Page 70 of Crown of Blood

"Is that so?" I ask, helping Bianca from the car. "Any particular reason?"

Teresa's lips curve into the faintest hint of a smile. "The Rossini shipment arrived this afternoon. The '82 Barolo you've been waiting for." She pauses, glancing at Bianca. "And I thought Mrs. Ravelli might appreciate something... private tonight."

I nod once, understanding the unspoken message. Teresa has sensed the shift between us, the fragile thread of trust forming in this web of secrets and blood.

"Mrs. Ravelli needs to change," I tell her, my hand finding the small of Bianca's back.

"Already attended to, sir." Teresa inclines her head. "The midnight gown is laid out in your suite."

Bianca's eyes dart between us, catching the undercurrents. "I don't need—"

"Yes, you do," I interrupt, guiding her toward the stairs. "We both do. Tonight is for us,cara mia. The rest can wait until morning."

An hour later, I step onto the terrace and see that Teresa has indeed outdone herself.

The garden glows with candles nestled in glass hurricanes, their flames dancing in the night breeze. White roses spill from antique silver vases, their scent heavy in the air—the same flowers that covered my mother's casket fifteen years ago.

Whether this is Teresa's tribute or warning, I can't decide.

A single table stands centered on the stone patio, draped in black silk, set with the Ravelli china that only emerges for occasions meant to impress. Crystal gleams under moonlight. Silver catches flame. Wine breathes in cut-glass decanters.

It's a stage set for seduction, for confession, for claiming.

And Bianca… my wife, my obsession… sits across from me, lost in thought as she traces the rim of her wineglass with one finger. Her skin glows golden in the candlelight, the shadows accentuating the elegant curve of her neck, the fullness of her lips.

She's changed from the outfit she wore to visit her mother.

Now she's draped in midnight blue silk, a dress Teresa selected that bares her shoulders and clings to every curve. The Ravelli crest hangs at her throat, nestled in the hollow where her pulse beats visibly.

My mind returns to Marina Sutton's strange reaction when she saw me. The flash of recognition, the fear in her eyes, the warning to her daughter about men with wolf eyes.

They weren't the ramblings of a confused mind, but something deeper. Something that threatens to connect Bianca to my world in ways I'm only beginning to understand.

"You're quiet," I observe, pouring more wine into her glass. Barolo, aged thirty years—older than either of us. Blood-dark against crystal.

Her eyes flick up to mine. Those eyes that hooked me in that hotel hallway, defiant even in terror. Now they hold something deeper. Something that makes my pulse quicken.

"I'm thinking about what my mother said." She takes a sip of wine, leaving a crimson stain on her lips that I want to taste. "About them finding me."

I set the decanter down, careful to keep my expression neutral. "You think she meant your father?"

"Maybe." Her finger traces patterns on the tablecloth. "She's never said anything about him before. Not once in my entire life."

"And now she recognizes something in a Ravelli," I add, watching her reaction carefully. "Interesting timing."

Her eyes narrow slightly, but she doesn't push. Instead, she changes direction, taking me by surprise.

"What was it like?" she asks, voice softer. "Growing up here, surrounded by all this."

The question catches me off-guard. No one asks about my childhood. It's assumed to be what one would expect for the heir to a criminal empire—privileged, calculated, cold.

"Structured," I answer finally. "Every hour planned. Training before sunrise. Languages. Combat. Business. My father believed in preparation above all else."

"And your mother?"

Something tightens in my chest. "Elena was... different. She'd smuggle books to my room. Poetry. Philosophy. Things Vito considered useless." I find myself smiling faintly at the memory. "She'd take me into these gardens when I was small, teach me the names of every flower in Italian. Said a man should know beauty as intimately as he knows violence."

Bianca watches me intently, like she's collecting these fragments of my past and storing them away.

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