24. Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Two
Bianca
S ince that night in the gardener's cottage, everything seems to have come full circle.
Perhaps Luca is right.
I chose this life. This man, this world.
He's given me chances, and still, here I am, staring into the darkness of the Ravelli Empire with eyes wide open.
The wounds on Luca's back have begun to heal, pink lines where my nails tore into his flesh as he fucked me against that stone wall. A marking of my own, to match the one he carved above my heart.
We've settled into a strange new rhythm since then. Luca still disappears for hours, hunting through his family's bloody history in the name of claiming the throne he so desperately wants.
But he returns to me each night with less violence in his eyes.
Sometimes he even talks. Like Marcus would back when we first started dating. Like we're a normal couple, except instead of choosing out where we go for dinner or which piece of furniture we can afford to purchase next, I get fragmented theories about his mother's murder, suspicions about his father's involvement, and connections that seem to lead back to the most dangerous criminal group in Russia.
And to my mother.
Despite living in fear that I try to hide, I've stopped running. Stopped fighting what I've become. There's a certain freedom in surrender, I've discovered. Not to Luca, exactly, but to the truth of who I am in this new reality.
Mrs. Ravelli. A queen in a kingdom built on bones.
The morning light filters through heavy curtains as I sit at my vanity, brushing my hair with Elena Ravelli's old brush that Luca gifted me one morning.
The woman in the mirror looks like me, but somehow different. Harder around the edges these days. More deliberate in her movements.
Three sharp knocks at the door interrupt my thoughts.
"Yes," I call, setting down the brush.
Teresa appears in the doorway, her face grave. "Mrs. Ravelli. I'm terribly sorry to interrupt, but you have been summoned."
I turn to face her fully, collecting the brush to continue. "Luca's home?"
Teresa shakes her head. "Summoned by Vito."
The brush slips from my fingers, clattering against the wood. In all my time in this mansion, Vito Ravelli has never requested my presence without Luca as intermediary. The idea of it send ice through my veins.
"When?"
"Now." Teresa moves further into the room, closing the door behind her. "He requests you join him for tea in his private sitting room."
"Does Luca know?" I ask, rising from the vanity.
Teresa's hesitation tells me everything. "Mr. Ravelli is... occupied. With matters concerning Dante's men."
"So, no." I move to my closet, mind racing. "What does Vito want with me?"
Teresa follows, her hands clasped tightly before her. "I cannot say for certain. But Bianca—" She rarely uses my first name—none of them do—and the sound of it stops me in my tracks. "Tread carefully. The Don is... not himself these days. Pain and medication make his mind wander to dangerous territories."
Her warning is clear, yet deliberately vague. Whatever game Vito is playing, Teresa knows more than she's saying.
"Help me dress," I tell her, shifting into the role of Ravelli wife with ease. "Something appropriate for tea with the devil."
Forty minutes later, I stand before Vito's private sitting room, dressed in a simple black sheath that covers me from neck to knee. Conservative, elegant, armored.
Exactly how Luca would want me.
My hair is swept back in a smooth chignon, the Ravelli crest hanging at my throat like a talisman.
The guards flanking the door eye me with barely concealed curiosity. The civilian bride, summoned alone to the dragon's lair.
"Mrs. Ravelli," one acknowledges, opening the door without further comment.
The sitting room beyond is nothing like I expected.
Where Luca's spaces are all dark woods and leather, masculine power made tangible, Vito's private sanctuary is almost... delicate. Pale blue walls. Antique furniture with curved legs and gold leaf detailing. Watercolor landscapes in ornate frames.
It's a room that has been designed by someone else.
Someone long gone.
Vito himself sits in a wingback chair by the window, oxygen tank at his side, a cashmere blanket draped across his lap despite the warmth of the day. Age and illness have hollowed him, leaving behind a sketch of the powerful man he once was.
But his eyes... those are as sharp as ever. Cold and calculating beneath heavy lids.
"Ah, the blushing bride," he says, voice raspy but clear. "Come closer, my dear. My eyesight isn't what it used to be."
I approach with careful steps, stopping at a respectful distance. "You asked to see me, Don Vito."
"So formal," he chuckles, the sound turning into a wet cough that he covers with a handkerchief. When he pulls it away, I glimpse a spot of blood that he quickly conceals. "Please, sit. Teresa should be bringing tea shortly."
I take the seat opposite him, back straight, hands folded in my lap like a proper lady. Like the woman Teresa has been training me to be.
"It seems my son is quite busy these days," Vito observes, studying me with unnerving intensity. "Chasing ghosts, I hear. Digging up old bones. Literally, in some cases." His smile make my skin crawl. "Leaving his beautiful young wife to fend for herself."
"Luca does what needs to be done," I respond, voice carefully neutral. "As all Ravellis do."
"Indeed." He nods, seeming pleased with my answer. "And what about you, Bianca? What needs to be done in your estimation?"
The question is a trap, though I can't see its shape yet.
"I'm still learning my place in this family."
"Your place," he repeats, something calculating in his tone. "Yes, that's the question, isn't it? Where exactly do you fit in our... complicated family history."
My pulse quickens, but I keep my expression placid. "I'm Luca's wife. That's all that matters."
Vito laughs, a sound like broken glass. "Is that what my son tells you? That the past doesn't matter? That blood and heritage are irrelevant?"
Before I can respond, a server enters with the tea service—fine bone china that looks too delicate for Vito's gnarled hands. She sets it on the table between us, glancing at me with a warning in her eyes before silently retreating.
Vito gestures for me to pour, and I comply.
"Tell me," he says as I hand him his cup, "what do you know about your father?"
The question shakes me, but I manage not to spill the tea. "Nothing. He wasn't in the picture."
"Wasn't he?" Vito takes a sip, watching me over the rim of his cup. "How convenient for some that you grew up believing that."
My hand trembles slightly as I set down my own cup. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying, my dear, that your mother made certain choices. Choices that reverberate around this building to this day." He leans forward slightly, oxygen tube stretching with the movement. "You see, Bianca, your mother… Marina Sutton… was quite valuable to our organization once."
My fingers tighten around the delicate teacup as Vito's words sink in. Valuable to our organization . The pieces start clicking together like tumblers in a lock—Luca's obsessive digging through old files, the missing records of Elena's murder, the way his jaw clenches whenever his father speaks of succession.
I set down the cup before I shatter it.
My heart pounds against my ribs. Luca's been searching for answers about Elena's murder, convinced his father knows more than he's saying.
"You see, the truth," Vito continues, "is a dangerous thing in our world, Bianca. It has teeth. And once it bites..."
He trails off, studying me with those cold eyes that remind me so much of Luca's when he was in that room, using pliers in a way they weren't designed to be used.
Vito coughs again, and I take the pause to use it for my own. "Don Vito, you say my mother was useful once. Why? She was just a nurse."
Vito smothers his coughing fit and shakes his head at me. "Dear girl, she was more than that. Her skills, her connections. Particularly her connection to a certain ambitious young lieutenant of mine."
The room seems to tilt slightly, reality shifting beneath my feet. "My father worked for you?"
"Oh, he did more than work for me," Vito smiles at me like the devil in a poorly disguised suit. "Alexei Petrov was like a son to me. Before he betrayed us all."
Alexei Petrov.
The name rings foreign yet familiar, like a half-remembered dream. My father—not some anonymous sperm donor who abandoned my mother, but a man with a name. A history. A betrayal.
"What did he do?" I ask, voice steadier than I feel.
Vito's eyes narrow, assessing my reaction. "Defected. Took valuable information to our enemies. All for the love of a woman who was carrying his child."
My mother. Me. The implications crash over me in waves.
"The Volkovs," I breathe, pieces falling into place. "He went to them."
"Very good." Vito nods, clearly pleased with my quickness. "Yes, your father found sanctuary with Dmitri. A sanctuary paid for with Ravelli blood and secrets. Handsomely paid, too, as I understand."
My hands clench in my lap, nails digging into my palms. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because my son is determined to uncover truths best left buried." Vito's voice hardens, all pretense of grandfatherly warmth vanishing. "He believes Elena's murder was... shall we say, an internal matter rather than a Volkov hit. He's wrong, of course. But in his quest, he risks exposing connections that could destroy everything I've built."
"Connections to my mother," I guess. "To me."
Vito sets down his teacup with a sharp strike against the saucer.
"Luca believes he loves you. Believes you're his salvation in this bloody business. How do you think he would react, I wonder, to learn that the woman he carved his crest into carries Volkov blood? That his own father has been monitoring you your entire life, waiting for the perfect moment to use you?"
The casual cruelty of his words steals my breath. "Use me how?"
"As leverage, of course." He waves a hand dismissively. "The daughter of a traitor, placed in my son's bed. The poetry of it is almost too perfect to resist."
"You're lying," I say, though doubt creeps like poison through my veins. "Luca found me by chance. In that hotel room. I was there by chance that night."
Vito's laugh turns into another coughing fit, this one violent enough to spatter blood onto the pristine cloth covering his lap. When he recovers, his eyes burn with malicious amusement.
"By chance? My dear, nothing in this family happens by chance. Especially not when it comes to power and succession." He leans forward, voice dropping to a conspirator's whisper. "My son wants the throne. And by now, you know as well as I do, he'll stop at nothing to get it."
I flinch involuntarily, remembering the man in the basement, hanging from chains as Luca tore into his flesh with pliers.
"Ah," Vito's eyes light with satisfaction at my reaction. "So you've seen what he's capable of. Good. Then you understand what's at stake."
I rise abruptly, unable to bear another moment in his presence. "Excuse me. I'm not feeling well."
Vito doesn't try to stop me, but his voice follows as I move toward the door. "When Luca learns the truth about your bloodline, about your father's betrayal, about my plans for you—what do you think he'll do then, Bianca? Will he still worship at your feet? Or will you join the ranks of his enemies?"
I don't answer, can't answer. I fling open the door and flee into the hallway, heart hammering against my ribs as I search for sanctuary in this house of lies.
I find Teresa in my bathroom, already drawing a bath as if she anticipated my need to cleanse after Vito's poisonous revelations.
"You knew," I accuse, shutting the door behind me with a slam. "About my father. About Alexei Petrov."
She doesn't deny it, doesn't even look surprised at the name. "Of course I knew."
"Why didn't you tell me?" My voice breaks, anger giving way to something more painful. "All this time, whenever I asked about my mother, about my past—"
"It wasn't my story to tell." She tests the water temperature with her elbow. Like a mother running a bath for her child. "I told you, dear. Some secrets protect, Bianca. Others destroy."
"And which is this?" I demand, sinking onto the edge of the massive tub. "Because right now, it feels like destruction."
Teresa sighs, adding oils to the steaming water. "Remove your dress. Let me help you."
I stand mechanically, allowing her to unzip the sheath and help me step out of it. My body moves on autopilot while my mind reels with implications, connections, betrayals layered upon betrayals.
"Your father was a good man, once," Teresa says as I sink into the hot water. "Loyal. Clever. Vito valued him above many others."
"Until he betrayed the family for my mother."
Teresa nods, pouring water over my shoulders with a silver pitcher. "Love makes men do unwise things. Especially when there's a child involved."
The water laps at my skin, fragrant with rosemary and something sharper tonight. Maybe something meant to clear the head.
I close my eyes, trying to imagine the face of a man I've never known. A Russian who worked for the Ravellis until he chose my mother over loyalty to Vito's throne.
"Did Luca know? When he claimed me that night, did he know who I was?"
Teresa's hands pause in my hair. "No. That much I'm certain of. Whatever game Vito is playing, Luca was not privy to it."
Relief floods through me, followed quickly by fresh dread. "Vito said he's been watching me my whole life. Waiting to use me as leverage."
"Don't let his illness fool you. The Don plays many games at once," Teresa confirms, working shampoo through my hair. "He's a master that moves pieces across boards only he can see."
"And I'm just another piece." The realization settles cold in my stomach. "A pawn in whatever war he's waging against his own son."
"No piece is ever just a pawn, if it moves correctly." Teresa's voice carries a lifetime of observation from the shadows. "You've survived in this house longer than many thought possible. You've claimed Luca in ways none expected. Don't underestimate your own power, Bianca."
She guides me to lean back, rinsing my hair with warm water. The familiar ritual should be soothing, but my mind races too quickly for comfort.
"Tell me about my father," I say. "Please. I need to know something real."
Teresa's movements slow, considering. "He had your eyes. The same amber color, the same directness. He spoke six languages fluently. Could charm information from anyone. Had a laugh that filled rooms."
She smiles faintly at some memory. A memory of him that I've never had the chance of smiling at.
"And I know that he loved your mother desperately. From the moment they met. He loved her so much, he did the unthinkable. He did enough to risk everything."
"Is he still alive?" I ask, hope fluttering weakly despite everything.
The question hangs between us, unanswered as Teresa helps me from the bath, wrapping me in a thick towel.
A wave of dizziness hits as I stand, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision. I grip the edge of the sink, breathing through the sudden nausea that's become too familiar to ignore.
"Are you alright?" Teresa asks, steadying me with a hand at my elbow.
"Fine," I respond automatically. "Just stood up too quickly."
But it's more than that.
When I went to see my mother without permission, I'd stopped at a pharmacy first. Bought a test on impulse, performed it in the care facility's bathroom before visiting my mom.
I'd been so distracted by Luca's arrival, by the desecration of Elena's tomb, that I'd pushed the results from my mind.
Positive.
It's nausea in the mornings. The aching tenderness in my breasts. The exhaustion that drags at me despite long hours of sleep.
And now… the realization dawns with perfect clarity as I meet my reflection in the mirror, one hand instinctively moving to my still-flat stomach.
I'm carrying Luca's child.
A new Ravelli heir.
Another piece on Vito's chessboard.
Teresa's eyes in the mirror watch me too carefully, missing nothing. I meet her gaze, silently pleading for her discretion.
She nods once, understanding passing between us without words. This secret, at least, will remain mine to reveal when I choose.
As she helps me dress in a simple shift, footsteps echo in the hallway outside our suite.
"Luca has returned," Teresa says gently.
I turn toward the door, hand unconsciously moving to my abdomen once more. Whatever revelations this day has brought—about my father, about Vito's manipulations, about the life growing inside me—they fade to background noise as I prepare to face my husband.
The man I've chosen, for better or worse.
The monster I've somehow come to love.
The father of my child.