29. Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bianca
B lood dries differently than I expected.
It starts bright, almost vibrant when fresh. A slick, wet crimson that catches light and reflects it back. Then it darkens as it dries, turning rust-colored, almost black at the edges.
Oxidation, I suppose.
The air stealing the life from what once pulsed with it.
Vito Ravelli's blood has dried on my hands now. A fine spray across my knuckles, spattered droplets that tell the story of what I've done. Of what I am.
A killer.
I sit in Luca's private bathroom, perched on the edge of the massive tub filled with steaming water. Tonight, there are no beautiful smells, no rose petals to be seen as I stare at my hands like they belong to someone else.
Teresa scrubs my back with a soft sponge, humming some Italian melody I don't recognize.
"The water is getting cold, tesoro ," she says, her voice gentle in a way it rarely is. "You should get in before it loses its heat."
I know she's right. I've been sitting here for... I don't even know how long. Time has lost meaning since I pulled that trigger.
"I killed him," I say, the words still strange on my tongue. Like I'm trying to absorb them into my new reality.
"Yes." Teresa doesn't offer platitudes or false comfort. Just acknowledgment. "You did what needed to be done."
She helps me rise, guiding me into the bath. The heat sears my skin, but I welcome the physical sensation. It's something real to anchor me as my mind threatens to drift into shock.
The water turns pink around me. It could be Vito's blood, or perhaps mine from cuts I don't remember getting. Whoever's it is, it's washing away as if it were that simple. As if one bath could cleanse what's happened tonight.
"Will it feel like this forever?" I ask, staring at the bloodied water.
Teresa's hand pauses on my shoulder. "The first kill is always the hardest," she says, resuming her gentle scrubbing. "It changes you. But not always in the ways you might expect."
"You sound like you know."
A tiny hint of a smile crosses her face. "I have been with the Ravelli family for a very long time, Bianca. You know by now, I have seen... many things."
The door opens, and Luca appears, silhouetted against the bedroom light. He's changed from his blood-soaked clothes into fresh ones—black, always black, like a perpetual funeral for the person he used to be.
"Leave us," he tells Teresa, who nods and slips past him without a word.
He approaches like I might spook, lowering himself to the edge of the tub where Teresa had been moments before. His eyes meet mine, searching, assessing.
"You saved my life," he says simply.
I shake my head. "I took his."
Luca's fingers trace the back of my hand where it rests on the edge of the tub. "Sometimes those are the same thing."
"He tried to turn you against me," I say, the memory of Vito's accusations still fresh despite everything else that had happened. "With those lies about Dante recruiting me."
Luca's eyes find mine. "I never believed it. Not for a second."
"But how could you be so sure? Those six months..." I trail off, remembering how convincing Vito's words had sounded.
Luca watches me carefully, his expression softening in a way I rarely see.
"Tell me. What really happened during that time, Bianca?"
I look down, steeling myself to share a truth I've kept hidden. "After my mother's condition worsened, I couldn't handle watching her forget me day by day. I took a leave from work, used my savings to travel to Scotland where her cousin lived."
His thumb continues tracing patterns on my skin, encouraging me to continue.
"I needed space to grieve the mother who was still alive but already gone," I say quietly. "When I returned to London, I met Marcus at a café. He seemed kind, stable—everything I thought I needed to feel whole again."
"You were looking for safety," Luca observes without judgment.
I nod. "I thought a normal life with a normal man would heal what was broken in me." A bitter laugh escapes. "Ironic that I ended up with you instead."
"Because I know you, Bianca." His thumb traces patterns on my skin. "I've seen inside you in ways no one else has. And what I've found there has only ever been truth. Even when that truth was defiance."
A smile touches my lips. "You once told me I was a terrible liar."
"The worst," he agrees, a rare warmth lighting his eyes. "Besides, I had Nico investigate those shell companies Vito mentioned. The hotel you worked at was never connected to Dante. Just another of my father's manipulations, trying to turn us against each other in his final moments."
I exhale, long and deep. "He was good at that, wasn't he? Turning people against each other."
Luca's expression darkens. "He spent decades perfecting the art of manipulation. Of finding weaknesses and exploiting them."
"And yet, in the end..."
"In the end, he underestimated the strength of what we've built." Luca's hands finds mine, squeezing gently. "The one thing he could never understand was genuine loyalty. The kind that isn't bought or forced, but freely given."
"Is this what it feels like for you?" I ask. "When you kill someone?"
His expression shifts, something dangerous and sad crossing his face in equal measure. "The first time? Yes. A hollowing out. Like you've lost something you didn't realize you had until it was gone."
"And now?"
"Now it's just business," he says, but his eyes tell a different story. One of accumulated weight, of choices that leave marks invisible to most, but not to me. Not anymore.
"He was your father, Luca."
Luca's jaw tightens. "He stopped being my father the day he ordered my mother's execution."
The silence between us holds the weight of fifteen years of grief and rage. Of a son who watched his mother die, who built his life around vengeance of that moment, only to have that purpose fulfilled by someone else's hand.
By mine.
"I would do it again," I say suddenly, an unexpected certainty cutting through the fog of shock. "He was aiming at me. At our baby. I'd do it again."
Pride, relief, and a dark satisfaction that should disturb me flashes in Luca's eyes.
"I know," he says, reaching for the sponge Teresa abandoned. "That's why you're a Ravelli. That's why you will stand by me and become my queen as I claim the throne tomorrow."
***
After a night spent in Luca's arms—him holding me through the tremors that wracked my body as the adrenaline faded, through the moment when the reality of what I'd done finally broke through the shock—morning light spills through the curtains.
I dress carefully for breakfast, selecting a conservative black dress. Mourning attire, though what I'm mourning isn't entirely Vito.
Perhaps it's the final death of Bianca Sutton, hotel maid.
Perhaps it's the innocence I surrendered when I pulled that trigger.
Or perhaps, I just don't fucking know anymore.
"How are you feeling?" Luca asks, watching me apply concealer to the dark circles beneath my eyes.
"Tired," I answer honestly. "But... clearer, somehow."
He steps behind me, hands resting on my shoulders as we both stare into the mirror.
We make a striking pair, to be blunt.
We're both dark-haired, both with shadows in our eyes that weren't there when we first met. But where I once saw only differences between us, now I see similarities.
The capacity for violence. The will to protect what's ours. The acceptance of what this life demands.
"The official story is a heart attack," Luca says, eyes meeting mine in the reflection. "The oxygen tank malfunction was a tragic accident during his final moments. Matteo attempted to save him but fell down the stairs in his haste."
I nod, understanding the necessity of the fiction. A Don doesn't die from a bullet fired by his daughter-in-law. He dies with dignity, with his legacy intact.
"And Dante?"
Luca's grip tightens momentarily. "Still missing. Alessio has men searching, but he's gone to ground."
"With the Volkovs?"
"Most likely." He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "But that's a problem for another day. Today is about transitions of power. About establishing the new order."
I turn to face him fully, hands resting on my abdomen. "And what am I in this new order, Luca? Wife? Mother? Killer?"
"Queen," he says simply, covering my hands with his. "All of those things and more. The woman who stands beside me as we rebuild the Ravelli empire."
Luca takes my hand simply, and as if this is just another day, he leads me to breakfast.
The dining room in Luca's wing feels both too large and too intimate for the occasion. Teresa has outdone herself, laying out a spread fit for royalty—fresh pastries, fruits arranged like jewels, coffee steaming in delicate porcelain that once belonged to Elena.
But it's the people gathered around the table that make the scene surreal.
Nico sits to Luca's right, face carefully composed in the darkness of the day. Alessio stands by the door, ever vigilant, black suit impeccable despite the night's violence. And a few trusted captains—men whose loyalty was tested and confirmed in the chaos following Vito's death—occupy the remaining seats.
I take my place at Luca's left, feeling the weight of their gazes. Some curious, some assessing, all of them watchful.
"My father's passing marks the end of an era," Luca begins, voice steady and authoritative. "And the beginning of a new one."
Murmurs of agreement ripple around the table. No one mentions the absence of Dante. No one dares.
"The transition will be seamless," Luca continues. "Business continues as usual. Our partners will be informed of leadership changes through the appropriate channels."
Nico leans forward. "And the Volkovs? They'll see this as an opportunity."
Luca's smile is sharp enough to cut. "Let them. We are prepared."
The meeting continues, discussions of territory and business flowing around me as I sip tea that tastes like nothing. Words like "enforcement," "messaging," and "examples" float through the air, each carrying the weight of violence to come.
I should be horrified. I used to sit here and plan my escape from this world of casual brutality.
Today, the morning after I killed the most infamous mafia king to rule this continent, I find myself listening intently, absorbing the rhythms and rules of this new reality. Learning what it means to be the woman at Luca Ravelli's side.
The woman who killed to protect what's hers.
After breakfast, when the men have dispersed to carry out Luca's orders, Teresa finds me in the garden. I've been sitting here for almost an hour, watching bees drift lazily between flowers that will soon die with the approaching winter.
"You haven't eaten much today," she says, settling beside me on the stone bench. "The baby needs nourishment."
My hand drifts to my stomach. "I know. I'll try harder. Soon."
Teresa studies me. "You think you're the first woman in this family to do what was necessary?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"Elena Ravelli killed a man once. To protect Luca." Teresa's voice drops lower, though no one is near enough to hear. "He was eight years old. A rival family member broke into the estate, intending to kidnap Vito's heir as a form of punishment. Elena found the man in Luca's bedroom."
I stare at her, trying to imagine the woman from the portraits around the mansion. Someone so elegant, so refined committing such an act.
"What did she do?"
"She took a pair of scissors from her sewing basket and drove them through his eye." Teresa's voice remains matter-of-fact, though her eyes hold a distant memory. "Then she woke Luca, wrapped him in a blanket, and carried him to her room, never saying a word about what happened."
"Did Luca know?"
"Not until years later. After she died." Teresa reaches for my hand. "But that's the point, Bianca. Women in this family have always done what was needed to protect their own. Elena would be proud of what you did last night."
The words wash over me like a blessing. It's unexpected and… strangely comforting.
To be compared to Elena, the woman whose memory still holds such power over Luca, feels like an affirmation.
"I'm afraid," I admit, whispering into the slight breeze that hints at the season's changing. "Not of what I did. But of how... right it felt. In that moment, when I pulled the trigger, there was no hesitation. No doubt."
Teresa squeezes my hand. "That's not something to fear. It's something to understand. Don't forget… it's in your blood."
"You knew, didn't you?" I turn to face her fully. "About my Volkov blood?"
Teresa's fingers tighten around mine. Her other hand smooths an invisible wrinkle from her skirt.
"Yes." She meets my gaze directly. "I knew your father, Alexei. He was... different from the other Volkovs. Gentler, though no less dangerous when needed."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because, dear, knowledge is power in this world, and sometimes the safest place for power is in darkness." Her thumb traces circles on my palm, motherly and warning at once. "You've always had this in you, Bianca. The willingness to protect what's yours, whatever the cost. Luca saw it that first night in the hotel. I'm certain it's why he chose you, even if he didn't know it himself."
"I thought he chose me because I witnessed something I shouldn't have."
"Men like Luca eliminate witnesses," Teresa says simply. "They don't marry them."
***
Soon, night falls over the estate like a veil of mourning.
The mansion is quieter than usual, staff moving through corridors with hushed voices and downcast eyes. Not out of grief, because few will truly mourn Vito Ravelli, but out of respect for the rituals of the shift of power.
A Don has fallen. Another rises to take his place.
In our bedroom, Luca waits for me, seated in the armchair by the fireplace. Firelight dances across his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his face, the shadows beneath his eyes.
"Come here," he says, almost smiling.
I go to him without hesitation, allowing him to pull me onto his lap. His arms encircle me, one hand splaying protectively over my stomach.
"I have something for you," he says finally, reaching for a leather-bound book on the side table. "Something I think belongs to you now."
I take it from him, running my fingers over the worn cover. It's old, the leather soft with age and use, secured with a faded ribbon.
"What is it?"
"My mother's journal." His voice carries a weight I've rarely heard. "Her private thoughts. Her secrets. I've never read it."
My breath catches. "Luca, I can't—"
"You can. And perhaps more importantly, you should ." His lips brush my temple. "She would have wanted you to have it. The woman who saved her son. The woman carrying her grandchild."
Tears sting my eyes as I carefully untie the ribbon. The pages are yellowed, filled with elegant handwriting that flows across the paper like art. English mostly, with occasional passages in Italian.
I turn to the first entry, dated three months before Luca was born.
"I feel him moving inside me… this boy who will one day inherit his father's crown. If only one thing, I pray he inherits my heart. In this world of blood and shadow, he will need both strength and compassion to survive. To rule. To become the man I dream he can be."
I flip forward, scanning entries that chronicle Luca's early years—his first steps, his first words, moments of ordinary motherhood preserved in extraordinary circumstances.
Then, near the end, an entry dated just weeks before her death:
"What I do now, I do for my sons. For Luca especially, for he is so sensitive beneath the armor Vito forces upon him. I will protect him at any cost, even from his father's legacy. Even if that protection costs me everything. I know the risks. I accept them. In my time on God's earth, I have grown to know that a mother's love is the most dangerous force in this world… More lethal than any weapon, more binding than any oath. I only hope one day he finds someone who loves him with the same ferocity. Someone who will protect him when I no longer can."
The words blur through my tears. I close the journal, holding it against my chest like a talisman.
"She knew," I whisper. "She knew what might happen."
Luca's arms tighten around me. "Of course she did."
"And now I understand too." I turn in his lap to face him, one hand cupping his cheek. "What it means to protect someone at any cost. To become something dangerous for the sake of love."
His eyes darken with emotion as he covers my hand with his. "Yes."
In this moment, I feel a kinship with Elena Ravelli that transcends time and blood. A shared understanding of what it means to love a man shaped by violence, to carry his child, to kill for his protection.
To become reborn as something both terrifying and magnificent.
As I lean forward to press my lips to Luca's, I silently promise both him and the child growing inside me that I will be worthy of the legacy Elena left behind. That I will protect what's mine with the same fierce devotion.
Even if it means pulling the trigger again.
And again.
And again.