Page 40 of Crown of Blood

The suite is enormous—bedroom flowing into sitting room flowing into bathroom, all wrapped in black marble and dark wood, with ceilings so high my voice sometimes echoes when I speak. But the grandeur only amplifies the isolation. I'm a ghost here, haunting halls I don't belong in.

A soft knock breaks the silence. I don't answer, but the door opens anyway. Teresa appears, arms laden with fresh towels and a garment bag.

"You're awake." Not a question. Teresa doesn't ask questions. She observes, decides, and acts. "Good. We have much to do today."

I push myself up against the pillows. "What's the occasion?"

"Brunch." She lays out the towels with military precision. "The family is gathering. You're expected to attend."

My stomach knots. The "family" means more than just Luca and his brothers—it means the inner circle of the Ravelli empire. Men with blood-crusted knuckles and women with diamond-sharp smiles.

"I'm not feeling well."

Teresa's mouth tightens. "That wasn't a request, Mrs. Ravelli."

The title still feels foreign—a name that belongs to someone else. Someone stronger. Someone who wasn't cleaning hotel rooms two weeks ago.

"Fine." I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, the cool marble floor shocking against my bare feet. "What am I wearing to this performance?"

Teresa unzips the garment bag to reveal a cream-colored dress, simple but clearly expensive. "Mr. Ravelli chose it himself."

Of course he did. Even when absent, Luca controls every aspect of my existence. What I wear. Where I go. Who I speak to.

For the past two weeks, I've been kept primarily in Luca's wing of the mansion. At first, I thought it was protection—a buffer between me and the world of violence and power I'd been thrust into. Now I realize it's isolation. A quarantine to keep the outsider contained.

I've seen glimpses of the other women who orbit the Ravelli family. Dante's girlfriend, with her model-thin frame and calculating eyes. The wives of associates, dripping in jewels and secrets. The household staff, who avert their gaze whenever I enter a room.

None of them speak to me. They whisper, though. I catch fragments—civilian... knows nothing... won't last...

It shouldn't sting—being shut out, being whispered about.

I've been alone before. I've spent years visiting a mother who no longer remembered my name. She hadn't said 'Bianca' since the winter I turned twenty-one, and for a while, I stopped going because it hurt too much. Even when I started again, it was never the same—just monthly visits filled with one-sided conversations and crushing guilt.

At least in the Ravelli mansion, the silence is deliberate. There's honesty in that.

Teresa leads me to the bathroom, running water for a bath that steams with oils and rose petals. Another ritual in the daily choreography of my new life.

"I can do this myself," I mutter.

She ignores me, testing the water with practiced efficiency. "Your husband returns this morning."

My pulse jumps, a betrayal I can't control. "Business trip?"

Teresa's lips curve, a secret caught between them. "Something like that."

I sink into the bath, letting the heat seep into my bones. Teresa disappears, leaving me with my thoughts and the flower petals that cling to my skin like memories.

Luca has been gone for three days—vanished without explanation, leaving only the ghost of his cologne on the pillows. This isn't unusual. He comes and goes like a storm, violent and unpredictable. Sometimes he returns with blood on his knuckles. Sometimes with new contracts in his briefcase. Always with hunger in his eyes when he finds me.

And I've learned to wait. To expect nothing. To find small freedoms in the spaces between his presence.

I close my eyes and slide deeper, letting the water cover my ears, my nose, until only my face remains above the surface. If I stay here long enough, maybe I can dissolve. Become nothing more than steam and perfumed oil.

But the water grows cold, and reality returns.

Teresa helps me dress with quick, impersonal touches. The cream dress fits perfectly, hugging my curves before flowing out just above the knee. My hair falls in loose waves over my shoulders—the way Luca prefers it.

"The others," I begin, voice hesitant, "the women here... do they ever speak to you?"

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