25. Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Three
Luca
B lood sings in my veins as I stride through the mansion corridors, each footfall heavy with purpose and rage. The recording burns in my pocket like a live coal—fifteen years of suspicion finally crystallized into irrefutable proof.
I'd been in the warehouse district in South London again, extracting confessions from what remained of Dante's loyal soldiers, when my contact finally delivered the audio file.
My hands were still wet with another man's blood when Teresa's message came through—Bianca had been summoned by my father. Alone. I'd barely taken time to clean the worst of the evidence from my skin before racing back to the estate.
But I knew Dante's men would eventually crack.
And now I have it.
The cold brutality of my father's voice. The hitman's confession. My mother's murder laid bare in digital precision.
The pieces that never fit now lock together with sickening clarity. Not the Volkovs. Not rival families. Not external threats that could be hunted and exterminated.
Vito Ravelli. My father. The architect of my mother's death.
The audio plays again in my mind as I climb the grand staircase toward my wing. The hitman's gravelly voice, recorded shortly before his own convenient ' suicide ' in prison:
"Vito gave the order himself. Said Elena was planning to leave, to take the children with her. The Don couldn't have that—not the heirs. Told me to make it look like the Volkovs were responsible. Make it public. Messy. A message that looks like it came from outside."
From the outside. The perfect cover.
My father's perfect lie—one I've believed for a time, one I've built my life around before growing suspect. It's the lie that shaped me into the man I am, the monster who carved his brand into a innocent woman's skin and claimed her as salvation.
The recording continues, each word etching deeper grooves of hatred into my soul:
"He wanted the boy to see it. Said it would make him stronger."
The lesson worked. I never leave what's mine. I never let go.
I own. I keep. I protect.
Or I destroy.
The doors to my wing swing open under my touch, the familiar scent of leather and rose water washing over me. Home, or the closest thing to it I've known since blood splashed across cathedral steps.
"Mr. Ravelli." Teresa materializes from the shadows of the hallway, her hands clasped at her waist, voice carefully modulated. "Your wife is preparing herself for your arrival."
I pause, reading the tension in her shoulders, the careful blankness in her eyes that fails to mask her unease.
"What's happened?" I demand, handing off my jacket to the waiting servant without breaking eye contact with Teresa.
"Nothing of concern, sir. Mrs. Ravelli has just arrived back, safely. I have helped her bathe, ready for your arrival."
It's too quick. Too practiced.
My hand shoots out, fingers clutching Teresa's wrist with the precision of a man who's spent a lifetime extracting truths from unwilling mouths.
"Teresa," I keep my voice soft, controlled—the tone that makes hardened criminals tremble. "I'll ask once more. What's happened?"
She simply looks down at my hand, then back up to me. Fuck .
After decades in this house, she's immune to the intimidation that breaks others. But she knows better than to lie outright.
"Don Vito requested Mrs. Ravelli's presence this afternoon. For tea."
Ice floods my veins, replacing the fire of moments before. "My father summoned my wife? Alone?"
"I accompanied her to his quarters myself, Luca," Teresa says, a hint of defiance creeping into her tone. "I waited and ensured she returned unharmed."
Unharmed. A physical state that reveals nothing about the poison my father may have dripped into her ears.
"What did he want?" I release Teresa's wrist, moving toward the bathroom where Bianca waits.
"I wasn't present for their conversation."
I turn back, eyes narrowing as I assess the woman who has served my family since before I was born. The woman who bathed my mother's body after death, who helped arrange her in her casket, who knew—she must have known—that Vito had ordered the hit.
"But you have your suspicions," I press, watching her carefully.
Teresa meets my gaze directly, something unusual flickering behind her eyes. Not fear. Something deeper. Sadder.
"Your father is dying, Luca," she says softly. "Men facing death often feel compelled to unburden their souls—or wound others with truths best left uncovered."
My jaw clenches, understanding her meaning perfectly.
"Where is she?"
"In your bathroom. I've drawn her a bath. She seemed... shaken. So please, give her a minute."
Of course she was shaken. My father's specialty has always been finding the precise pressure point that causes maximum pain with minimal effort. Whatever he revealed to Bianca—whatever game he's playing—I'll end it tonight.
I nod once, dismissing Teresa with a gesture as I move toward the bedroom, loosening my tie.
The recording burns in my pocket like a loaded gun as I walk through my wing.
Three minutes and seventeen seconds of my father's voice, calmly arranging my mother's execution.
The hitman's confession has taken weeks to extract, but hearing Vito's words made every second of torture worth it.
"Elena's become a liability. She plans to take the boys. Handle it tonight, make it look like the Volkovs."
My fingers brush the edge of the phone, remembering how my mother's blood felt on my hands that night. For fifteen years, I've carried that memory, letting it fuel every calculated move toward the throne.
Now, with proof of Vito's betrayal secured, I can finally act.
But first, Bianca.
Whatever game my father played today, summoning her alone, it wasn't random. Vito doesn't waste moves, especially now when his time grows short. The timing is too perfect. He must suspect I'm close to the truth.
I trace the outline of my phone again, picturing the scene that will unfold in his study later. The look in his eyes when I play the recording. The moment he realizes his own voice will destroy everything he built.
But that satisfaction will have to wait.
Right now, Bianca needs me. And whatever poison Vito tried to plant in her mind, I'll burn it out with truth.
My truth.
The only truth that matters.
The bedroom is empty when I enter, but I hear water splashing behind the partially closed bathroom door. Steam curls into the room, carrying the scent of rosemary and mint: Teresa' special calming blend.
I don't knock. I can't wait another second with the weight of confession heavy in my pocket.
Bianca stands with her back to me, wrapped in nothing but a towel.
She turns at the sound of my entrance, and for just a moment, something raw and vulnerable flashes across her pale face before she masks it with a careful smile.
"Luca," she says, my name a breath rather than a word. "You're home."
The towel slips slightly as she moves, revealing the healing mark of my family crest above her breast. The sight of it—my claim, my ownership—centers me in the storm of rage swirling through my blood.
"He didn't hurt you." I'm not sure if I'm asking or observing.
Bianca shakes her head. "No."
"What did my father say to you?" I ask closing the distance between us.
Bianca clutches the towel tighter around her, throat working as she swallows. "He told me about my father."
Of all the answers I expected, this one blindsides me. "Your father?"
"Alexei Petrov." She speaks the name like a foreign word, unfamiliar on her tongue. "A lieutenant who worked for the Ravellis until he defected to the Volkovs. Apparently for my mother's sake. For mine."
The pieces shift again, rearranging themselves into a pattern I should have seen sooner. Marina Sutton. The translator whose photo appeared in both my father's private collection and Dmitri's wallet.
The connection I've been hunting all this time—hidden in plain sight, sleeping in my bed, carved with my mark.
"What else?" I demand, voice rougher than intended.
"That he's been watching me my whole life. That my presence in your bed isn't the coincidence we believed it to be."
I laugh—a sharp, bitter sound that echoes off marble walls. "Of course not. Nothing in this house happens by chance, little rabbit. Haven't you learned that by now?"
Her eyes never leave mine, searching for something beyond the rage that simmers beneath my skin. "He said when you discover the truth about my bloodline, about my father's betrayal, you'll turn on me. Is that true, Luca?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with implication.
I reach for her, one hand gathering her damp hair at the nape of her neck while the other traces the mark on her chest.
"The only truth that matters," I tell her, voice dropping to a whisper against her temple, "is that you're mine. Whatever blood flows in your veins, whatever name your father carried—it changes nothing."
She sags against me, relief evident in every line of her body. I hadn't realized how much tension she'd been carrying until it drains away, leaving her pliant in my arms.
"I found proof," I murmur against her hair, the confession torn from somewhere deep and raw. "About my mother's murder."
Her hands come up to frame my face, forcing me to meet her gaze. "Vito?"
I nod once, the single movement containing fifteen years of suspicion, investigation, and grief all in one.
"Oh, Luca," she breathes, and I see it in her eyes—not pity, which I would despise, but understanding. The recognition of betrayal in its purest form. "I'm so sorry."
Her lips find mine, gentle in a way we rarely allow ourselves. Not a claiming, not a punishment, but comfort, love and care offered freely. Her fingers work at my shirt buttons, pushing the fabric from my shoulders.
"Let me," she whispers against my jaw. "Let me take care of you tonight."
I should refuse. I should be marching out this door with a gun in my hand and pulling the trigger on my father, finally claiming his throne.
But the weight of these past few weeks presses down on my shoulders more than ever, and for once, I allow someone else to carry part of the burden.
Her towel drops to the floor as she leads me toward the shower, her naked body a work of art in the dim bathroom light. The water burns hot against my skin as she steps in beside me, taking the soap from my hands.
"Your tattoos," she says softly, fingers tracing the inked patterns that cover my chest, my arms, my back. "Tell me about them."
I close my eyes, surrendering to her touch as she washes away the day's violence from my skin.
"This one," her fingers trace the thorned roses that wrap around my forearm, "when did you get it?"
"Seventeen," I answer, voice rough with contained emotion. "After my first kill that wasn't orchestrated by Vito."
"What does it mean?" Bianca asks, her touch tender, like the words she's using to distract me from the darkness clawing at my every thought.
"The thorns represent blood debts. The roses, beauty in violence."
She hums softly, moving to the script etched across my collarbone. " Nel sangue il potere ," she reads, pronunciation perfect despite her lack of Italian. "In blood, power."
"My father's favorite saying," I confirm, bitterness coating each word. "A reminder that power is taken, not given. That it requires sacrifice."
"And this?" Her touch feathers across the bishop piece inked over my heart, the one tattoo I've never explained to anyone.
I catch her hand, pressing it flat against the image. "My mother's favorite chess piece. She said bishops move diagonally because sometimes the most direct path isn't a straight line."
Water streams over us, washing away soap and memories, but not the weight of betrayal that sits heaviest against my chest. When we finally step from the shower, Bianca wraps a towel around her own body before using another to dry me with careful, tender movements.
There's a strangeness to her care tonight—an emotion I can't quite name shimmering beneath the surface of her actions. Something has shifted in her, beyond the revelations my father shared.
And maybe it's the clarity starting to take shape in my mind, but tonight… wow .
She's never looked more beautiful.
"Why didn't you tell me about the recording?" she asks as she dries my hair, standing on tiptoes to reach properly.
I shake my head. "I needed to be certain it was legitimate."
"And now you are." She steps back, studying my face. "What will you do?"
The question doesn't require an answer, and when Bianca looks in my eyes, she already knows. My little rabbit might be finding her way out of the little cave of darkness she's found herself in, but even she knows what happens to those who betray the Ravelli family—even if they bear the name themselves.
Especially then.
I dress quickly, selecting a fresh suit from the closet. Black, of course. Appropriate for confronting a ghost that's haunted me for fifteen years.
Bianca watches from the bed, the towel slipping to reveal the curve of her breast, the flat plane of her stomach. Something in her eyes catches my attention—a protectiveness I haven't seen before, directed not at me but at herself.
Later, I'll examine that look more closely. For now, there's only one thing that matters.
"Stay here," I tell her, voice brooking no argument as I slip the recording into my jacket pocket. "Whatever happens tonight, whatever you hear—don't leave this wing."
Bianca rises from the bed, the towel falling away completely. She crosses to me with that same protective look in her eyes, reaching up to straighten my tie with trembling fingers.
"What if he—" Her voice cracks. "What if something happens to you?"
I catch her hands, stilling their shake. "Nothing will happen to me, my love."
"You don't know that." Her eyes fill with tears she refuses to let fall. "He killed your mother, Luca. His own wife. You think he won't kill you too?"
"I have the proof I've spent my whole adult life searching for, Bianca." I brush my thumb across her knuckles. "I have no more suspicions. No more nightmares. I have but one thing left to do."
A shaky breath catches in her throat. "Luca, I don't—"
I shake my head and squeeze her hands. "Tonight, it ends. And then, we claim the throne and get on with our lives. In justice."
She presses herself against me, her bare skin warm through my suit. "I can't lose you. Not now."
Something in her voice makes me pull back, studying her face. There's fear there, yes, but something else—something deeper. Like she's protecting more than just herself.
I cross back to the bed, pull her down with me and take her face between my hands, memorizing every line, every curve. If she carries Volkov blood through her father, if my own father has manipulated our meeting from the beginning—none of it matters.
She is mine. And soon to be Queen of our empire.
"Lock the door behind me," I instruct, pressing a fierce, possessive kiss to her mouth. "Trust no one until I return."
I feel her eyes following me across the room, her choked breath heavy on my shoulders. Tonight, I face my father with the evidence I've sought since I was fifteen years old, kneeling in my mother's blood on cathedral steps.
Tonight, Vito Ravelli will answer for Elena's murder.
But before I can close the door, I hear the words that change everything.
"Luca… I—I'm pregnant."
The world stops. Two words, and suddenly… everything shifts.