Page 46 of Crown of Blood

The table falls silent again, all eyes carefully avoiding Luca's. I wonder, briefly, what "permanently" means in this context. Then decide I'd rather not know.

One of the wives—Alessandra, I think, married to the Corsican—leans forward, diamonds glinting at her throat. "Bianca, that dress is simply divine. Teresa's choice, I assume? She always had a knack for dressing Elena appropriately."

The name drops like a stone into still water. Elena. Luca's mother. The comparison isn't subtle.

Luca's hand finds my thigh under the table, squeezing once in warning.

"Actually," I say with a smile that doesn't reach my eyes, "Luca chose it himself."

Alessandra's perfectly sculpted eyebrows rise a fraction. "How... involved of him."

"My wife deserves my attention in all things," Luca says, voice carrying easily across the table without being raised. "A lesson some might benefit from."

The Corsican stiffens, but says nothing. His wife's smile freezes in place.

I notice how Matteo shifts his weight when Elena's name is mentioned—a minute tell, but there nonetheless. And how Nico's eyes cut to the empty chair at the head of the table, then back to Luca, calculating something I can't decipher.

"Speaking of attention," Nico says, setting his espresso down with barely a sound, "have we heard from our friends across the river? After that unfortunate incident last week?"

"What incident?" I ask before I can stop myself.

The table goes still. I've violated an unspoken rule—don't ask questions about business. Especially not in front of others.

Luca's fingers press into my thigh again, but his face betrays nothing. "A minor disagreement over territory," he says smoothly. "Nothing for you to concern yourself with,cara."

"Oh, I wouldn't call it minor," Dante drawls, leaning forward. "Someone testing boundaries is never minor. Especially when they do it so... deliberately."

"Perhaps they need a reminder of what happens to those who cross us," says the Amsterdam connection, speaking for the first time. His accent is thick, his meaning thicker.

Nico smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Remember the Beneventi family? Three brothers, much like us, who thought they could expand into Ravelli territory." He looks directly at me as he continues. "None of them saw the end of that week. The youngest was fed to the furnace below Vito’s old mill. Took Matteo three hours to scrape his teeth from the grate.”

I don't flinch. Don't look away. "How creative."

Luca's lips curve slightly—approval, perhaps, for not showing weakness.

"Creativity has its place," he says, "but I prefer efficiency. Clean. Final." His voice drops. "One shot. One message."

The threat hangs in the air, clear to everyone listening. This isn't about some past vendetta. This is about now. About whoever dared challenge them recently.

A maid appears to clear the fruit plates, replacing them with poached eggs nestled on beds of smoked salmon. The domestic ritual continues despite the undercurrent of violence beneath every word.

I notice a young woman seated beside one of the lieutenants—new, perhaps, or just quiet. Her eyes meet mine across the table, and something passes between us. Not quite sympathy, not quite warning. Recognition, maybe. Of being an outsider in this world of blood and power.

She looks away quickly when her companion places a possessive hand on her wrist.

"Vito asked about you this morning," Matteo says to Luca, changing the subject again. "He'd like to see you after brunch."

I feel Luca tense beside me, though nothing shows on his face. "Of course."

"He asked about Bianca again, as well, sir," Matteo adds, eyes carefully neutral. "Seems quite interested in your new bride, but I'm sure he's just making sure she's settling in just fine."

Dante snorts. "Father's always had an eye for beautiful women."

"Father's interest is in family stability," Luca counters, voice sharp. "Something you might consider before your next indiscretion with the Volkov's escort."

Dante's knuckles whiten around his glass.

I listen carefully, noting the strange silence when Vito's name comes up. The way everyone watches Luca and Nico, as if measuring them against each other. The careful distance Matteo keeps from Dante.

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