22. Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty
Luca
I lead Bianca through the doors of my sanctuary, that hidden room where pleasure and pain blur into art. Her footsteps falter behind me, the only betrayal of her nervousness as we enter the space bathed in blood-red light.
"You crossed a line tonight, little rabbit ." I release her wrist to circle her slowly. Like a predator assessing how to best consume his prey. "Sneaking into forbidden wings. Digging through family history that doesn't concern you."
"Doesn't it?" she challenges, voice steadier than it should be for someone about to be broken apart. "Those photographs—"
"Silence." The command cracks between us. Her mouth snaps shut, eyes widening. "You gave up the right to questions when you defied me. Again. "
I move to the cabinet along the wall, selecting tools designed for punishment. Leather cuffs lined with rabbit fur, a blindfold of black silk, a riding crop with a leather tip designed to sting without breaking skin.
These will be the implements of her ongoing education.
"Strip," I order without turning. "Everything."
From the rustling behind me, I know she's obeying, discarding the clothes Teresa had so carefully selected to make her look the perfect Ravelli wife. When I face her again, she stands naked in the center of the room, chin tilted in that defiance that makes my cock harden despite my rage.
"The cross," I direct, nodding toward the X-shaped structure mounted against the far wall. "Face outward."
She hesitates for only a heartbeat before moving to position herself, back against the padded leather, arms and legs spread to match the X. I secure her wrists first, then her ankles, adjusting the restraints until she's perfectly displayed for my dark eyes.
She's completely vulnerable, exposed, at my mercy.
Even bound, she maintains that fire in her eyes. The same fire I saw the night I claimed her. The flame I'll never extinguish, merely harness for my own pleasure.
"You think you can wander my father's wing without consequences," I say, moving closer to trace one finger down her sternum, between her breasts, to the mark I carved into her flesh nights before. The cuts are healing well, the Ravelli crest taking permanent shape on her perfect skin. "You think you can touch what isn't yours."
"I just wanted—"
My palm connects with her inner thigh, the sharp slap echoing through the room. She gasps, body jerking against the restraints.
"Did I give you permission to speak?"
She swallows hard, then shakes her head.
"That's better." I lift the blindfold, letting her see it before I place it over her eyes. "Since you're so interested in secrets, let's see how you handle the darkness."
The black silk settles over her eyes, plunging her into a void where only sensation remains. I secure it with a knot at the back of her head, fingers lingering in the softness of her hair.
"Now, my little slut ," I whisper against her ear, "your punishment begins."
I step back to admire her—spread and bound and blindfolded, the perfect canvas for my darkest desires. My wife. My queen. My obsession.
"Earlier tonight, you took my cock in your mouth," I remind her, voice dropping lower as I trace the curve of her breast with the leather tip of the crop. "You swallowed every drop like the good little whore you are."
Her chest rises, nipples hardening under my gaze.
"Now it's my turn," I continue, dropping to my knees before her with predatory grace. "This isn't a reward. It's punishment." I trail fingertips up her inner thighs, stopping just short of where she's already glistening for me. "I'm going to make you come until you're begging me to stop. Until you learn who owns every inch of your perfect fucking body."
Her thighs tremble as I spread them wider, exposing her cunt completely. I inhale deeply, savoring the scent of her arousal—the physical evidence that her defiance and submission are two sides of the same coin.
"And if I hear one word not specifically begging for release," I add, breath hot against her inner thigh, "Like the Christ looking down upon us, I'll leave you on this cross all night. Understand?"
She nods, throat working as she swallows nervously.
"Good girl."
I press my mouth to her warm pussy without warning, tongue flat and unforgiving as it drags through her slick folds. She gasps, hips bucking against the restraints.
I grasp her thighs, holding her immobile as I devour her juices like a man starved.
This is reclamation. This is ownership. This is reminding her exactly who she belongs to, even as she digs into the past I'm still trying to figure out.
My tongue circles her clit, teasing without providing the direct contact she craves. I can feel her body tensing, trying to shift to increase pressure where she needs it most. I deny her, retreating to trace patterns along her inner lips instead.
"Please," she whispers, the word escaping like a prayer.
I pull back entirely, leaving her hovering on the edge. "Please what?"
"Please make me come. Please, Luca."
The desperation in her voice sends heat surging through my veins. I return to her cunt with renewed vigor, sucking her clit between my lips as two fingers thrust into her tight heat. She cries out, walls clenching around me as I curve my fingers to find that spot that makes her unravel.
When her first orgasm hits, I don't slow down. I work her through it and beyond, relentless in my assault on her now oversensitive flesh.
She writhes against the restraints, thighs trembling violently as pleasure blurs into sweet torture.
"Luca—" she gasps, voice breaking. "I can't—"
"You can," I growl against her slick flesh. "And you will. You will come as many times as I decide."
I force a second orgasm from her, then a third, her body convulsing against the cross, sweat glistening on her skin in the dim red light. Only when she's sobbing my name, limp and utterly conquered, do I finally show mercy.
Rising to my feet, I wipe her wetness from my mouth with the back of my hand, satisfaction coiling in my chest at the sight of her—disheveled, marked, entirely mine.
Every inch the queen I've claimed her to be.
"Remember this moment," I tell her as I release her wrists from the cuffs, catching her weight as she sags forward into my arms. "Remember who you belong to."
She mumbles something against my chest, too exhausted for coherent speech. I lift her, cradling her against me as I carry her from the red room to our bed.
Later, as she sleeps beside me, I study the curve of her cheek in the moonlight.
She's beautiful, yet somehow, in a way I'm yet to discover… dangerous. Like a dark, twisted secret I'm only beginning to understand.
***
Two days pass in a blur of investigation and mounting internal rage.
I haunt my father's offices and secure rooms, piecing together fragments of a truth someone has tried desperately to erase. The missing files from Elena's murder case—clean, professional work.
This is an inside job, just as Matteo suggested.
Sleep becomes a luxury I can't afford. My desk overflows with documents and territory maps showing Volkov holdings adjacent to Ravelli acquisitions from thirty years ago. I've acquired transfer documents with signatures I recognize, and others that raise questions I've never thought to ask.
The timeline forms before me like a murder board. My mother's death. The territories that changed hands afterward. The subtle shift in alliances that followed.
And at the center of it all: Vito Ravelli.
My own father.
The possibility that's been growing in my mind since the night in his study, when he spoke of Elena's death with that careful distance—it's taking shape now, solidifying from suspicion to almost pure certainty.
But I need proof.
A knock at the door breaks my concentration. I close the folder before me, sliding it beneath others as Teresa enters with fresh coffee.
Her eyes scan the chaos of my desk.
"You should rest, sir," she says, setting the steaming cup beside me. "Two days without sleep makes even the sharpest minds dull."
"I've gone longer," I dismiss her concern, reaching for the cup. "Has my wife returned from her ride?"
Teresa arranged for Bianca to tour the grounds with Alessio this morning—a way to keep her occupied while I hunt through my family's bloody past. Since the night in the red room, she's been subdued but watchful, sensing the tension building within the mansion's walls.
"Hours ago, sir. She's reading in the garden now." Teresa hesitates, fingers lingering on the edge of my desk. "She asks questions, you know. About your mother. About the Volkovs."
I look up sharply. "What have you told her?"
"Nothing, of course." Teresa's voice carries a hint of reproach at the suggestion. "But she's found her way to the east wing once. She'll try again."
"Not if she knows what's good for her."
Teresa's expression doesn't change, but something in her eyes shifts. "The photographs she found. I replaced them, but..."
"But what?" I set my cup down and look at Teresa.
"You should know what she saw." Teresa straightens her shoulders and sighs. "Images of Marina Sutton with both families. From before."
"Marina Sutton worked for us?"
The pieces shift again, realigning into a pattern I hadn't considered. Bianca's mother—not just connected to the Volkovs, but to us as well. The timeline in my mind extends further backward, new connections forming after two days of untangling this fucking mess.
"She was a translator," Teresa confirms, voice carefully neutral. "For the Russian deals. In the late eighties, early nineties."
"Before Bianca was born."
Teresa nods once. "She was... valuable. Marina's language skills were exceptional, and she had connections that made certain negotiations easier."
"Connections to the Volkovs," I say, not a question.
"Among others." Teresa clasps her hands before her, knuckles whitening slightly. "It is my understanding, Luca, that Marina worked closely with your father on several deals."
I lean back in my chair, mind racing through implications. "And then she disappeared."
"Quite suddenly. Around the time..." Teresa trails off, but I hear the words she doesn't say.
Around the time Bianca would have been conceived.
"My father knew where she went," I guess, watching Teresa's face for confirmation. "He tracked her."
"He could well have maintained an interest in her welfare, yes," Teresa says carefully. "Even after she left our employ."
The picture forming in my mind grows clearer. And darker.
The care facility bills paid from untraceable accounts. The surveillance I discovered when investigating Bianca's background. Someone watching over Marina Sutton and her daughter for decades.
"Who was she to him, Teresa?" I press, rising from my chair to tower over her. "What was Bianca's mother to Vito Ravelli?"
Before she can answer, the door bursts open again. Nico stands in the threshold, normally composed features tight with tension.
"Luca. She's gone," he announces swiftly.
"What?" The temperature in the room seems to drop. "Who?"
"Your wife." Nico steps further into the office, tablet in hand. "Security cameras show her leaving the property three hours ago. Alone. No escort."
"And you're only fucking telling me now?!" The rage surges instantly, blood rushing in my ears like a tsunami. "Show me that!"
Nico hands over the tablet, its screen displaying grainy footage of Bianca slipping through the service entrance, a cap pulled low over her face. Smart enough to avoid the main gates, where guards would have stopped her. Also clever enough to time her escape during the shift change.
But not wise enough to understand the danger she's put herself in.
"Has she called?" I demand, already calculating routes, potential destinations, threats that might be circling my defiant little queen.
Nico shakes his head. "Her phone is here. She left it on her nightstand."
"Deliberately," I mutter, mind racing. "She knew we'd track it."
I turn back to Teresa, whose face has gone pale with understanding. "The care facility. She's gone to see her mother."
"Without permission. Without protection." My voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "After everything I've told her about the Volkovs watching. After everything that happened at that dinner."
My phone rings sharply, an unknown number flashing on the screen. I snatch it up, blood already boiling.
"Speak."
"Hello, brother." Dante's voice slithers through the connection like oil on water. "I thought you might be… looking for something? Or should I say... someone ?"
My grip on the phone tightens until the case creaks. "If you touch her—"
"Relax, Luca." His laugh grates against my nerves. "I'm just the messenger. Thought you'd want to know your little civilian bride was spotted taking a cab across town. Alone." A pause laden with threat. "In case you've forgotten, there are people who'd pay dearly to get their hands on the new Mrs. Ravelli."
"Where is she, Dante?"
"Last I heard? Heading toward that care facility where her mother wastes away. Shame if someone got to her before you did." Another pause. "Tick tock, brother."
The line goes dead. I'm already moving, shoving the phone into my pocket as I stride toward the door.
"Mobilize security," I bark at Nico. "Full team. Marina Sutton's care facility. Now."
I drive like a man possessed, weaving through London traffic with recklessness that would get a regular civilian pulled over. My favorite Aston Martin responds to the lightest touch, an extension of my rage as I calculate the risks Bianca has taken.
Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl.
If the Volkovs know where Marina is—and they must, given the photo Dmitri showed us—they'll have men watching the facility. If Dante, given his careless actions lately, knows Bianca's location, others might as well.
Every minute she spends unprotected is another opportunity for my enemies to strike at me through her.
And beyond the danger, there's the betrayal. The deliberate defiance after I made myself absolutely fucking clear.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel as images from the Volkov dinner flash through my mind. Demyan's hungry gaze lingering on my wife. Dmitri's cryptic words about blood finding its way home. The photograph of a younger Marina that mirrored Bianca's features so perfectly it might have been a ghost from the future.
And now, the new pieces Teresa revealed—Marina working for both families. Disappearing around the time of Bianca's conception. My father tracking her movements for decades.
A blood connection I've been blind to, even as I claimed Bianca as my own.
The care facility comes into view, its modern facade bland and unremarkable in the dead of night. I scan the street as I pull up, noting a black sedan with tinted windows parked across the way.
Volkov men, most likely.
Either way, they're too late.
I stride through the entrance, authority radiating from every movement. The receptionist looks up with a professional smile that falters when she meets my eyes.
"Mrs. Ravelli," I state, not a question. "Where is she?"
"I—I'm not authorized to—"
I place both palms on the counter, leaning forward until she shrinks back. "My wife. Now."
She swallows, fingers trembling as she types something into her computer. "Room 217. But visiting hours are—"
I'm already moving, cutting through the sterile corridors toward the room where Marina Sutton lives out her remaining years. Where Bianca has gone, alone and unprotected, to seek answers I've tried to keep from her.
I reach the door just as it opens from within.
Bianca freezes, eyes widening as she finds herself face to face with the husband she defied. For a moment, we simply stare at each other in the threshold—her hand still on the door handle, my body blocking her escape.
"Luca," she breathes, equal parts fear and betrayal in those fucking eyes.
"Get your things," I respond, voice dangerously soft. "We're leaving. Now."
She glances back into the room, where her mother sits by the window, oblivious to the tension crackling between us. "I can't just—"
"Now!"
Something hardens in her expression as she steps into the corridor, pulling the door closed behind her.
"I'm not a prisoner, Luca," she says. "I'm your wife."
"My wife," I repeat, advancing until she's backed against the wall, "who deliberately disobeyed me. Who put herself in danger after I explicitly forbade it. Again and again and again. When will you learn, little rabbit ?"
"When I get answers," she counters, refusing to cower despite our difference in size, in power, in controlled fury. "About my mother. About those photographs. About why the Volkovs think they have a claim on me."
"And did you find them?" I ask, leaning closer until my breath fans across her face. "Did Marina Sutton suddenly remember the secrets of her past?"
A flicker of frustration crosses her features. "No. But I had to try."
"You had to defy me," I correct, fingers curling around her jaw. "You had to push boundaries I set for your protection."
"For my control," she shoots back. "Don't pretend this is just about keeping me safe. This is about keeping me in the dark. About ownership."
She's right, of course. And that only fuels my rage.
"Get your coat," I repeat, stepping back to give her space. "We're leaving."
Not waiting for her response, I turn toward the exit, expecting her to follow. When I hear her footsteps behind me, satisfaction curls in my chest despite the confrontation still to come.
We emerge into the parking lot, my security team already in position, hands on weapons, scanning for threats in the black of night. The sedan across the street remains, its occupants watching from behind tinted glass.
Let them watch. Let them see who she belongs to.
I guide Bianca toward the Aston Martin. She slides into the passenger seat without argument and as I circle to the driver's side, my phone vibrates again.
Matteo's name flashes on the screen.
"What now?" I bark, eyes still tracking the black sedan as one of its doors begins to open.
"Sir," Matteo's voice is tight with controlled urgency. "There's been a breach at the family crypt."
"For fucks sake," I freeze, hand on the car door. "What kind of breach?"
"Desecration, sir." Matteo's breath hitches slightly. "Your mother's tomb. They... opened it. Violated it."
The world narrows to a pinpoint, rage crystallizing into something cold and deadly. Blood roars in my ears as I process his words. My mother's grave. Desecrated. Defiled.
"When?" The single word scrapes from my throat.
"Within the hour. Guards found it during routine patrol."
My gaze snaps to the sedan across the street, where a man now stands beside the open door, watching us with calculated interest. Could be one of Dante's crew, judging by the tattoo visible on his neck.
"Fuck," I breathe through my frustration.
This is a distraction. This entire situation—a carefully orchestrated distraction to pull me away from the estate while they committed the ultimate sacrilege.
They waited until Bianca or I moved. Just like they did with the Volkovs meeting and the files disappeared.
"Seal the crypt," I order, sliding into the driver's seat. "Full lockdown. No one enters or leaves the estate without my direct authorization."
As I end the call, Bianca watches me with growing concern. "Luca? What's happened?"
I start the car, the engine roaring to life with satisfying violence. The Aston Martin launches forward, tires screaming against asphalt as I accelerate away from the facility.
From the corner of my eye, I see Bianca grip the dashboard, her earlier defiance momentarily forgotten in the face of my evident rage.
"When we return to the estate," I tell her, voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes her shiver, "you will go to our quarters. You will stay there until I say otherwise. No wandering. No questions. No defiance."
She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it, something in my expression warning her that this is not the moment to push.
"And then?" she asks finally, her voice smaller than I've ever heard it.
I meet her gaze for a brief moment before returning my attention to the road, my knuckles white against the steering wheel, a muscle jumping in my jaw.
"Then I find who did this," I promise, the words coated in ice and blood, "and I make them wish they'd never touched what belongs to me."