Page 89 of Crown of Blood

Tonight, unable to bear another evening alone in our wing, I decide to find him. To face whatever darkness has consumed the man who claimed me, marked me, made me his in every way that matters.

The mansion is eerily quiet as I slip through corridors I shouldn't know, using paths Teresa has unwillingly shown me after dragging me back where I belong.

The black robe I wear whispers against my skin with each step, its hem brushing the marble floors beneath my bare feet.

A sound stops me—low, guttural, barely human.

A scream, choked off mid-cry.

It comes from below, from spaces in this mansion I've never been permitted to enter. The bowels of the Ravelli empire where business too grim for even the red room takes place.

I shouldn't go toward that sound. Every instinct screams to retreat, to return to the safety of our wing, to pretend I heard nothing. But the same curiosity that drove me to explore Vito's study now pulls me forward, toward the source of that aborted agony.

A narrow staircase leads downward, hidden behind a panel that stands slightly ajar—someone's carelessness, or perhaps fate offering a window into the reality I've chosen to marry.

I descend slowly, each step a decision I can't unmake.

The basement level is nothing like the opulent mansion above. Concrete floors. Exposed pipes overhead. Harsh fluorescent lighting that leaves nowhere to hide.

It's utilitarian, designed for function rather than beauty. For cleaning blood, not displaying wealth.

Another cry echoes from behind a heavy metal door at the end of the corridor. My heart hammers against my ribs as I approach, moving on silent feet, drawn by a morbid need to witness the truth.

Again, the door isn't fully closed. A thin strip of light spills through the gap, along with the sound of labored breathing and low, murmured threats.

I shouldn't look. I know I shouldn't look.

But I do.

The room beyond is a nightmare made flesh.

Concrete floor sloping toward a central drain. Plastic sheeting covering the walls. Tools arranged with meticulous care on a stainless steel table—pliers, knives, hammers… things I don't recognize and don't want to understand.

In the center stands Luca.

My husband. My captor. My lover.

He's stripped to the waist, tattoos glistening with sweat and something darker that drips from his forearms. His back, a canvas of intricate ink and old scars, flexes as he raises his arm again.

Before him, a man hangs suspended from chains bolted to the ceiling. His face is unrecognizable—a swollen mass of purple flesh and congealed blood. Several fingers bend at unnatural angles.

"Let's try again," Luca says, voice terrifyingly calm as he selects a pair of pliers from the table. "Who ordered it? Who told you to open my mother's grave?"

The man's head lolls forward, a string of bloody saliva connecting his split lips to the floor.

"I told you," he rasps. "Dante gave the order. Said…said it would draw you out. Make you sloppy."

Luca moves, pressing the pliers against the man's ear. "And Vito? Did my father know?"

"No. I swear. Dante works alone. Please—"

The pliers close. The man's scream fills the room, high and animal-like, as Luca tears away a chunk of flesh. Blood pours down the side of his head, joining the growing puddle beneath his feet.

I clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle my gasp. Luca stiffens, his head turning slightly toward the door. Toward me.

I press back against the wall beside the doorway, heart threatening to burst from my chest. If he finds me here...

"Luca."

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