Page 98 of Crown of Blood

"Luca has returned," Teresa says gently.

I turn toward the door, hand unconsciously moving to my abdomen once more. Whatever revelations this day has brought—about my father, about Vito's manipulations, about the life growing inside me—they fade to background noise as I prepare to face my husband.

The man I've chosen, for better or worse.

The monster I've somehow come to love.

The father of my child.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Luca

Bloodsingsinmyveins as I stride through the mansion corridors, each footfall heavy with purpose and rage. The recording burns in my pocket like a live coal—fifteen years of suspicion finally crystallized into irrefutable proof.

I'd been in the warehouse district in South London again, extracting confessions from what remained of Dante's loyal soldiers, when my contact finally delivered the audio file.

My hands were still wet with another man's blood when Teresa's message came through—Bianca had been summoned by my father. Alone. I'd barely taken time to clean the worst of the evidence from my skin before racing back to the estate.

But I knew Dante's men would eventually crack.

And now I have it.

The cold brutality of my father's voice. The hitman's confession. My mother's murder laid bare in digital precision.

The pieces that never fit now lock together with sickening clarity. Not the Volkovs. Not rival families. Not external threats that could be hunted and exterminated.

Vito Ravelli. My father. The architect of my mother's death.

The audio plays again in my mind as I climb the grand staircase toward my wing. The hitman's gravelly voice, recorded shortly before his own convenient 'suicide' in prison:

"Vito gave the order himself. Said Elena was planning to leave, to take the children with her. The Don couldn't have that—not the heirs. Told me to make it look like the Volkovs were responsible. Make it public. Messy. A message that looks like it came from outside."

From the outside. The perfect cover.

My father's perfect lie—one I've believed for a time, one I've built my life around before growing suspect. It's the lie that shaped me into the man I am, the monster who carved his brand into a innocent woman's skin and claimed her as salvation.

The recording continues, each word etching deeper grooves of hatred into my soul:

"He wanted the boy to see it. Said it would make him stronger."

The lesson worked. I never leave what's mine. I never let go.

I own. I keep. I protect.

Or I destroy.

The doors to my wing swing open under my touch, the familiar scent of leather and rose water washing over me. Home, or the closest thing to it I've known since blood splashed across cathedral steps.

"Mr. Ravelli." Teresa materializes from the shadows of the hallway, her hands clasped at her waist, voice carefully modulated. "Your wife is preparing herself for your arrival."

I pause, reading the tension in her shoulders, the careful blankness in her eyes that fails to mask her unease.

"What's happened?" I demand, handing off my jacket to the waiting servant without breaking eye contact with Teresa.

"Nothing of concern, sir. Mrs. Ravelli has just arrived back, safely. I have helped her bathe, ready for your arrival."

It's too quick. Too practiced.

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