Page 62 of Crown of Blood

"We have a situation, sir," Matteo's voice comes through, careful and measured as always. "The Albanians are short on their payment. Again."

I lean back in my leather chair, fingers tapping against the armrest.

This is the third time in as many months that Arben Behar has failed to deliver. The first time, I sent a warning—a finger from one of his lieutenants delivered to his breakfast table. The second time, Dante paid him a visit that left three of his men in the hospital—two with shattered femurs, one with a fractured spine. They could start a wheelchair league with my father at this point. Hell, maybe even give him a run for his money.

This time requires a personal touch.

"How much?"

"Two hundred thousand," Matteo responds. "They claim supply chain issues, but our sources indicate they're diverting funds to expand into Kensington."

West London. My territory. My fucking streets.

"Set up a meeting," I say, voice deceptively calm. "Tonight. The usual location."

"Sir." Matteo pauses. "Perhaps Dante would be better suited—"

"No. I said I'd handle it."

"Very well. Eight o'clock. I'll make the arrangements."

I end the call, setting the phone down with a heavy sigh. The Rotterdam documents can wait. This payment issue—thisdisrespect—cannot.

A soft knock interrupts my thoughts. The door opens, and Bianca appears, dressed in a simple black sweater and dark jeans. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, and there's a restlessness in her movements that I've come to recognize over the past week.

"I'm going to lose my mind if I stay in this house another day," she announces without preamble.

I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. My little rabbit, still defiant despite everything.

"Is that so?"

She approaches my desk, perching on the edge of it like she belongs there. Like this space, my private domain, is as much hers as it is mine.

And fuck it—maybe it is.

"Luca," she says, her voice dropping to that tone that somehow bypasses all my defenses. "Please. I need air that doesn't taste like these walls."

I study her face. There's no fear there anymore. Just determination and a yearning for more than the gilded cage I've built around her.

"Actually," I say, rising from my chair. "As it turns out, I have business in the city tonight. Perhaps you'd like to accompany me."

Her eyes light up before suspicion narrows them. "What kind of business?"

"The kind that reminds people why the Ravelli name carries weight." I move around the desk, coming to stand before her. "The kind that might shock a hotel maid."

She doesn't flinch at the reference to her former life. Instead, she lifts her chin, meeting my gaze directly.

"I'm not that girl anymore, am I?"

No. She's not. She's something far more dangerous. A woman who's beginning to understand her own power in my world.

"Get dressed," I tell her, fingers tracing the line of her jaw. "Something elegant but practical. We leave in an hour."

Her smile is like a knife. Beautiful, sharp, and all the more dangerous for how much I want to feel it against my skin.

***

The Bentley glides through London's evening traffic, its bulletproof windows tinted to obscurity. Bianca sits beside me in the back seat, a vision in a fitted black dress that hugs her sexy fucking ass, her hair swept up in an elegant twist that exposes the pale column of her throat.

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