23. Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-One
Bianca
I t’s been a week since Elena Ravelli's desecrated tomb was discovered. Since Luca's already questionable humanity dissolved into something I barely recognize.
The mansion creaks around me, swallowing my footsteps as I wander its shadowed corridors like a ghost. I've hardly seen my husband in a week. He appears only at dawn, crawling into our bed with blood crusted beneath his fingernails, his eyes vacant and cold.
Sometimes he takes me with brutal, beautiful thrusts that leave me sore inn all the best ways. Other times, he simply stares at the ceiling until exhaustion claims him.
He doesn't speak. Doesn't explain. And bit by bit, I've learned not to ask.
Teresa warns me with her eyes when I approach certain wings of the mansion. Not now. Not while he's like this. The staff move through the halls with their gazes fixed on the floor. Even Matteo, normally composed and stoic, shows strain in the tightness around his mouth.
Something has broken in this house—something beyond the violation of a dead woman's rest.
I've heard whispers. Dante's men are disappearing from the mansion one by one. Bodies found in the Thames with their fingernails removed. Others simply vanishing, their families evacuating London overnight.
The Ravelli name has always carried fear.
Now, with Vito's condition deteriorating further with each day the suns warmth kisses these cold grounds, it carries also terror.
Tonight, unable to bear another evening alone in our wing, I decide to find him. To face whatever darkness has consumed the man who claimed me, marked me, made me his in every way that matters.
The mansion is eerily quiet as I slip through corridors I shouldn't know, using paths Teresa has unwillingly shown me after dragging me back where I belong.
The black robe I wear whispers against my skin with each step, its hem brushing the marble floors beneath my bare feet.
A sound stops me—low, guttural, barely human.
A scream, choked off mid-cry.
It comes from below, from spaces in this mansion I've never been permitted to enter. The bowels of the Ravelli empire where business too grim for even the red room takes place.
I shouldn't go toward that sound. Every instinct screams to retreat, to return to the safety of our wing, to pretend I heard nothing. But the same curiosity that drove me to explore Vito's study now pulls me forward, toward the source of that aborted agony.
A narrow staircase leads downward, hidden behind a panel that stands slightly ajar—someone's carelessness, or perhaps fate offering a window into the reality I've chosen to marry.
I descend slowly, each step a decision I can't unmake.
The basement level is nothing like the opulent mansion above. Concrete floors. Exposed pipes overhead. Harsh fluorescent lighting that leaves nowhere to hide.
It's utilitarian, designed for function rather than beauty. For cleaning blood, not displaying wealth.
Another cry echoes from behind a heavy metal door at the end of the corridor. My heart hammers against my ribs as I approach, moving on silent feet, drawn by a morbid need to witness the truth.
Again, the door isn't fully closed. A thin strip of light spills through the gap, along with the sound of labored breathing and low, murmured threats.
I shouldn't look. I know I shouldn't look.
But I do.
The room beyond is a nightmare made flesh.
Concrete floor sloping toward a central drain. Plastic sheeting covering the walls. Tools arranged with meticulous care on a stainless steel table—pliers, knives, hammers… things I don't recognize and don't want to understand.
In the center stands Luca.
My husband. My captor. My lover.
He's stripped to the waist, tattoos glistening with sweat and something darker that drips from his forearms. His back, a canvas of intricate ink and old scars, flexes as he raises his arm again.
Before him, a man hangs suspended from chains bolted to the ceiling. His face is unrecognizable—a swollen mass of purple flesh and congealed blood. Several fingers bend at unnatural angles.
"Let's try again," Luca says, voice terrifyingly calm as he selects a pair of pliers from the table. "Who ordered it? Who told you to open my mother's grave?"
The man's head lolls forward, a string of bloody saliva connecting his split lips to the floor.
"I told you," he rasps. "Dante gave the order. Said…said it would draw you out. Make you sloppy."
Luca moves, pressing the pliers against the man's ear. "And Vito? Did my father know?"
"No. I swear. Dante works alone. Please—"
The pliers close. The man's scream fills the room, high and animal-like, as Luca tears away a chunk of flesh. Blood pours down the side of his head, joining the growing puddle beneath his feet.
I clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle my gasp. Luca stiffens, his head turning slightly toward the door. Toward me.
I press back against the wall beside the doorway, heart threatening to burst from my chest. If he finds me here...
"Luca."
Matteo's voice cuts through the tension, drawing Luca's attention away from the door. I release the breath I've been holding, legs trembling beneath me.
"What?" Luca snaps, irritation clear in his tone.
"If you will please allow me now. Let him suffer for a moment, so I can show you what we have found."
Luca spits at the man and move over towards Matteo. "Fine. What is it?"
"This afternoon, upon checking the repairs, we found something of interest." Matteo stands partially in my line of sight, his back rigid. "In Elena's casket."
Luca goes very still, the pliers dropping from his suddenly slack fingers. "Show me."
Matteo hesitates, glancing at the devastated man hanging from the chains. "Perhaps we should continue this privately."
"Don't worry about this piece of shit. He won't remember any of this," Luca says dismissively. "He'll be lucky to remember his own name when I'm done. What did you find?"
Matteo reaches into his jacket, withdrawing a sealed evidence bag. Inside lies what appears to be a bloodstained envelope, yellowed with age.
"Alessio is certain this wasn't there before," Matteo says, voice lowered. "Someone planted it during the desecration."
"Open it."
Matteo carefully breaks the seal, extracting a folded document from inside. As he unfolds it, I strain to see from my hiding place.
"And a ballistics report." He scans the contents, face hardening. "The bullet that killed Elena. It matches..."
"A Ravelli gun," Luca finishes, voice hollow. "My father's, specifically."
The silence that follows is absolute.
"There's more," Matteo continues after a long moment, flicking through the pages. "There's bank transfers. Dates. Names. Someone has been building a case—"
"Against Vito," Luca's voice has changed, grown softer, more dangerous. "Someone wants me to believe my father killed my mother."
"The evidence is compelling, sir," Matteo says carefully.
"My father is many things. A murderer, certainly. A monster, without question." Luca takes the papers, scanning them with narrowed eyes. "But this? This is too clean. Too convenient."
"The timing," Matteo agrees, "suggests manipulation."
"Find out who planted this," Luca orders, handing the documents back. "And why." His gaze returns to the broken man hanging before him. "I'll finish up with our guest here."
I can't bear to see more. Can't bear to witness what "finishing" means to Luca in this state. I back away from the door, moving as silently as my trembling legs allow.
My mind reels with what I've just witnessed. My usually controlled, despite questionable, husband transforming into something beyond mere violence.
This isn't the man who held me after I visited my mother. This isn't the man who kissed me beneath the stars and carved his mark into my skin with something almost like tenderness.
This is a monster wearing his face.
And I can't fucking do this anymore.
I flee blindly through the mansion, gathering only essentials—the few pieces of jewelry I could truly call mine, a change of clothes, the cash I've been secretly setting aside for weeks.
Teresa finds me stuffing items into a small bag, her face grim but unsurprised.
"So, you've seen him," she says.
"I can't stay," I tell her. "Not after what I just witnessed. Not in this house of blood and secrets."
She watches me with ancient eyes, making no move to stop me. "Where will you go?"
"Don't ask questions you don't want to answer when he comes looking."
"You know he will find you," she says simply. "No matter where you run."
"I have to try." I zip the bag closed, straightening to face her. "Thank you. For everything."
Something like sorrow crosses her weathered face. "Your mother made the same choice once. She ran from truths too terrible to face." She steps closer, pressing something into my palm—a key. "The gardener's cottage. Northeast corner of the grounds. Security is lightest there. Take all the time you need."
I close my fingers around the key, throat tight with unexpected emotion.
"Why are you helping me escape him?"
"Because sometimes," she says softly, "we need to leave to find our way back."
With a final nod, she vanishes into the corridor, leaving me alone with the weight of my decision.
The night air chills my skin as I slip through the garden, keeping to shadows, avoiding the patrol routes I've memorized.
The gardener's cottage appears ahead—a simple stone structure half-hidden by climbing roses, seemingly untended. The key turns smoothly in the lock, the door swinging open to reveal a dusty interior illuminated only by moonlight through windows thick with cobwebs.
I will stay here for tonight. Just a few moments to catch my breath, then I'll slip through the security at the shift change, just like I did a week ago.
Only this time, I'll make my way to the road, and never return.
I step inside, dropping my bag by the door, relief washing through me at having made it this far.
"Running away, little rabbit?"
My heart stutters to a halt as Luca materializes from the darkness at the back of the cottage. He lounges in an old wooden chair, legs stretched out before him, as casual as if we're meeting for tea rather than my attempted escape.
"How did you—"
"Teresa texted me the moment she left you," he says, voice soft and terrible. "Did you really think she would betray me? That anyone in this house would choose you over me?"
I back toward the door, but it swings shut behind me, the lock engaging with an ominous click.
"Let me go, Luca," I plead, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "After what I just saw—what you did to that man—"
"Ah," he rises slowly, like a predator uncurling before the strike. "So that's it. You witnessed the monster beneath the man and found him wanting."
"That wasn't you," I whisper. "The man I've come to—"
I stop, unable to finish the sentence.
His eyes narrow, something dangerous flickering in their depths. "The man you've come to what, Bianca? Love? Is that the word you can't bring yourself to say?"
He advances, backing me against the wall. Not touching me yet, but close enough that I can smell the faint metallic scent of blood still clinging to him despite the fact he's clearly washed and changed his ruined clothes.
"You don't get to leave," he says, each word precise and venomous. "Not after everything. Not after I cut my fucking crest into your skin. Not after I made you mine in every way possible."
"I'm not yours," I counter, defiance flaring despite my fear. "I never was. You took me. You forced this life on me."
"Did I?" His laugh is low, cruel. "Let's test that theory, shall we?"
His hand catches my jaw, fingers digging into my skin as he forces my face up to his. "Tell me you don't want this. Look me in the eyes and tell me you don't crave the darkness as much as I do, Bianca. "
Before I can respond, his mouth crashes onto mine, a kiss like warfare, all teeth and possession and fury. I should fight. Should push him away, slap him, scream.
Instead, my hands find his shoulders, nails digging into hard muscle. I kiss him back with equal violence, equal need.
When he finally breaks away, we're both breathing hard, rage and desire mingling in the scant space between us.
"You see?" he says, voice rough. "You can't leave because you don't want to. You're as fucked up as I am. As twisted. As broken."
"No," I shake my head, tears burning behind my eyes. "I saw what you did to that man. I heard what Matteo said about your father. This world—your world—it's poison."
"It's reality," he corrects, one hand sliding to my throat. "And you've already tasted too much of it to go back to ignorance."
His other hand finds the tie of my robe, pulling it loose with a single tug. The silk parts, exposing my naked body to his gaze, to the cool night air of the cottage that was supposed to be my haven.
"If you truly want to leave," he says, fingers trailing down my sternum to the mark he carved above my heart, "I won't stop you. Same choice I gave you that first night. Take the money in that bag and disappear. Or stay, stop your fucking games and be mine completely."
"You'd let me go?" I can't keep the disbelief from my voice.
"I'd find you eventually," he admits, brutally honest. "But yes, I'd let you walk out that door right now. You always had a choice. And that remains true, even now."
His fingers trace the healing cuts on my breast, sending shivers through me despite everything.
"But first, let me remind you what you'd be leaving behind."
His hands are everywhere at once, rough and demanding as he lifts me against the wall. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, body responding to his touch with a readiness that shames me.
"Look at you," he murmurs against my throat, teeth grazing sensitive skin. "So scared, yet still so eager for the monster. You're wet for the man you're trying to escape."
I close my eyes, unable to face the truth of his words as his fingers find me, already slick and aching despite my fear, my anger, my decision to flee.
"Please," I whisper, not sure if I'm begging him to stop or continue.
"Tell me you don't want this," he challenges, voice rough against my ear as his fingers slide inside me, curling against the walls that grip his touch so tight. "Tell me you don't need it as much as I do."
I can't lie to him. Not about this. Not when my body is betraying me so completely, clenching around his fingers, hips rocking against his hand.
"That's what I thought," he says, satisfaction evident in his tone. He withdraws his fingers, leaving me empty and aching, only to replace them with the thick head of his cock. "Remember this feeling, Mrs. Ravelli. Remember who you belong to."
He enters me in one brutal thrust, filling me completely, the burn and stretch making me cry out. There's no gentleness in this claiming, no restraint. Just raw possession as he fucks me against the wall of the abandoned cottage, each thrust a punishment and a reminder.
"You think you can run from this?" he growls, hips snapping against mine as the palm of his hand lands on my ass with bruising force. "You think you can find this anywhere else?"
His hand finds my throat again, applying just enough pressure to make my pulse race, to remind me of his absolute control.
"No," I gasp, the word torn from somewhere deep and honest. "Only you."
Something shifts in his expression—triumph, perhaps, or something deeper, more complex. He adjusts his angle, hitting that spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyes.
"Come for me," he commands, fingers sliding between us to circle my clit. "Show me what only I can give you."
My body obeys without hesitation, pleasure crashing through me in violent waves as I shatter around him. My nails rake down his back, drawing blood that could well mingle with that of the man he tortured hours earlier.
The thought should horrify me. Instead, it sends another spike of dark pleasure through my core.
He follows me over the edge with a guttural groan, spilling inside me, marking me as his in the most primal way possible.
As we slide to the floor, still joined, still trembling with aftershocks, I feel something wet on my face. Tears. I'm crying, though I couldn't say why exactly—fear, release, revelation, all tangled together into something I can't name.
Luca's arms come around me, gentler now, cradling me against his chest as I break apart in his embrace.
"I know what I am," he says softly against my hair. "I've never pretended to be anything else. The man you saw tonight—that's part of me. The darkness is real, my love."
I nod against his chest, unable to speak through the tightness in my throat.
"But this—" his fingers trace the line of my jaw, tilting my face up to his, "—is real too. What I feel for you. What you feel for me. Whether you want to admit it or not."
"I'm scared," I finally whisper, the admission costing me more than I thought possible.
"Good," he says, brutally honest as always. "You should be. This life isn't for the faint of heart."
"Your father—"
"Is a conversation for another time," he cuts me off, thumb brushing away tears from my cheek. "Tonight is about you. About us. About whether you're staying or going."
The choice hangs between us, as real as it was that first night in the hotel room.
In this moment, I believe him more than I did then.
I could leave. He'd let me walk away tonight, if that's what I choose.
At least for now.
But the truth crashes over me with devastating clarity: I don't want to go.
Not really. Despite the horror of what I witnessed, despite the blood and secrets and danger.
Because somewhere between being claimed in that hotel and being carved with his mark, I've done the unthinkable. I've fallen in love with Luca Ravelli. Monster, murderer, protector, lover—all of him, not just the parts that are easy to accept.
"I will stay with you," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "But Luca, I want more. If I am in this life, this world, your world, then let me be exactly that."
His arms tighten around me, and for just a moment, I feel him tremble.
"Then let's go home, wife," he says against my temple, the words a promise and a threat combined.
As he lifts me from the cottage floor, carrying me back toward the mansion that holds both horrors and unexpected joy, I understand finally what Teresa meant.
Sometimes we need to try to leave to realize where we truly belong.
Even if it's in the arms of a monster who's claimed us body and soul.