19. Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
Luca
T he car pulls through the wrought iron gates of the estate, the gravel drive crunching beneath the tires.
The car curves around the fountain, and I catch Alessio's subtle nod through the rearview mirror. The estate is secure. Whatever games Dante is playing, they won't reach us here. Not tonight.
I watch Bianca's profile in the fading light, her delicate features etched with exhaustion. The visit to her mother has left her raw. Vulnerable. Yet even now, she holds herself with that quiet defiance that first drew me to her.
My phone buzzes. Another message from Matteo about the shipment situation. About Dante.
Not now.
I silence the device and slide it into my jacket pocket. My brother's recent pattern of "mistakes" can wait. The warehouse, the security gaps - they paint a clear picture.
But tonight belongs to Bianca.
She stares silently out the window, lost in the revelations from her mother's care facility. Questions weigh heavy in my mind, pieces of a puzzle I'm only beginning to assemble.
Teresa awaits us at the entrance, her rigid posture softening slightly at the sight of Bianca's pale face. Her eyes meet mine over my wife's head, a silent communication born from decades of service.
"Mr. Ravelli," she says, voice formal but tinged with something warmer, "I've taken the liberty of arranging dinner on the east terrace. I thought perhaps the fresh air might be... beneficial after your outing."
I arch an eyebrow. Teresa rarely acts without purpose, and spontaneous garden dinners aren't her usual style.
"Is that so?" I ask, helping Bianca from the car. "Any particular reason?"
Teresa's lips curve into the faintest hint of a smile. "The Rossini shipment arrived this afternoon. The '82 Barolo you've been waiting for." She pauses, glancing at Bianca. "And I thought Mrs. Ravelli might appreciate something... private tonight."
I nod once, understanding the unspoken message. Teresa has sensed the shift between us, the fragile thread of trust forming in this web of secrets and blood.
"Mrs. Ravelli needs to change," I tell her, my hand finding the small of Bianca's back.
"Already attended to, sir." Teresa inclines her head. "The midnight gown is laid out in your suite."
Bianca's eyes dart between us, catching the undercurrents. "I don't need—"
"Yes, you do," I interrupt, guiding her toward the stairs. "We both do. Tonight is for us, cara mia . The rest can wait until morning."
An hour later, I step onto the terrace and see that Teresa has indeed outdone herself.
The garden glows with candles nestled in glass hurricanes, their flames dancing in the night breeze. White roses spill from antique silver vases, their scent heavy in the air—the same flowers that covered my mother's casket fifteen years ago.
Whether this is Teresa's tribute or warning, I can't decide.
A single table stands centered on the stone patio, draped in black silk, set with the Ravelli china that only emerges for occasions meant to impress. Crystal gleams under moonlight. Silver catches flame. Wine breathes in cut-glass decanters.
It's a stage set for seduction, for confession, for claiming.
And Bianca… my wife, my obsession… sits across from me, lost in thought as she traces the rim of her wineglass with one finger. Her skin glows golden in the candlelight, the shadows accentuating the elegant curve of her neck, the fullness of her lips.
She's changed from the outfit she wore to visit her mother.
Now she's draped in midnight blue silk, a dress Teresa selected that bares her shoulders and clings to every curve. The Ravelli crest hangs at her throat, nestled in the hollow where her pulse beats visibly.
My mind returns to Marina Sutton's strange reaction when she saw me. The flash of recognition, the fear in her eyes, the warning to her daughter about men with wolf eyes.
They weren't the ramblings of a confused mind, but something deeper. Something that threatens to connect Bianca to my world in ways I'm only beginning to understand.
"You're quiet," I observe, pouring more wine into her glass. Barolo, aged thirty years—older than either of us. Blood-dark against crystal.
Her eyes flick up to mine. Those eyes that hooked me in that hotel hallway, defiant even in terror. Now they hold something deeper. Something that makes my pulse quicken.
"I'm thinking about what my mother said." She takes a sip of wine, leaving a crimson stain on her lips that I want to taste. "About them finding me."
I set the decanter down, careful to keep my expression neutral. "You think she meant your father?"
"Maybe." Her finger traces patterns on the tablecloth. "She's never said anything about him before. Not once in my entire life."
"And now she recognizes something in a Ravelli," I add, watching her reaction carefully. "Interesting timing."
Her eyes narrow slightly, but she doesn't push. Instead, she changes direction, taking me by surprise.
"What was it like?" she asks, voice softer. "Growing up here, surrounded by all this."
The question catches me off-guard. No one asks about my childhood. It's assumed to be what one would expect for the heir to a criminal empire—privileged, calculated, cold.
"Structured," I answer finally. "Every hour planned. Training before sunrise. Languages. Combat. Business. My father believed in preparation above all else."
"And your mother?"
Something tightens in my chest. "Elena was... different. She'd smuggle books to my room. Poetry. Philosophy. Things Vito considered useless." I find myself smiling faintly at the memory. "She'd take me into these gardens when I was small, teach me the names of every flower in Italian. Said a man should know beauty as intimately as he knows violence."
Bianca watches me intently, like she's collecting these fragments of my past and storing them away.
"The night she died," I continue, unsure why I'm sharing this but unable to stop, "we were supposed to attend the opera. La Traviata . Her favorite." The words burn my throat. "Instead, I watched her bleed out on cathedral steps while my father made phone calls."
Her hand reaches across the table, fingers twining with mine. "I'm sorry, Luca."
I should pull away. Should maintain distance. Instead, I tighten my grip, feeling the delicate bones beneath her skin, the wedding ring that marks her as mine.
"The official story was that the Volkovs ordered the hit," I say, the words coming unbidden, dangerous. "A message to my father about territory disputes."
"You don't believe it," she says, perception sharp as always.
I meet her eyes, allowing her to see a truth I've barely admitted to myself. "My father has always been... meticulous about controlling narratives. About crafting the stories that serve his purposes."
The implication hangs between us, unspoken but understood.
"And Dante? Is he like your father?" she asks, seamlessly shifting to a topic that makes my blood heat for different reasons.
"Dante has always wanted what's mine," I reply, voice hardening. "We've been at odds since childhood. Where I plan, he attacks. Where I build, he destroys." I take a sip of wine, the taste suddenly bitter on my tongue. "Tonight's betrayal is just the latest in a lifetime of them."
"Will you kill him?" she asks, voice steady despite the question.
I study her face, looking for fear, for judgment. Find only calm curiosity.
"Not yet," I answer honestly. "But it is looking likely that Dante has chosen his path. When the time comes, he'll pay the price for it."
The conversation shifts as servants clear the main course and bring dessert. It's a delicious dark chocolate torte paired with aged whiskey that burns like liquid gold.
Bianca takes a sip, and I watch her throat work as she swallows, imagining my hands there.
"The man today," she says suddenly, setting her glass down. "Under Westminster. You cut him without hesitation."
I study her face for signs of fear, of disgust. I find none.
"Yes."
"You always carry it, don't you?" Her voice drops lower. "The knife."
My blood heats at the interest in her tone.
"Always," I confirm, watching her lips part slightly.
"Can I see it?"
The request sends a jolt of dark pleasure through me. Two weeks ago, she would have flinched at the thought. Now she's asking to see the weapon I used to mark another man hours earlier.
I reach into my jacket, removing the thin stiletto blade I keep there—silver, elegant, deadly. I place it on the table between us, its polished surface reflecting candlelight.
Her fingers hover over it, not quite touching. "You've killed with this."
It's not a question, but I answer it regardless.
"Yes." I watch her carefully, tracking every micro expression. "Many times."
She takes a deep breath, her chest rising beneath midnight silk. "Show me."
I feel my control slipping, desire coiling hot and tight in my veins. "Show you what, little rabbit?"
Her eyes meet mine, dark with intent that makes my cock harden instantly. "How it feels. To be marked by you."
The world narrows to this moment, this woman, this blade between us. Blood roars in my ears.
My voice, when it comes, is barely recognizable. "Are you sure?"
She doesn't answer with words. Instead, she reaches for my hand, guiding it to the top of her dress. My fingers curl around the delicate fabric.
"Rip it," she whispers.
I tear the fabric with one quick motion, baring her to the waist. She wears nothing underneath, her breasts sit perfectly in the moonlight, tight pink nipples hardening in the cool night air.
"Beautiful," I murmur, reaching for the blade without breaking eye contact. "And now you want this?" I trace the flat of the knife over her collarbone, watching her shiver. "You want me to mark what's mine?"
"Yes," she breathes, her pupils blown wide with a desire that matches my own. " Please , Luca."
I stand, moving around the table until I'm behind her chair. One hand tangles in her hair, pulling her head back to expose the elegant line of her throat. The other holds the blade, hovering above her skin.
"If I do this," I tell her, voice rough with need, "there's no going back. You're giving me something no contract, no wedding, no fucking collar could ever claim."
Her eyes find mine, upside-down from this angle but burning with certainty. "I know."
I lean down, my lips brushing her ear. "Then beg me for it. You know my rules. Beg for my blade."
Her breath comes faster, the candlelight casting golden patterns across her bare skin.
"Please," she whispers, barely audible above the night breeze. "Mark me, Luca. Make me as yours."
The knife hovers above her breast, a breath away from breaking skin. I watch her face, searching for any sign of hesitation.
I find only raw hunger that mirrors my own.
"Where?" I demand, need sharpening my voice to a blade's edge.
Her hand rises to guide mine. She presses my wrist, directing the knife to the swell of her left breast, just above her heart.
"Here," she whispers. "Where it matters most."
I press the tip of the blade against her skin, just enough to create a dimple without breaking through. Her breathing stops, suspended in the moment between anticipation and pain.
"Look at me," I command. "Don't look away."
Her eyes lock with mine, pupils swallowing amber iris. I increase the pressure, watching as the first drop of blood wells around the silver tip.
She gasps, body tensing, but doesn't pull away.
Slowly, with the expert precision of a mafia mobster who was practically born with a blade in his hand, I trace the first line of the Ravelli crest—a single curve, no deeper than a papercut, but enough to draw a thin crimson thread across her perfect skin. Her blood is startlingly bright against pale flesh, like wine spilled on white silk.
A soft moan escapes her lips, caught somewhere between pleasure and pain. My own breath comes shorter, cock straining against Italian wool as I make a second cut, perpendicular to the first. My vision narrows, the world beyond her body falling away until there is nothing but her blood, her breath, and her complete surrender and mercy at my hands.
When I complete the simple pattern—the first half of my family's crest—I pull back, admiring my work. Five small cuts, barely more than scratches, arranged in a pattern that marks her as mine more permanently than any ring or vow.
I set the knife down, then drop to my knees before her chair. Without speaking, I lean forward and press my tongue to her skin, tasting the coppery warmth of her blood mixed with salt and rose-scented soap.
She moans into the night, fingers tangling in my hair as I lick the cuts clean, sealing them with my mouth. The taste of her blood is intoxicating. I feel her trembling beneath my tongue, hear the soft, broken sounds she makes as pleasure overtakes pain.
"Luca," she gasps, pulling me closer. "Please—I need—"
I rise quickly, lifting her from the chair as I stand. Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively, arms locking behind my neck. I carry her to the stone balustrade that edges the terrace, setting her down on the cold marble.
The night spreads out behind her, the gardens below black and silver in the moonlight. Anyone could see us… guards patrolling the perimeter, servants passing through the corridors.
I don't fucking care.
Let them see what happens when she gives herself to me like this.
I tear the remains of her dress away, leaving her naked except for black lace panties and the blood drying on her breast. My blade makes quick work of the delicate fabric, the tip dragging lightly across her inner thigh as I cut the panties free.
She's soaked, her arousal glistening in the candlelight. I push her thighs wider with both hands, baring her pussy completely.
"This is what blood does to you?" I ask, voice raw with desire. "My blade makes you wet, little rabbit?"
She doesn't look away, doesn't try to hide her reaction.
"Not the blade," she says, breathless but sure. " You . What you are. What we are together."
Something cracks inside me. Like a dam breaking, restraint shattering.
I free myself from my pants, cock hard and aching between us. In one savage thrust, I'm inside her, buried to the hilt in wet heat that feels like coming home.
She cries out, back arching, hands gripping the stone behind her for balance. I hold her hips in a bruising grip, driving my cock into her with a force that borders on punishment.
Each thrust of my hips rocks her against the balustrade, the position exposing her completely, making her take all of me.
"Mine," I growl, leaning forward to press my mouth to the cuts on her breast. "You're mine, Bianca. Mine ."
"Yours," she gasps, head falling back as I hit that perfect spot inside her. "Always yours, Luca Ravelli."
I feel her tightening around me, her body climbing toward release. One hand leaves her hip to slide between us, finding where we're joined, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves in time with my thrusts.
"Come for me," I command, pressing harder. "Come with my mark on your skin and my name on your lips."
She shatters with a broken cry, inner walls clenching around my cock in violent pulses. The sight of her coming undone with her head thrown back, throat exposed, blood smeared across her breast… fuck .
All of it pushes me over the edge.
I follow her into oblivion, spilling inside her with a guttural moan that tears from somewhere primal and possessive.
For long moments afterward, we remain locked together, breath mingling, hearts pounding against each other. Her fingers trace patterns on my shoulders, my back, gentle where I was rough.
I press my forehead to hers, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of what just happened between us.
Not just sex. Not just bloodplay. Something more elemental. A claiming that goes beyond flesh or law or rings.
"I should take care of these," I murmur eventually, brushing my thumb lightly over the cuts on her breast.
She catches my hand, brings it to her lips, kisses the knuckles that hours ago cut into another man's flesh.
"Not yet," she whispers. "I want to feel them a little longer."
I gather her into my arms, cradling her against my chest as I carry her through the garden, past the remnants of our dinner, toward the warmth of our bed. The knife remains on the table behind us, blade gleaming with traces of her blood as I take her again, a silent witness to the covenant we've sealed this night.
Tomorrow, there will be time for questions. For investigations into her mother's strange reaction, for dealing with Dante's betrayal, for preparing Bianca for the Volkov meeting now just days away, for uncovering whatever secrets still lie buried in the past.
Tonight, she belongs to me completely.
And for the first time in my life, I begin to understand that I belong to her, too.