3. Chapter One #2
I end the call before he can respond, setting the phone aside as I continue studying the Castellano woman. Francesca, according to the file Vladimir has sent. Twenty-six. Educated at the Sorbonne. Her father's favorite and only daughter.
The perfect bride for the true Ravelli heir.
When Marco returns to the room, I'm still staring at her image, something I refuse to name stirring beneath my interest.
"Sir… judging by that look we are to complete the final preparations? For the penthouse?"
"Yes." I lean back in my chair, envisioning the space.
My private sanctuary. The cage I'm preparing for my little mafia princess.
"The master suite needs specific modifications," I tell him, each word dragging as months of planning finally begins. "Remove the existing bed. Replace it with the custom frame from Milan… the one with the reinforced posts."
Marco makes notes on his tablet, face impressively neutral. He's been with me long enough to understand without needing explicit details.
"I trust you got the restraints from Tokyo," I continue. "Have them installed. The black leather set, not the rope." I pause, remembering the fire in Francesca's eyes. "And the Saint Andrew's cross against the east wall."
"Yes, sir." Marco's fingers tap across the screen. "The surveillance system?"
"Cameras in every room except the bathroom. But audio recording everywhere." A predatory smile curves my lips. "I want my security team to hear every sound she makes."
I rise, crossing to the window to watch rain lash the London skyline. My territory. My hunting grounds.
"The walk-in closet should be stocked with appropriate clothing. All black. All my taste." Another pause. "Size four, if the file is accurate. Include lingerie, but not the kind that tears easily. I want to work for the gifts she brings me."
Marco clears his throat. "And security protocols?"
"The usual. Reinforced doors. Biometric locks keyed only to my fingerprints.
Windows sealed and bulletproofed." I turn to face him.
"The suite will be both sanctuary and prison.
Comfortable enough that my bride doesn't break too quickly, secure enough that she never questions who controls her world. "
Marco nods and taps at the screen of his notes. "And finally, sir, the package for your brother? Is it ready?"
I look to the ring on my hand. Something cold and certain settles in my chest. "Not yet. Leave me to finish."
He obeys my command as I move slowly to my desk, then remove my jacket, rolling up my sleeve.
My own signet ring glints in the low light, the one that is identical to my brother's, commissioned in secret after Vito refused to have a matching one made for me.
"There is to be one ring," he'd told me. "One heir. That's tradition, Dante."
I place my hand flat on the desk, spreading my fingers wide. From my pocket, I withdraw a blade that I've specially chosen, specially sharpened for this task.
"Blood recognizes blood," I murmur to the empty room. "And a Ravelli knows the price of power. To you, the Lord as my witness, I make the ultimate sacrifice."
The first cut is precise, a curved stroke around the base of my finger where the ring sits snug against my skin. Blood wells immediately, running in rivulets across my palm and onto the wooden table beneath.
I don't flinch.
I welcome the pain.
Pain makes men like me thrive, and if I'm to claim what's truthfully mine, the throne that will give me complete power across the continent… then I need to do more than thrive.
I need to rule.
With blood.
My face remains impassive as I continue, separating skin from metal. The pain is clarifying, a focus point that burns away doubt and weakness as I cut my own flesh in a symbol my brother will recognize all too well.
This is the difference between Luca and me. My brother inherited his crown.
I will carve mine from my own flesh.
By the time I slide the ring free, my hand is slick with blood, the wound a raw, pulsing point. I wrap it quickly in a cloth, stemming the flow without addressing the damage.
There will be time for that later.
The ring, now coated in my blood, goes into the velvet box alongside a handwritten note:
To the False King. Your throne is built on sand. Your queen carries poisoned blood. Your heir will never wear this crown. The true Ravelli will claim what's his. Blood will have blood. —Dante
I seal the box despite the throbbing pain pulsing around my hands, then press the intercom.
"Sir?" Marco's voice answers immediately.
"I have the delivery for my brother," I say, a smile curving my lips despite the agony radiating from my mutilated hand. "Ensure it reaches him personally."
"Yes, sir. Anything else?"
I glance once more at the photograph of Francesca Castellano, her defiant eyes staring back at me from the tablet screen.
I imagine those eyes widening in fear when she's brought to my safehouse. Imagine breaking that defiance, bending it to my will until fear transforms to need, resistance to surrender.
Nothing about her capture will be safe.
My cock stirs at the thought. It's been too long since I've had a worthy adversary in my bed. Too long since I've felt the sweet surrender of someone fighting their own desires.
"Tell our Volkov friends I accept their offering," I reply, anticipation threading through the pain. "The Castellano princess will make an excellent bride for the true Ravelli heir."
As Marco's footsteps fade, I watch the blood seep through my makeshift bandage, turning the white cloth red. Just like the Ravelli empire will run red before I'm finished. Just like my brother's perfect life will crumble beneath my hands.
Luca plays at being king, but he doesn't understand sacrifice.
I do. I always have.
And I've only just begun to show him what I'm willing to bleed for.