my head at the sight.
The disrespect is deliberate. An instant challenge to my authority.
"Luca," he greets, remaining seated, his Albanian accent thick around my name. "I see you brought company."
His gaze slides to Bianca, assessing her with the eye of a man who sees women as commodities. "The new Mrs. Ravelli, yes? We've heard much about your... unusual marriage."
I feel Bianca stiffen beside me, but her face remains composed. I release her hand, moving to stand behind the chair that should have been mine from the beginning.
"Arben," I respond, voice deliberately light. "I see you've forgotten your manners. Along with your payment schedule."
That gets his attention.
He shifts in his seat, the leather creaking beneath him. "Business has been... complicated. Supply chain issues—"
"Save the excuses for someone who gives a fuck," I cut him off, nodding to Alessio, who moves to pull out a chair for Bianca—directly to my right, facing Arben. "You're two hundred thousand short. For the third time."
Arben's eyes narrow. His lieutenants shift their stance, hands moving subtly toward concealed weapons. Bianca notices the movement and I see the slight widening of her eyes, the way her spine straightens in response.
"Sit down," I tell her, my voice gentle but carrying enough authority that she obeys without hesitation.
Only then do I take my seat, unbuttoning my suit jacket. The Glock holstered beneath my arm is visible for a moment—a deliberate flash of steel to remind everyone in the room what I'm capable of.
"Now," I continue, leaning forward, elbows on the table, "let's discuss how you're going to make this right."
Arben smiles, all teeth and no warmth. "Perhaps we need to renegotiate our arrangement, Luca. Times are changing. Your father's health... the succession still unclear... new players entering the market..."
He trails off, the threat implicit. He thinks Vito's illness has weakened us. He thinks the Ravelli empire is vulnerable.
He's about to learn how fucking wrong he is.
"Interesting perspective," I reply, my voice dropping to that register that makes hardened criminals flinch. "Here's mine: You've failed to deliver on our agreement for the third time. You're expanding into territory that isn't yours. And now you sit in my chair, trying to renegotiate terms we settled in blood."
I reach into my jacket, and every one of Arben's men tenses. What I withdraw isn't a weapon, but a folded document, which I slide across the table.
"Your debt. Itemized. With interest."
Arben doesn't touch the paper. "And if I can't pay? What then, Luca? You'll send Dante to break more of my men? Cut off more fingers? These old tactics—"
"No," I interrupt, my voice soft but carrying. "Not Dante. Me ."
The room goes very still. Even Bianca feels the shift in the air, the way Arben's men exchange nervous glances.
Because everyone knows: Dante is the Ravelli who enjoys violence. I'm the one who uses it like a surgeon uses a scalpel. Precise… purposeful… and fucking final .
Arben tries to laugh it off. "Come now, Luca. We're businessmen. Surely we can find an arrangement that—"
I grab Arben's wrist, slamming it down on the table with enough force to rattle the crystal glasses. With my other hand, I withdraw a thin blade from my sleeve—the one I keep for moments like this.
My hands just moved faster than his guards even reacted, and now, I have complete power.
"You misunderstand," I say, voice shaky but terrifyingly calm as I press the tip of the blade to his palm. "This isn't a negotiation, Arben."
Bianca watches, frozen, as I draw the blade across Arben's skin, opening a clean line that wells instantly with blood. He hisses, trying to jerk his hand away, but my grip is iron.
"Two days," I tell him, watching his blood pool on the polished wood. "Two hundred thousand. Plus fifty for the inconvenience of making me drag my beautiful wife down here to have to watch this instead of a West End show."
I release his wrist, and he cradles it against his chest, fury and fear warring in his eyes. His men have drawn their weapons, but Alessio and my security detail have them outmatched.
The balance of power has been made crystal fucking clear.
"And Arben?" I add, wiping my blade clean on a handkerchief. "Stay out of Kensington. The next time you step on Ravelli territory without an invitation, I won't stop at slicing your fucking hand open."
I stand, buttoning my jacket and throw the handkerchief in his face.
"Gentleman," I nod to his lieutenants, who slowly lower their weapons. "Always a pleasure." My attention returns to Arben, who glares up at me with naked hatred. "The debt will be settled in full. Or next time, I slit your throat instead."
I hold out my hand to Bianca, who takes it without hesitation. Her palm is hot and sweaty against mine, but there's no tremor in her touch. No fear in her eyes as I lead her back toward the elevator.
Just a dangerous gleam that looks too much like pride.
Soon, the Bentley purrs away from Westminster, London's night lights painting shadows across Bianca's face. She hasn't spoken since we left the underground chamber, her silence weighted with thoughts I can almost hear forming.
"Ask away," I tell her, watching her profile against the passing streetlights. "Whatever you're thinking. Ask it."
She turns to face me, eyes bright in the dim car interior. "Why did you bring me tonight? Really?"
"I told you. It was time you saw who you've married." I reach for her hand, bringing it to my lips. "You wanted to come, no?"
Before she can respond, I take her index finger between my lips, sucking it clean of the blood that stained it when I helped her into the car. Arben's blood, transferred from my hand to hers.
She shivers but doesn't pull away.
"Is that all I am to you?" she asks, voice steady despite the pulse I can see racing in her throat. "An accessory to intimidate your enemies?"
"No, little rabbit ." I release her finger, but keep hold of her hand. "You're the reason I need to remind men like Arben why they fear me. Why they should fear us ."
She stares at me, something shifting behind those eyes that have haunted me since that first night in the hotel.
"You didn't have to cut him," she says finally.
"Yes, I did." I trace her sweet lips with my free hand. "In our world, respect is written in blood, loyalty purchased with fear. If I showed weakness, if I accepted his excuses, it wouldn't just be Arben who tested me. It would be everyone who heard about it."
"Including your brothers," she concludes, seeing too clearly as always.
" Especially my brothers." I watch as the car turns off the main road, heading away from the Ravelli estate. "Dante thinks you make me soft. Tonight, the message will spread. The message that Luca Ravelli is still the man who collects his debts in flesh."
She looks out the window, noticing the change in direction. "Where are we going?"
"We have one more stop."
The car slows to a halt before a modern building set back from the street, its windows lit despite the late hour. Oakwood Care Center reads the discreet sign by the entrance.
Bianca's breath catches. "Luca? What are we—"
I watch the emotions chase across her face. "You said you needed air. I thought perhaps you needed this, too."
Confusion furrows her brow. "Why would you—"
"Because you're mine," I interrupt, the possessive words at odds with the gentleness of my touch as I brush a strand of hair from her face. "Your pain is mine. Your needs are mine. Even the ghost of a mother you will not visit."
A tear slips down her cheek, surprising us both.
"Thank you," she whispers.
I lean in, pressing my lips to her forehead in a gesture too tender for the man who just sliced open a grown men's palm.
"You wear the crown now, cara mia ," I murmur against her skin. "It comes soaked in blood. But that doesn't mean you have to lose the things that matter."
I open the car door, stepping out into the cool London night before extending my hand to her.
"Come. Your mother is waiting."
As Bianca takes my hand, I see it in her eyes—that dangerous mix of fear and desire, rebellion and surrender. The realization that the monster who holds her captive might also set her free.
And as I guide her toward the entrance, my blood-stained fingers laced with hers, I know I'm walking a knife's edge. Because the more I give her, the more power she has over me. The more she matters, the more vulnerable I become.
But for tonight, for this moment, I'll let her believe this kindness comes without price.
Even if we both know that in this world, everything costs something.