27. Chapter Twenty-Five #2
"Our world is too dangerous right now," I argue.
"Look at what just happened. The Volkovs, Nico's betrayal, the constant threats from all sides.
.." I pause, the weight of reality tempering the momentary fantasy.
"I wouldn't want to bring a child into this chaos. That's not fair on an innocent life."
She lifts her head to study my face, her expression somewhere between amusement and tenderness. "Listen to you. Dante Ravelli, concerned about a hypothetical child's wellbeing. You've gone soft."
I growl at that, my hand tightening possessively on her hip. "I'm many things, princess, but 'soft' has never been among them. As I'll gladly demonstrate when these stitches come out."
Her laugh vibrates against my chest. "Promise?"
Before I can respond, a tentative knock at the door interrupts us. Francesca calls out permission to enter, already shifting to a more proper position beside me.
Antonio appears in the doorway, his face still bearing the marks of his ordeal but significantly improved from the barely conscious man we extracted from the Volkov dungeon. He leans heavily on a cane, but manages to stand upright.
"Sorry to interrupt," he says, his good eye taking in our positions on the bed. "We heard voices and Maria insisted I bring you both some broth. She says it's ' healing .'"
Francesca rises to take the tray from him, helping him to the chair she vacated. "You should be resting too."
"I've been in that bed for three days," he replies with a grimace. "I needed to move before I lost my mind."
I study Antonio Castellano, this man who was tortured nearly to death because of his connection to my wife and my brother.
Despite his injuries, I see the same fierce intelligence that distinguishes Francesca. The Castellano trait that makes them both dangerous and valuable allies plain for all to see.
"You're looking better," I observe, accepting the bowl of broth Francesca passes to me.
"Better than you," Antonio retorts with surprising spirit. "Though neither of us will win beauty contests anytime soon."
His gaze shifts to his sister, then back to me. "I owe you my life, Ravelli. I won't forget it."
The acknowledgment comes out almost… begrudgingly. But sincerely, too.
I incline my head, accepting the debt without comment.
"What were they after?" I ask instead, cutting to the heart of matters. "Beyond using you as bait for Nico?"
Antonio's expression darkens. "Information. About Nico's operation. About the routes he's built, the connections he's made." He shifts in the chair, wincing at the movement. "They wanted every detail, and they were... thorough in their methods."
Francesca's hand finds mine on the bedcovers, squeezing gently. I know she's imagining the torture her brother endured, the pain inflicted to extract information.
"Tell me about Nico's approach to you," I press, needing to understand the full scope of my youngest brother's betrayal. "When did it start?"
Antonio sighs, the sound weighted with pain both physical and remembered. "Four months ago."
I look to Francesca. She nods as if she's reading my mind.
Four months ago Vito was killed. The timing of his approach is no coincidence.
"He came to my office in London," Antonio continues. "Very official, very proper. Presented a business proposal for exclusive shipping routes through Castellano maritime holdings."
"And you refused," Francesca states, knowing her brother's loyalty to their father's organization.
"I did." Antonio's jaw tightens. "But not before I saw enough of his operation to understand what he was building. It was... impressive, if not darkly criminal. He'd figured out how to siphon product from both Ravelli and Volkov shipments, creating his own supply chain using your infrastructure."
Pride and anger war within me at this description. The strategic mind it would take to build such an operation right under our noses... it's the kind of bold move I might have made in his position.
My half-brother, the quiet one, the bookish one, playing us all.
"Did he tell you why?" I ask, leaning forward despite the pain in my shoulder. "Why risk everything? Why betray both families?"
Antonio's gaze meets mine directly. "He said he was tired of living in shadows. Tired of being the spare, the afterthought. Said he wanted freedom on his own terms, not scraps from either brother's table."
The words strike with precision, finding the exact point of understanding between us.
Haven't I felt the same?
Haven't I raged against being Luca's shadow?
My father's second choice?
"I understand he's still your brother," Antonio adds quietly. "Despite everything, blood ties mean something in our world."
I feel Francesca's attention sharpen beside me, watching my reaction. She knows the complexity of my feelings toward my brothers—the rivalry with Luca, the dismissal of Nico as a factor in our power struggle.
"Blood hasn't exactly proven reliable in my family history," I reply, echoing words Francesca once spoke to me.
A silent moment of deep thought grips the room, then my phone vibrates on the nightstand, the screen lighting with an encrypted message.
Francesca reaches for it, passing it to me without looking at the contents. When I see the sender identification, something cold settles in my chest.
"Speaking of the traitor, it's Nico," I announce.
I open the message, my expression carefully controlled as I read:
Brother. You need to believe me. They weren't supposed to take Antonio. This wasn't part of the plan. We'll talk when you're back in London. Together, we can work this out.
I hand the phone to Francesca, watching her reaction as she reads my brother's words.
"He wants to negotiate," she observes, looking up from the screen. "After everything he's done."
"He's desperate," I correct her. "The Volkovs are hunting him, I'm after his blood, and Luca would happily sacrifice him to maintain his own position. He's been caught, and he's running out of options."
Antonio shifts forward in his chair. "What will you do?"
The question isn't simple. Vito Ravelli would have ordered immediate execution for such betrayal. Clean, efficient, without hesitation.
But if there is one thing I have learned since the woman beside me has claimed my heart, it's that…
I am not my father.
"First," I say, setting the phone aside, "I heal. We all heal. We take a week to recover. Then we return to London and we stay focused."
I look between them with a hard glare.
"We stay on track. We gain the throne I've worked hard to get, then, and only then, will we retaliate. Once we have full power, we show the Volkovs exactly what happens when they make this personal."
Francesca's eyes meet mine, understanding the layers beneath my words. The plans already forming in my mind.
"But first, we leverage Dominguez's ports to restart cash flow while Sophia works on fixing the frozen accounts.
The connections we made in Paris will now prove invaluable.
Jacques Beaumont's French shipping routes combined with our new Spanish holdings will create a stranglehold on Mediterranean trade. "
It's all Ravelli territory now, but judging by the looks on their faces, I don't even need to say that.
I continue revealing the final plan that I've been working on for months. "The Iranian syndicate promised support during the masquerade; time to call in that favor. Their shipyard gives us the entire eastern channel, perfect for bypassing Volkov territory."
Each piece slots into place: territory, alliances, finances. Everything I've been fighting for.
The throne isn't just within reach - it's practically mine.
And unlike Luca, I won't waste it playing at being legitimate. The empire will run on blood and fear, as it always should have.
I glance at Francesca, her presence a reminder that not everything requires violence. Sometimes the most effective weapon is a carefully placed word, a strategic alliance. She's taught me that much.
"And Nico?" she asks softly.
I think of the brother I knew—the quiet one, the peacemaker, the one who always stood between Luca and me.
"We listen to what he has to say. Nico can earn his place back," I decide. "Or, if the betrayal is too deep, he joins the ranks of those who underestimated me."
The declaration settles over the room.
Antonio nods once, recognizing the brutal fairness of this position. Francesca's hand squeezes mine again, a silent acknowledgment of the weight such decisions carry.
"Rest now," she tells her brother, rising to help him stand. "I'll bring you back to your room."
As they move toward the door, I call out to Antonio. "Castellano."
He turns, eyebrow raised.
"Your sister wears my blood vial around her neck. Your family name has been replaced with mine. But that doesn't mean you're without protection." The declaration comes from somewhere deeper than strategy. "You're family now, Antonio. Remember that."
His tired eyes brighten and he nods with a stern tilt of his head. "Noted, Ravelli."
As he passes through the door, Francesca looks at me with a smile, muttering the words 'thank you' as she leaves the room.