21. Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Nineteen
Bianca
T he silence of the mansion swallows me whole.
Three hours since Luca disappeared into his study after our return from the Volkovs. Three hours of pacing our suite, the taste of him still lingering on my tongue, the memory of Demyan's cold blue eyes following me like a shadow.
I press my fingers to my lips, remembering how Luca reclaimed me in the car. The way he used me so brutally, so possessive and merciless. The way he spoke of my past, of connections neither of us understood when he first claimed me that night in the hotel. The wild look in his eyes when he mentioned his mother's murder files being tampered with.
That photograph from earlier haunts me.
The woman with my eyes, my jawline. It was my mother, but not as I've ever known her.
Marina Sutton. The woman who braided my hair and worked three jobs to keep our tiny flat. The woman who now sits in a care facility, memories slipping through her fingers like sand.
What secrets is she keeping behind those blank eyes? And why didn't I ask more questions when there were answers still available in her mind?
The bedroom feels suddenly claustrophobic, the silk sheets and designer dresses surrounding me like an elaborate cage.
I need air. Space. Answers.
I slip into the hallway, my footsteps muffled by the plush carpet Teresa insists on keeping immaculate. The corridor stretches before me, lined with doors I've never opened, rooms I've never entered.
This wing of the mansion has been my domain since my arrival. A prison with Luca as both jailer and lover.
But tonight, with the questions burning in my blood, the boundaries he's drawn seem less like protection and more like chains.
I move silently down the hall, past the usual routes I'm permitted to travel. The guards stationed at the entrance to Luca's wing nod respectfully as I pass.
They don't stop me. His wife. The woman who wears his ring, his crest, his mark on her skin.
They don't know that beneath the facade of Mrs. Ravelli, I'm still Bianca Sutton—the hotel maid with dirt under her fingernails and fire in her heart.
The one who needs to know the truth.
The main staircase curves down to the grand foyer, moonlight spilling through stained glass windows and casting colored shadows across the marble floor. At night, the Ravelli mansion takes on a different character. Less imposing fortress, more ancient temple dedicated to secretive rites.
I know Vito's wing lies in the east side, opposite from Luca's. I've caught glimpses of it during carefully orchestrated family gatherings, always with Luca's hand pressed possessively against my back, steering me away from the rooms where his father conducts the darker business of the family.
Tonight, there's no one to guide me. No one to stop me.
I move through the shadows like a ghost, following instinct more than knowledge. Portraits watch my progress from golden frames—Ravelli patriarchs with Luca's jawline, his eyes, his bearing of cold authority.
Among them, one woman stands out: Elena Ravelli, her beauty captured in oils that can't quite convey the life that must have sparked in those gray eyes—Luca's eyes.
The murdered mother. The fallen queen.
I pause before her portrait, studying the face of the woman whose death shaped the man who now owns me in every way that matters. Her lips curve in a smile that doesn't reach her eyes, secrets hidden behind careful poise.
Did she know? Was she part of whatever connects my past to the Ravellis? To the Volkovs?
A door creaks somewhere ahead, and I freeze, pressing myself against the wall beside Elena's watchful gaze. Footsteps approach, then fade as they turn down another corridor. A guard making his rounds, perhaps. Or one of the staff who keeps this massive estate functioning like a well-oiled machine.
When silence returns, I continue my forbidden exploration, moving deeper into the territory I've never been permitted to enter. The décor shifts into darker woods, heavier fabrics, art that speaks of conquest rather than beauty.
Vito's domain.
A set of double doors looms at the end of the hall, ornately carved with what I now recognize as the Ravelli crest. Light spills from beneath, a thin golden line that reveals the room beyond is occupied.
I should turn back. Return to the safety of Luca's wing before my absence is noted. But the pull of answers is stronger than the fear of consequences.
I edge closer, careful to avoid the pools of light that might betray my presence to whoever waits inside. Voices drift through the heavy wood—Matteo's low, measured tones, and another I don't recognize. They speak in Italian, the words flowing too quickly for my limited understanding.
One phrase cuts through, clear and chilling: " La madre di Bianca. "
My mother.
I press my ear to the door, straining to catch more, but the conversation shifts to English.
"—exactly as we suspected," Matteo says. "The timeline matches."
"And Luca knows nothing?" The second voice asks.
"Not yet. But after tonight's meeting with the Volkovs..."
Their voices drop again, swallowed by the thick wood separating us. I clench my fists, frustration burning in my chest. So close to answers, yet still in darkness.
As I start to pull away, a floorboard creaks beneath my weight. The voices inside fall silent instantly.
Panic surges through me. I turn quickly, searching for an escape route as footsteps approach the door. Across the hall, another door stands slightly ajar, a haven from discovery.
I slip inside just as Vito's study door opens, pressing myself against the wall, heart hammering against my ribs.
Through the crack, I see Matteo's profile as he scans the empty hallway, suspicion etched in the lines of his face.
After an eternity, he retreats, the study door closing with him.
I exhale shakily, turning to survey my hiding place.
The room is small compared to the mansion's grander spaces—a private study or reading room, perhaps. Bookshelves line the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes that smell of age and secrets. A mahogany desk occupies one corner, its surface bare except for a crystal decanter half-filled with amber liquid.
But it's the photographs that draw me forward, arranged in meticulous rows along the back wall.
Black and white images chronicle the rise of the Ravelli empire. Men in suits shaking hands over signed contracts, family gatherings where smiles never quite reach eyes, celebrations of business successes whose true nature I can only imagine.
And there, in the center, a photograph that steals the breath from my lungs.
A group gathered in what appears to be a private club—Vito Ravelli, younger but unmistakable; Dmitri Volkov with less silver in his hair; and between them, my mother—younger, vibrant, radiating a confidence I've never seen in Marina Sutton. Her arm is linked with a handsome man I don't recognize, his features sharp and proud, standing slightly apart from the others but clearly part of their circle.
They stand before what looks like a signed contract, champagne glasses raised in toast. My mother's eyes shine with something that looks like triumph, not submission.
With trembling fingers, I reach for the frame, lifting it from its hook. The back comes loose easily, and I slip the photograph out, turning it over to find a date scrawled in faded ink: June 18, 1991.
I was born in March 1992.
Nine months later.
Another photo beside it shows my mother again. This time with just the handsome stranger, their heads bent close in what appears to be intimate conversation.
The way she looks at him... I've never seen that expression on her face. Not with anyone.
The implication hits me, my knees weakening as pieces begin to align. My mother working with these families. The care facility bills being paid from an untraceable account. The way she'd never spoken of my father, but warned me about men with wolf eyes.
These weren't wolf eyes in the photo of the handsome stranger with my mother. They were something else entirely—cunning, calculating, containing secrets I'm only beginning to unravel.
"Mrs. Ravelli."
Teresa's voice cuts through my revelation, a blade of ice down my spine. I turn slowly, the photographs still clutched in my hand, to find her standing in the doorway.
Her expression gives nothing away. No surprise, no anger, just the careful neutrality of a woman who has witnessed decades of Ravelli secrets.
"This is not a part of the house you should be exploring," she says, eyes dropping to the photographs in my grasp. "Especially not alone."
"This woman," I hold up the image, my voice steadier than I feel. "This is my mother. With the Ravellis and the Volkovs."
Teresa sighs, a sound heavy with resignation. She closes the door behind her, moving further into the room.
"Some questions are better left unasked, Bianca," she says, reaching for the photographs. "Some doors should remain closed. And some wives should stay where they are supposed to be."
I pull back, keeping the images from her grasp.
"I deserve answers, Teresa. About my mother. About why the Volkovs think they have a claim on me. About who this man is." I tap the stranger standing close to my mother. "About why Luca chose me that night."
Her eyes shift to the man in the photo, something like recognition—perhaps even fear—flickering across her face before she masks it again.
"What you deserve and what is safe for you to know are not always the same thing," she says. "The Ravelli family carries its secrets in blood. Once you know them, there's no unknowing. No escape."
"I'm already caught," I counter, touching the healing mark on my breast where Luca's blade claimed me. "I'm already his."
Teresa watches the gesture, understanding dawning in her eyes. "He marked you."
I nod.
She reaches out again, and this time I allow her to take the photographs. She studies them for a long moment, her fingers lingering over the face of the man beside my mother.
"These connections," she says finally, her voice lifting just above a sigh, "they run deeper than you know. Between families… and between enemies. Blood and loyalty intertwined in ways that can destroy everything."
She carefully returns the photos to their frames, replacing them on the wall with movements that suggest she's done this before.
"Your husband will be looking for you," she says. "These rooms are forbidden for a reason, Bianca. Not just by Luca's command, but by the nature of what they contain."
"And what is that?"
Her gaze cuts to mine, sharp as a blade. "Truth. And in this family, truth is more dangerous than lies."
She moves toward the door, beckoning me to follow. "Come. Before your absence is noted by others less forgiving than I."
I hesitate, eyes lingering on the photographs of my mother with both families. So many questions burn on my tongue, but Teresa's warning is clear.
This exploration has already crossed boundaries that might cost me dearly.
With a last glance at my mother's face—young, vibrant, connected to this world I've been thrust into—I follow Teresa from the room, questions still churning in my blood.
She escorts me through the mansion with brisk efficiency, taking paths I hadn't known existed. We cross through servants' corridors and hidden staircases that bypass the main halls where we might be observed by prying eyes.
"Teresa," I say as we approach Luca's wing. "You've served this family for decades. You knew my mother when that photograph was taken, didn't you?"
She doesn't slow her pace, doesn't turn to face me.
"I have served the Ravellis since before Luca was born. I have seen the rise and fall of empires within these walls. And I have learned when to speak and when to remain silent."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you'll get from me." Her voice carries a note of finality that brooks no argument. "Whatever you think you've discovered tonight, Bianca, I advise you to forget it. For your own safety."
We reach the doors to Luca's wing, and Teresa pauses, finally turning to face me fully.
"Your husband is a dangerous man," she says, voice lowered though we stand alone in the corridor. "But there are secrets in this house that would make even him tremble. Tread carefully, piccola . The ground beneath your feet is not as solid as it seems."
Before I can respond, the doors swing open, revealing Luca himself—jacket discarded, shirt sleeves rolled to reveal the inked forearms that have held me, claimed me, marked me as his own.
His eyes move from my face to Teresa's, gray ice that gives nothing away but promises a reckoning.
"There you are, little wife," he says, voice deceptively soft. "I've been looking for you."
Teresa bows her head slightly. "Mrs. Ravelli required some air, sir. I was just escorting her back to your quarters."
His eyes narrow fractionally. He doesn't believe her. Of course he doesn't.
"Thank you, Teresa," he dismisses her with cold courtesy. "I'll take care of my wife now."
The words carry a double edge that sends a shiver down my spine. Teresa hesitates for just a moment, her eyes finding mine in a silent warning before she retreats, leaving me alone with the predator I've married.
Luca steps aside, gesturing for me to enter our wing. The movement is graceful, controlled, but I don't miss the tension coiled in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes.
He knows where I've been.
What I've seen.
And fuck… I'm in trouble.
As I pass him, his hand shoots out, fingers circling my wrist in a grip that's just shy of painful. He pulls me close, his breath hot against my ear as he speaks words meant for me alone.
"You smell of the east wing, little rabbit," he murmurs. "Of secrets and defiance. Both of which come with a price."
I should be afraid. Should lower my eyes and beg forgiveness. Instead, I meet his gaze directly, chin lifted in the way he both punishes and craves.
"Then I guess it's time to pay," I respond, voice steadier than my racing heart.
Something flickers in his eyes—rage, yes, but beneath it, a dark hunger that matches my own.
He's angry that I've disobeyed, that I've crossed the boundaries he's set. But there's something else there too. Pride, perhaps. Respect for the woman strong enough to challenge him on his own territory.
"Oh, little rabbit ," he says, fingers tightening on my wrist as he leads me deeper into his domain, toward the hidden room where pleasure and pain blur into something transcendent. "You have no idea what your defiance is going to cost you tonight."
And as I follow him willingly toward my punishment, I realize I'm not just submitting to his dominance. I'm pursuing my own path toward the truth, one that runs parallel to his control but remains stubbornly mine.
Tonight, he'll claim me again. Mark me anew. Remind me of my place in his world.
But beneath the moans and pleas he wrings from my lips, my resolve will harden like steel in fire.
I'll discover the truth about my mother. About the Volkovs. About why Dmitri's photograph of Marina Sutton matched the one hidden in Vito's private study.
Even if it costs me everything.