20. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Luca
T he doors to my wing crash open without warning, the sound reverberating through my office like gunfire.
I'm on my feet in an instant, hand reaching for the blade strapped under my desk. Only two people in this house would dare enter without announcement—my dying father or Matteo.
Lucky for me, Matteo appears in the doorway, his normally composed face tight with tension. His hair, usually slicked back and never out of place, shows signs of distress—stray strands breaking formation like soldiers deserting a losing battle.
"Sir, my apologies. But the Volkovs have moved the meeting," he blurts out, instantly forgiven for forgetting his fucking manners. "Tonight. Eight o'clock."
"Tonight?" I bark, eyes narrowing. "The meeting was scheduled for next week."
"Dmitri claims he has urgent business abroad. It's tonight or not at all." Matteo's voice carries the careful neutrality of a man delivering news he knows will ignite violence.
My fist slams against the desk, sending papers scattering like startled birds. "Fucking Volkovs."
This is deliberate. A power play designed to throw me off balance, to force me into their territory without proper preparation. But beyond the insult of rescheduling, there's something darker gnawing at the edge of my thoughts—the timing is too convenient after Bianca's mother recognized something in me.
"Where?" I demand, already calculating angles, escape routes, potential traps.
"The Crimson Room at Opheus." Matteo watches my reaction carefully. "They've reserved the entire establishment."
Opheus. Old money masquerading as new wealth. A restaurant where Russian oligarchs and British aristocracy pretend to be equals while exchanging secrets worth more than gold.
"The Crimson Room is secure?" I ask, knowing Matteo will understand what I'm really asking.
He nods once. "Alessio is on his way now to check over everything. Every inch, every shadow. Make sure it's as clean as possible given the timeframe."
I turn toward the window, staring out at the gardens where Bianca's blood still stains the balustrade from last night's claiming. My wife—marked by my blade, carrying my scent, wearing my name.
And now I must bring her into the wolf's den.
"Have Teresa prepare my wife," I tell Matteo, my voice dropping to a register that brooks no argument. "Something conservative but undeniably expensive. Nothing red. Nothing that resembles Volkov colors." I pause, considering the message I want to send. "Black. Gold accents. The Ravelli crest visible at all times."
Matteo nods, already turning to leave, but I stop him with one more instruction.
"And Matteo? Double the security detail. I want men inside the restaurant, outside on the street, and monitoring every approach. If the Volkovs try anything..."
I let the implication hang heavy in the air, but Matteo needs no reminder about the stakes here.
"Understood, sir."
When he's gone, I reach for my phone. There are preparations to make, variables to control. The Volkovs want to catch me unbalanced, but they'll learn what my enemies always learn too late—I'm at my most dangerous when cornered.
***
A few hours later, Bianca emerges from our bedroom looking like darkness given flesh.
Teresa has outdone herself. The dress is perfect. Black fabric flowing to the floor with a slit that reveals just enough leg to distract, but not enough to appear vulgar. The neckline is conservative by modern standards but frames the Ravelli crest that hangs from a gold chain at her throat perfectly.
She appears exactly as I instructed.
Her hair falls long down her back, and her lips are painted a shade that reminds me of the blood I tasted on her skin last night. The vulnerability of the woman who cried in my arms after visiting her mother is gone. In its place stands a queen preparing for battle.
"You look perfect," I tell her, adjusting the cufflinks at my wrists—black onyx set in gold, matching the Ravelli signet ring that marks me as heir.
Bianca studies me with those perceptive eyes, squinting across at me as she assesses my stiffened shoulders. "What's happening, Luca? Teresa wouldn't say, but she dressed me like I'm attending a funeral."
I cross to her, hand finding the curve of her ass in a touch that's both possessive and steadying. "The Volkovs have requested our presence. Tonight."
Her body stiffens beneath my palm. "The Volkovs," she says, her voice carefully measured. "And you're taking me right into their territory—the family that's been circling while your father weakens."
Something cold slides down my spine at her perception. She's learning too quickly, seeing too much.
"Yes," I answer simply, leading her toward the door. I'm not ready to share my growing suspicions about my mother's death—not yet, not when we're heading into the wolf's den with Bianca as potential bait. "Tonight is about observation, my love. You will watch. You will listen. And you will remember everything."
"Am I your wife tonight?" she asks as we descend the grand staircase. "Or your weapon?"
The question stops me at the bottom of the stairs. I turn to her, taking her face between my hands with more gentleness than most would believe me capable of.
"Tonight, you are my greatest vulnerability," I tell her, the raw honesty burning my throat. "And that makes you my most powerful asset."
Her eyes widen slightly, understanding dawning. Whatever she sees in my expression makes her swallow hard before nodding once, resolute.
My hand slides down from her face to the neckline of her dress, finding the spot where my blade claimed her last night. Through the silk, I trace the outline of the healing cuts, feeling the slight ridge where skin has begun to knit together.
Her breath catches, pupils dilating as my thumb circles the mark.
"Fucking beautiful," I whisper, just for her ears.
The family crest etched into her skin pulses beneath my fingertips like a second heartbeat. A covenant written in blood that binds her to me more completely than any marriage certificate.
"Let's not keep the vultures waiting," she says, stepping past me toward the entrance where our security detail awaits.
Soon, Opheus rises from the heart of Mayfair like a modern temple dedicated to excess. Glass and steel wrapped around a historic facade, preserving the illusion of tradition while catering to those who worship at the altar of power.
The Bentley glides to a stop at the private entrance, where two of the Volkovs' men stand flanking the door. Alessio opens our door, his eyes scanning the surroundings with the cold calculation of a man trained to spot threats before they breathe.
"All clear, sir," he murmurs as I step out, then offer my hand to Bianca.
She emerges from the car with the grace that gives me flashes of watching my mother do the same thing, a performance so convincing one might forget she was cleaning hotel rooms mere weeks ago. Her hand finds the crook of my arm, and we ascend the steps together, the picture of untouchable wealth.
Inside, the restaurant's ambient lighting casts everyone in the most flattering light money can buy. Crystal chandeliers reflect off polished marble, creating constellations of light that dance across the ceiling. The main dining room is empty of regular patrons—cleared for the Volkovs, as promised.
A hostess with a forced smile leads us through the restaurant toward a door at the back, guarded by another pair of men with the dead eyes of former military. They watch us approach with the disinterest of predators who've already identified their prey.
The Crimson Room lives up to its name. Blood-red walls adorned with Russian art from the pre-revolutionary era—scenes of hunts and conquests, wolves chasing stags through winter forests, aristocrats presiding over feasts. The lighting is dimmer here, forcing shadows that breathe in the corners.
And at the center of it all, seated at a round table of polished ebony, waits Dmitri Volkov.
The old wolf rises as we enter, a smile stretching across his face like a wound.
"Luca Ravelli," he greets, his accent thicker than the last time we met. A deliberate choice, I note. A reminder of his otherness, his foreign power. "And the lovely Mrs. Ravelli. What an honor to finally meet the woman who tamed London's most notorious bachelor."
Dmitri stands a head shorter than me, his once-powerful frame now softened by age and wealth. But the danger hasn't diminished—it's simply transformed from physical threat to something more insidious. His white hair is swept back from a face creased with lines that speak of cruelty more than laughter.
Beside him stands a younger man—tall, lean, with the coiled readiness of a fighter in his prime. Demyan Volkov. The son and heir. His dark hair is cut short at the sides but longer on top, styled with deliberate carelessness that probably cost more than most men's entire wardrobes.
His eyes are cold blue, like glacier water, and instantly they fix on Bianca with an interest that makes my blood heat.
I don’t blink. Don’t fucking breathe.
Because if that asshole looks at her like that again, I’ll put his pretty face through the nearest wall and call it diplomacy.
"Please," Dmitri gestures to the chairs opposite them. "Join us. We have much to discuss."
I guide Bianca to her seat, my hand never leaving her lower back. Only when she's settled do I take my place beside her, deliberately angling my chair to keep both Volkovs in my direct line of sight.
"Unusual timing for this meeting," I observe, signaling to the waiter who materializes at my side. "Vodka. Beluga Gold. Neat."
It's a deliberate choice, of course. Their national drink, but ordered with the confidence of a man on his home territory.
Dmitri's smile doesn't falter. "Business waits for no man, not even the great Ravellis." He turns his attention to Bianca. "And you, my dear? What will you drink?"
I feel her tense beside me, recognizing the small power play in addressing her directly.
"The same," she answers, voice steady. "When in Rome..."
Demyan laughs loudly. A sound like broken glass underfoot.
"Or rather, when with Russians." His eyes never leave her face. "Though I must say, Mrs. Ravelli, you don't look like a woman who follows the crowd."
"She doesn't," I interject, keeping my voice light despite the rage building beneath my skin at his obvious interest. "That's why she's a Ravelli now."
Dmitri watches this exchange with the amused detachment of a man who has orchestrated exactly the scene he wished to see. The waiter returns with our drinks, and the old Russian raises his glass.
"To new friendships," he toasts. "And old bloodlines."
The emphasis on the last word is subtle but unmistakable. I touch my glass to his, maintaining eye contact as we drink. The vodka burns cold down my throat, a contradiction that matches the calculation behind this meeting.
"Now," Dmitri sets his glass down with a decisive click. "Let us not waste time with pleasantries. I've asked you here to discuss a matter of mutual interest."
"And what might that be?" I ask, though suspicion already coils in my gut like a serpent.
"The future," Dmitri answers simply. "Your father's health deteriorates by the day. London whispers about succession plans. About stability of our world." His gaze shifts to Bianca. "And of course… about new blood in old families."
Demyan leans forward, his cologne heavy with notes of amber and cardamom invading the space between us. "We've heard interesting things about your wife, Ravelli. A civilian, no? No connections. Found in a hotel, of all places." His smile is sharp enough to cut. "Quite the romantic tale."
"I wasn't aware the Volkovs trafficked in gossip," I reply, my tone deliberately dismissive.
"Not gossip," Dmitri corrects, reaching for his wallet. "History. Family history, to be precise."
He withdraws a photograph, aged and creased, placing it on the table between us. I don't need to look to know Bianca's gaze has fixed on it with laser focus. I feel her body go rigid beside me.
The photo shows a woman. Dark hair. Amber eyes. A smile that carries both warmth and warning.
A smile I've seen before.
On my wife's face.
"Marina Sutton was quite beautiful in her youth," Dmitri observes, watching Bianca's reaction with predatory intent. "Though she went by a different name then."
"What is this?" Bianca asks, her voice admirably steady despite the tremor I feel in her body.
"The past," Demyan answers, leaning closer to her than necessary. "And perhaps… the future."
My hand finds Bianca's knee under the table, squeezing once in silent warning. Don't react. Don't give them what they want .
"If you have a point, Dmitri," I say, ice coating each word, "I suggest you make it before my patience expires."
The old Russian reclaims the photograph, tucking it carefully back into his wallet.
"The point, young Ravelli, is that bloodlines matter. Loyalties matter. And sometimes, what we think we know about who belongs to whom..." he pauses, his gaze lingering on Bianca, "is not as certain as we believe."
"My wife belongs to me," I state, each word a bullet. "Her past, her present, her future. All mine."
Demyan's laugh scrapes across my nerves. "So possessive, Luca. So territorial." His eyes rake over Bianca with an intimacy that makes my fucking trigger finger itch. "I wonder if the lady feels the same devotion."
"I assure you," Bianca speaks for the first time since the photograph appeared, her voice cool and controlled, "my loyalty to my husband is absolute."
"For now," Dmitri murmurs, almost to himself. "For now."
Dinner arrives—courses of Russian delicacies served on gold-rimmed plates. Caviar. Aged vodka poured from crystal decanters. Each dish is paired with subtle probing questions, veiled references to connections between our families that extend beyond business.
Through it all, Bianca maintains perfect composure, answering when addressed directly but volunteering nothing.
I watch her with growing pride and a sharp edge of unease—pride at her poise, unease at the way Demyan’s gaze keeps dragging back to her, over and over, like a starving man chasing the scent of blood.
His eyes cling to her like a compass that’s pointing north. To want. To need.
And I see it clear as day—the filthy thoughts crawling behind his stare.
As the final plates are cleared, Dmitri leans back in his chair, fingers drumming against the arm. "You know, Luca, your mother and I were well acquainted."
The mention of Elena sends ice through my veins. "Indeed you were. I remember."
"Such a tragedy, her death." His voice carries a false note of sympathy that makes my hand itch for the knife concealed at my ankle. "The cathedral steps, wasn't it? Such a public place for such a private matter."
"Some might call it poetic," Demyan adds, swirling the last of his vodka. "The Madonna falling before God's house."
My vision edges with red. "I wasn't aware poetry interested you, Demyan."
"Oh, I appreciate beauty in all its forms." His gaze slides to Bianca again. "The symmetry of life and death. The rhyme of history repeating itself."
"If you're threatening my wife," I say, voice dropping to a register that has made harder men than him tremble. "I suggest you reconsider your position."
Dmitri waves a hand dismissively. "No threats, Luca. Merely observation. Your father made certain choices. You seem to be making others." His eyes narrow slightly. "I wonder if you know the true cost of those choices."
Before I can respond, my phone vibrates in my pocket—the specific pattern that indicates a message from Matteo. Urgent .
"If you'll excuse us," I rise, offering my hand to Bianca. "Business calls, even at this hour."
"Of course," Dmitri inclines his head. "Family business waits for no one."
Demyan stands as well, moving around the table to take Bianca's other hand, raising it to his lips before I can intervene. "A pleasure, Mrs. Ravelli. I look forward to continuing our acquaintance."
I feel her fingers tighten around mine, the only outward sign of her discomfort as he holds her gaze a beat too long.
"Until next time," Dmitri calls as we leave, his voice following us like a shadow. "Blood always finds its way home, Luca. Remember that."
The moment the Bentley doors close behind us, sealing us inside the bulletproof cocoon, I pull out my phone to check Matteo's message.
Elena's case files. Secure room breached. Files missing. Inside job.
The words swim before my eyes, fury building in my chest until it threatens to consume me. First the warehouse attack on our wedding night. Then Dante's betrayal with the shipments. Now this—the most sacred, the most private violation.
Bianca's voice breaks through the red haze of my rage. "Luca? What did that photograph mean? The woman looked like—"
"Not now," I cut her off, harsher than intended. "Not here."
Her body stiffens beside me, withdrawing into herself.
I holster my phone and turn to her, taking in the perfect mask she's maintained all evening, now beginning to crack under the strain. Something inside me shifts—the need to protect warring with the need to possess.
Possession wins.
"You let him touch you," I say, voice dangerously soft.
Her eyes widen. "I didn't—"
"You let Demyan Volkov kiss your hand. The hand that wears my ring. The hand that bears my mark." I move closer, crowding her against the leather seat. "Do you know what that does to me, Bianca? Do you know what it makes me want to do?"
Her breath comes faster, pupils dilating as fear and desire war across her face. "Luca, I couldn't just—"
"Get on your knees."
The command falls between us like a blade. Her lips part in surprise.
"What?"
"On. Your. Knees." I point to the floor of the car. "Now."
For a moment, defiance flashes in those amber eyes—the same defiance that first drew me to her, that continues to ignite my blood even now. Then, slowly, deliberately, she slides off the seat onto the floor of the car, kneeling between my legs.
"Good girl," I murmur, hands finding her hair, loosening it from the careful style Teresa had created. "Now show me who you belong to."
Her fingers move to my belt, seductively sexy fucking eyes locked on mine. The metallic click of the buckle, the hiss of leather sliding free—it all sounds louder in the tense silence of the car, like a countdown to something inevitable.
When the zipper slides down, I spread my legs wider, watching her lower herself between them. She wraps her fingers around my cock, and I hiss through my teeth as she strokes once and then sinks her mouth over the head like she owns it.
Fuck.
My head drops back against the seat, but I’m not surrendering. Not even close. My hand fists in her hair immediately, not to guide, but to control. I grip hard, forcing her down until she gags, then pull her back just enough for air.
"That's it," I growl as she takes my cock deeper. "Show me what a good Ravelli wife you are. Show me who owns this mouth."
She moans around me like a sinner grateful for the pain. Her throat flexes as I thrust, unforgivingly deep, using her mouth like she’s nothing but my possession to reclaim.
Each movement of my hips is deliberate. Brutal. Punishing. Not out of cruelty, but because I need this. I need to erase the memory of Demyan’s stare from her skin. I need to take her back.
I tighten my grip on her hair and pull upwards with a yank.
"Open your eyes," I command. "Look at me while you take my cock."
She obeys instantly, pupils blown wide, tears spilling down her cheeks as she holds my gaze. Her lips are stretched tight around me, her throat working as I fuck her mouth with unrelenting force.
"Everyone in that room wanted you tonight," I grit out, each word laced with venom. "Demyan undressing you with his eyes. Dmitri assessing your worth like breeding stock. But they can't have you."
My hips surge upward, driving deeper, watching her choke around me with a sick kind of satisfaction.
"Tell me who you belong to."
She tries to pull back, gasping when I shift my cock to slide along the inside of her cheek, allowing her just enough space to speak with a mouthful of me.
"You, Luca," she breathes, her voice cracked and soaked in need. "Only you."
"Again."
"I'm yours." Her voice shatters on the words. " Only yours."
"And if the Volkovs try to claim you? If they come with their photographs and their hints about your past?"
"I'm a Ravelli." Her words cut through the haze, strong despite the mess I’ve made of her. "Your blood is my blood now."
That’s it. That’s the trigger. I drive her down one last time, holding her in place as I explode with a low groan, hips jerking against her swollen lips, her throat swallowing every hot, bitter pulse.
And my girl takes it like it’s her goddamn purpose.
When I finally ease my grip, she rises slowly, lips slick, eyes dazed. Her hair is a ruined halo, her cheeks flushed and streaked with tears.
I pull her onto the seat beside me, straighten her dress with fingers that are anything but gentle, and brush her collarbone where bruises bloom beneath silk.
"The Volkovs think they know something about you," I say, voice steadier now… barely. "Something that gives them leverage over us."
She leans into my touch, still trembling from the brutal worship I forced from her throat.
"What was that photograph, Luca? That woman looked like—"
"Like you," I finish for her, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear. "Like your mother. But younger."
My phone vibrates again—another message from Matteo. He's waiting for my order. I check it quickly, then turn back to Bianca, decision made.
"Your mother recognized something in me that night," I say, watching her reaction carefully. "And now, Matteo is telling me that the sealed records of my mother's murder have been tampered with."
"What are you saying?" she asks, eyes searching mine.
"I'm saying," I reply, the certainty settling cold and heavy in my gut, "that your past and mine might be connected in ways neither of us understood when I claimed you that night." My grip tightens slightly. "And I'm beginning to believe that your path to my world wasn't an accident at all."
The car slows as we approach the Ravelli estate, the gates opening like jaws to receive us. In the dim light, Bianca's face is a study in shadows and vulnerability, her lips still bearing the evidence of her submission.
"Whatever connection exists," I tell her, voice low with promise and threat combined. "Whatever secrets lie in your blood or mine—it changes nothing. You're mine, Bianca. And I protect what's mine, even from the ghosts of the past."
I see resolve harden in her eyes.
Whatever the Volkovs think they know, whatever truths have been buried—we'll face them together.