27. Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Five
Bianca
T he mansion has been silent for hours.
After Luca left, I paced our suite until exhaustion won out and I collapsed into our bed, one hand protectively cradling my flat stomach. Sleep came in fragments—brief moments of unconsciousness broken by nightmares of blood and betrayal.
Now, the moonlight slants through a gap in the curtains, painting silver stripes across the empty sheets beside me.
Three in the morning, and still no Luca.
The Volkovs meeting should have ended hours ago.
My mouth tastes of fear as I slide from the bed, wrapping myself in Luca's discarded shirt. The fabric drowns me, but carries his scent.
Our child shifts beneath my skin—not a physical movement, not yet, but an awareness that has changed everything. I am no longer just Bianca, the hotel maid who became a Ravelli wife.
I am a vessel, a protector, a mother.
I move to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The woman in the mirror looks harder than she did weeks ago. My cheekbones are sharper, my eyes darker. Luca's mark has healed into a silvery scar above my heart and the Ravelli crest is now a permanent reminder of whom I belong to.
A sound breaks the silence.
The bedroom door beyond the bathroom clicks, a barely audible release of the lock I know I secured.
It's not Luca. He would have announced himself, would have called out to ease my fear right away.
I reach for the blade Luca keeps taped beneath the sink, one of dozens hidden throughout our wing for moments exactly like this.
Then, the bathroom door bursts open.
"What are you doing?"
Matteo stands in the threshold, expression blank and efficient. Two Ravelli guards flank him, their faces impassive, two sets of giant hands hovering near concealed weapons.
"Mrs. Ravelli," Matteo addresses me with cold formality that makes my skin skittle with goosebumps. "You're needed elsewhere."
My fingers close around the blade, pulling it free. I hold it between us, the steel catching the dim light.
"Where's Luca?" I demand, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Has something happened to him?"
Matteo's mouth tightens, but he doesn't say a word.
"Tell me!" I shout, shaking the knife as tears spike in my eyes. "Tell me where my fucking husband is!"
Matteo stays calm. Too calm. "Your husband is otherwise occupied. The Don has requested your presence. Immediately."
Vito .
Fear coils in my stomach. The man Luca was meant to confront tonight—the man who ordered Elena's murder—now summons me while my protector is absent.
"I'm not going anywhere," I state, lifting my chin with defiance I don't entirely feel. "Luca left orders that I remain here. I will not disrespect his orders."
Matteo's eyebrow twitches—the only break in his perfect composure. He knows, as well as I do, how many times I've defied Luca since becoming his wife.
The guards shift their weight, exchanging knowing glances. They've witnessed my defiance firsthand.
"Mrs. Ravelli," Matteo's voice carries a hint of mockery. "Let's not pretend you've suddenly developed a taste for following rules. Your creative interpretation of Mr. Ravelli's commands is well documented."
He's right.
But this feels different.
My hand drifts to my stomach, where our child grows. This isn't just about me anymore. This isn't about pushing boundaries or testing limits.
For the first time, I understand why Luca's control can be a form of protection.
A flicker of impatience crosses Matteo's face. "We need to move. I'm afraid this isn't a request up for discussion, Mrs. Ravelli."
Matteo lunges forward with unexpected speed for a man his age. I slash wildly with the blade, catching his forearm, drawing a thin line of crimson across expensive fabric.
"You bitch ," he hisses, grabbing my wrist and twisting until the knife clatters to the floor.
I drive my knee upward, aiming for his groin, but he anticipates the move, slamming me against the bathroom wall hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. His forearm presses against my throat, just shy of cutting off my air completely.
"I've served the Ravelli family for thirty years," he growls, inches from my face. "I've watched men and women stronger than you break under Vito's command. Don't make this harder than it needs to be, Miss Sutton ."
I spit in his face. "That's Mrs. Ravelli to you."
The blow comes fast—an open-handed slap that snaps my head to the side and fills my mouth with the metallic taste of blood.
"I suggest… for the baby's sake," Matteo whispers, his voice suddenly gentle in a way that terrifies me more than his violence. "Don't fight. Not now."
The mention of my child freezes me mid-struggle. My hands instinctively move to shield my abdomen, creating just enough space for Matteo to shove a heavy cloth bag over my head.
Disoriented and blind, I feel hands gripping my arms, dragging me from the bathroom. I kick and struggle against them, but Matteo's grip is unrelenting, his fingers digging bruises into my flesh.
"Luca will kill you for this," I gasp through the thick fabric. "He trusted you."
"Luca isn't here," Matteo responds, voice cold as he forces me forward. "And when he returns, it will be too late anyway."
Terror shivers through me at the finality in his tone. Not just for myself, but for the life growing inside me. For Luca, walking into a trap while his father springs another here at home.
We descend stairs I can't see, the air growing colder with each fumbled step I take. The familiar scents of the mansion slowly give way to something dank and ancient. There's stone beneath my bare feet now, not carpet or marble.
We must be somewhere beneath the mansion. A place I've never been shown.
When the bag is finally yanked from my head, I blink against the sudden light from a single bulb hanging overhead. The room around me is stone and shadows. It's completely medieval in its construction, with walls that weep moisture and air that tastes of earth and decay.
And seated before me in a wooden chair that looks suspiciously like a throne, oxygen tank at his side, is Vito Ravelli.
"Leave us," he commands, and Matteo steps back with a respectful nod and a low bow.
The heavy door closes behind him as he retreats up the stairs we descended, the sound of a lock engaging with grim finality.
"Sit," Vito gestures to a simple wooden chair positioned across from his own.
"I prefer to stand," I reply, arms wrapped around my middle. My cheek throbs from Matteo's blow, the taste of blood still metallic on my tongue.
"I said… sit ," Vito repeats, voice hardening. "Before I have Matteo return to finish what he started."
My nose twitches, but I lower myself onto the chair, keeping my spine straight, chin lifted. Teresa's lessons in Ravelli pride suddenly feel like armor I desperately need right now.
"He found it," I snap, satisfaction of getting the first word in curling through me despite my fear. "He has proof you murdered Elena. You won't win, Vito. Not now."
If Vito is surprised by my knowledge, he doesn't show it.
Despite the oxygen tank at his side and the pallor of his skin, to this day, there's nothing weak about Vito Ravelli.
He sits in that wooden throne like a spider in its web. His hands rest on the carved arms, fingers splayed like he has all the time in the world. Even dying, he maintains perfect posture, his suit crisp despite the damp air down here.
I shouldn't be surprised.
This is a man who ordered his own wife's death and slept peacefully that same night.
"Is that what he told you? That I killed my wife?"
"He has a recording. Your voice, ordering the hit." I say, but my voice wavers slightly. "Your son is stronger than you, Vito."
"My son..." Vito's fingers tap once against the wood. "Is exactly what I made him to be. Every scar, every kill, every dark impulse that's he's fucked into you. I carved that into him. Like a sculptor with marble."
The pride in his voice makes my stomach turn. Or maybe that's the morning sickness finally catching up to me.
Vito studies me, head tilted like a predator assessing prey.
"So, Bianca, tell me. Do you believe a recording can't be manipulated? That voices can't be imitated, words spliced together to create convenient truths?"
Doubt flickers briefly, but I push it aside. "I believe Luca."
"Of course you do." Vito's smile is almost pitying. "You've surrendered everything to him, why stop now? Your freedom, your body, your future. Belief is all you have left."
His words cut deeper than they should, finding the cracks in my certainty that I've tried to ignore. The way Luca claimed me that first night, the control he's exerted since, the violence I've witnessed from his hands.
"What do you want from me?" I ask, forcing strength into my voice. "Why am I here?"
"I want to offer you a choice, Bianca." Vito leans forward, the machinery keeping him alive hissing with the movement. "The kind of choice that wasn't offered to your father."
My pulse quickens. "Yet another person who died because of you."
"Alexei Petrov died because he betrayed this family," Vito corrects, eyes hardening on me. "Because he thought love mattered more than loyalty."
"And Elena? Did she betray the family too?"
Something flickers across Vito's face—not guilt, but something equally human. Something I hadn't expected to see in the monster Luca has described. The monster I've sat across from at dinners. The man who smiled as his son married me right here on his territory.
"Elena was leaving me," he says finally. "She planned to take my sons. To take my heirs."
"So you had her killed," I finish for him. "In front of her child. In front of Luca."
"I protected what was mine."
There's something different in those last few words, and when his gaze drops to my abdomen, where my hands still rest protectively, I know what it is.
"As you now protect what's yours. Half Ravelli." His eyes narrow with disgust. "And half Volkov. Your father wasn't just any lieutenant who defected, Bianca. Alexei Petrov was Dmitri Volkov's nephew. His blood runs in your veins as surely as it now runs in my grandchild's."
My entire body shivers. "How did you—"
My heart pounds against my ribs as I stare at Vito.
All this time, the Volkovs' interest, Dmitri's knowing looks, Demyan's possessive stares—it wasn't just about my father's betrayal. It was about blood. Their blood. In me.
Not to mention the fact that I haven't told anyone except Luca about the pregnancy. Except for Teresa when she noticed my dizzy spell in the bathroom. But that was mere hours ago, and Luca said Vito had left for medical treatment.
How the fuck does he know?!
"Ah, yes. You see, Bianca, I've had you watched since before you knew what you carried," Vito says. "Just as I've had Marina watched since before you were born. Just as I've had the Volkovs monitored while they pretended not to be aware of your existence."
The room spins slightly, the weight of manipulation across decades pressing down on me.
"Why?" I whisper. "Why me? Why my mother?"
"Because Alexei loved her," Vito answers simply. "Because she carried his child. She carried you . She knew exactly what she was doing when she took Volkov secrets and disappeared with your father."
My mother. The translator between families. The woman who worked for both sides until she vanished, pregnant and afraid.
"I want to hear the choice you are offering me," I say, focusing on the immediate threat rather than the past I can't change.
Vito's smile chills me to the bone. "Fine."
He takes a long breath, each second that passes growing more tense.
"I will offer you the same choice I offered Marina Sutton twenty-five years ago." He leans forward and looks me dead in the eye. "Leave Luca. Disappear. Take his child and vanish into a new life. I will arrange everything for you."
"Or?"
"Or watch my boy suffer for choosing tainted blood." Vito's voice drops to a whisper. "For claiming a Volkov descendant as his queen."
The oxygen tank clicks, pushing another breath into Vito's failing lungs. In the silence that follows, I hear the truth beneath his offer.
This isn't about choice at all.
In this world, there is never a choice. I know that by now.
If I stay, Vito will destroy Luca - not with bullets or blades, but with the revelation that his chosen wife carries Volkov blood. He'll use me to break Luca's spirit, just as he used Elena's death to shape Luca into a weapon.
If I run, I'll wound Luca in a different way. I'll become another Marina. Another woman who disappeared with a fatherless child.
The betrayal I leave behind would hollow Luca out, leave him empty except for rage. Vito would mold that rage, turning Luca into something even darker than before.
Either path leads to Luca's destruction.
That's Vito's real game.
He doesn't want me to choose between freedom and captivity. He wants me to choose how I'll help him break his son.
I meet his cold eyes, seeing the calculation behind his fake mercy. This is the man who ordered his wife's murder to keep control of his son. Who watched me for years, waiting for the perfect moment to use me against Luca.
And now he wants me to help him finish what Elena's death started - turning Luca into a mirror of himself.
"You had my father killed, didn't you?" I ask, the realization settling like stone in my stomach. "Because he ran away with her."
"I'm offering you mercy," Vito corrects, voice rasping. "More than I offered her."
"Like the mercy you showed Elena?"
Vito's hand moves, faster than I would have thought possible for a dying man. From beneath his blanket emerges a pistol, its barrel aimed at my chest with unwavering precision.
"Careful, Bianca," he warns. "The child you carry may be my grandchild, but even that tainted, filthy connection has its limits."
I stare at the weapon, at the finger poised on the trigger. The man who ordered his wife's execution would think nothing of eliminating me if I became an obstacle.
But I am not the same woman who trembled in a hotel hallway when Luca first claimed me.
I am a Ravelli now—in name, in blood, in the life growing inside me.
"You won't shoot me," I say with a calmness I don't entirely feel. "Not here. Not like this. It lacks... poetry."
Vito's eyebrows lift slightly. "Poetry?"
"Isn't that what this has all been about? The perfect narrative. The perfect manipulation." I rise slowly from my chair, keeping my movements deliberate. "A hotel maid who turns out to be connected to your greatest enemies. Placed in your son's path at precisely the right moment. The daughter of a traitor, carrying the next Ravelli heir."
A smile curves Vito's mouth, genuine this time. Almost... proud.
"You understand more than I gave you credit for."
"I understand exactly who I am," I step closer, until the barrel of the gun presses against my sternum, just above where Luca carved his mark. "I'm a Ravelli now. And we don't break easily."
The distant sound of commotion above us breaks our standoff—shouting, the crack of what might be gunfire.
Vito's eyes narrow. "It seems my son has returned earlier than expected."
Hope surges through me.
Luca is alive.
And he's here .
"He'll kill you for this," I whisper. "For Elena. For me."
"Perhaps." Vito adjusts his grip on the pistol. "Or perhaps he'll finally understand what it means to be Don Ravelli. That sometimes, the greatest sacrifices are the ones closest to our hearts."
The door at the top of the stairs crashes open, voices echoing down to us. Matteo's, raised in warning. Another—Luca's—responding with cold fury, and then, a gunshot.
My head snaps to see Matteo's body tumbling down the concrete steps. The sound of his body falling echoes through the underground chamber like thunder.
He lands face-up at the bottom, limbs twisted unnaturally. Blood pools beneath his head, seeping into the collar of his pristine white shirt. His eyes stare upward, unseeing, the same cold hazel that had watched me for weeks across breakfast tables and garden paths.
"It's seem my husband has come for me."
But as Vito's finger tenses on the trigger, I realize he may be too late.
I close my eyes, one hand pressed protectively over our child, and pray that if I fall, Luca's vengeance will be swift and complete.
For both of us.