Page 94 of Crown of Blood

Despite living in fear that I try to hide, I've stopped running. Stopped fighting what I've become. There's a certain freedom in surrender, I've discovered. Not to Luca, exactly, but to the truth of who I am in this new reality.

Mrs. Ravelli. A queen in a kingdom built on bones.

The morning light filters through heavy curtains as I sit at my vanity, brushing my hair with Elena Ravelli's old brush that Luca gifted me one morning.

The woman in the mirror looks like me, but somehow different. Harder around the edges these days. More deliberate in her movements.

Three sharp knocks at the door interrupt my thoughts.

"Yes," I call, setting down the brush.

Teresa appears in the doorway, her face grave. "Mrs. Ravelli. I'm terribly sorry to interrupt, but you have been summoned."

I turn to face her fully, collecting the brush to continue. "Luca's home?"

Teresa shakes her head. "Summoned by Vito."

The brush slips from my fingers, clattering against the wood. In all my time in this mansion, Vito Ravelli has never requested my presence without Luca as intermediary. The idea of it send ice through my veins.

"When?"

"Now." Teresa moves further into the room, closing the door behind her. "He requests you join him for tea in his private sitting room."

"Does Luca know?" I ask, rising from the vanity.

Teresa's hesitation tells me everything. "Mr. Ravelli is... occupied. With matters concerning Dante's men."

"So, no." I move to my closet, mind racing. "What does Vito want with me?"

Teresa follows, her hands clasped tightly before her. "I cannot say for certain. But Bianca—" She rarely uses my first name—none of them do—and the sound of it stops me in my tracks. "Tread carefully. The Don is... not himself these days. Pain and medication make his mind wander to dangerous territories."

Her warning is clear, yet deliberately vague. Whatever game Vito is playing, Teresa knows more than she's saying.

"Help me dress," I tell her, shifting into the role of Ravelli wife with ease. "Something appropriate for tea with the devil."

Forty minutes later, I stand before Vito's private sitting room, dressed in a simple black sheath that covers me from neck to knee. Conservative, elegant, armored.

Exactly how Luca would want me.

My hair is swept back in a smooth chignon, the Ravelli crest hanging at my throat like a talisman.

The guards flanking the door eye me with barely concealed curiosity. The civilian bride, summoned alone to the dragon's lair.

"Mrs. Ravelli," one acknowledges, opening the door without further comment.

The sitting room beyond is nothing like I expected.

Where Luca's spaces are all dark woods and leather, masculine power made tangible, Vito's private sanctuary is almost... delicate. Pale blue walls. Antique furniture with curved legs and gold leaf detailing. Watercolor landscapes in ornate frames.

It's a room that has been designed by someone else.

Someone long gone.

Vito himself sits in a wingback chair by the window, oxygen tank at his side, a cashmere blanket draped across his lap despite the warmth of the day. Age and illness have hollowed him, leaving behind a sketch of the powerful man he once was.

But his eyes... those are as sharp as ever. Cold and calculating beneath heavy lids.

"Ah, the blushing bride," he says, voice raspy but clear. "Come closer, my dear. My eyesight isn't what it used to be."

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