Page 36 of Crown of Blood

I slip from the sheets like a shadow, practiced in the art of silence. Years of careful training by my father make even my breaths soundless as I stand beside the bed, watching her.

Bianca curls into the warm hollow I leave behind, seeking me even in sleep. Her lips part on an exhale, dark lashes fluttering against pale cheeks.

The bruise on her neck looks bad.

But it's not just about marking her anymore.

I want to build walls around her. Keep the sun from touching her skin unless I allow it. Shield her from every threat in my blood-soaked world.

My father's labored breathing in the cathedral echoes in my mind - the wet, rattling sound of death claiming what was once untouchable. The great Vito Ravelli, reduced to fucking wheelchairs, oxygen tanks and morphine drips.

I trace the curve of Bianca's shoulder.

My new wife doesn't understand the precipice we stand on. How the vultures circle, waiting for my father's last breath. Dante thinks brute force will win him the crown. Nico plays both sides, as always.

And here I am, with a civilian bride who heard too much.

My fingers find the Ravelli ring on her hand. The same ring my mother wore before they gunned her down. I was fifteen, covered in her blood, when she whispered her last words: "The throne will be yours, my son. When you are ready, take it. Take it, andownit."

Now, with Bianca, I finally can.

The old alliances are fracturing. Our territory bleeds at the edges. But I see the path forward - through legitimate business, strategic marriages, calculated violence.

Not with Dante's brass-knuckled chaos or Nico's double-dealing games.

These thoughts are poison. Weakness I can't afford in these dark times. But they burn through my veins anyway as I draw the sheet over Bianca's bare shoulders, tucking the silk around her like armor.

My lips brush her forehead, barely a touch. She sighs, turning into it, and that small gesture of trust splits me open.

Mine to own. Mine to shield.

I'll never tell her any of this. These thoughts die in the dark where they belong. The moment I admit how deeply she's burrowed under my skin is the moment someone will try to use her against me.

I'll burn this city to ash before I let that happen.

Leaving her behind, I move like a ghost through my own kingdom.

The Ravelli estate swallows even the smallest of sounds. A deliberate design choice my grandfather made when he built these walls with blood money. The thick carpets in the hallways absorb my footsteps as I see the darkness in the sky outside begin to lighten.

Cold marble replaces plush wool as I descend the grand staircase. The chill seeps through my bare feet, a familiar sensation that grounds me every morning. The portraits of Ravelli patriarchs watch from golden frames, their painted eyes following my movements with judgment etched in oil and canvas.

Two guards stand at attention as I pass the entrance to the east wing. They nod silently, eyes forward, hands clasped behind their backs. Their weapons remain hidden but accessible. The way father trained them the moment they swore to protect our family at all costs.

"Sir." The acknowledgment comes in a whisper as I pass Alessio, who materializes from the shadows near my father's study. He holds a tablet displaying security feeds, but knows better than to speak further unless addressed.

The mansion breathes around me—the gentle hum of climate control, the distant click of a door closing somewhere in the west wing, the faint scent of gunmetal and leather that never quite leaves these walls.

A maid sees me approaching and flattens herself against the wall, eyes downcast. The massive crystal chandelier above casts fractured light across her face.

She's new. Afraid. As she should be.

The main kitchen in the middle of the estate is Teresa's domain. I smell espresso before I enter. The scent mingles with freshly baked bread and the faint metallic undertone that permeates every corner of this house.

Teresa stands at the marble island, her back straight as a blade. The morning light is brighter in here, shining down through bulletproof windows, catching on the silver in Teresa's hair. She doesn't turn when I enter, but a cup slides across the counter toward me.

"Your father is awake," she says, pouring the dark liquid into a demitasse cup.

I take the espresso.

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