Page 6 of Crown of Blood

Interesting.

I let my gaze drift down, taking her all in. Her bare legs are hidden under the sheet draped around her shoulders, knees pressed together, chest rising too fast.

Still trying to hide.

Still thinking I’m the worst thing that’ll happen to her tonight.

I raise my arm slowly, like a man picking lint off a suit. Watching as her wild eyes grow bigger. I press the edge of my pistol against the sheet hiding her away from me, slipping it inside to reveal her skin beneath.

The cool metal of my loaded gun against her skin makes her breath catch, a sharp and audible inhale as I nudge the fabric back just enough to expose the smooth line of her inner thigh.

No bruises. No needle marks. Just bare skin, flushed and trembling. Still damp from rain or fear, but right now, I can’t tell which.

Her eyes widen, but still, she doesn’t pull away.

It's funny. My father says women are power in our world. Even laid out upon his death bed, he's made it clear he wants a wife at my side. A future. A legacy. Something softer to disguise the iron and bloodshed from prying eyes.

I told him love is a merciless distraction.

But standing here looking at this beauty, I wonder if love could be leverage.

I lower the gun, step back and let God's little gift breathe.

"What's your name?" The words scrape out of my throat.

"Why? So you can add it to whatever hit list you're planning?"

I bark out a laugh. "If I wanted you dead,piccola, you wouldn't be denying me your name right now."

Surprisingly, she doesn’t ask what I’m going to do to her. Doesn’t ask who I am. She just watches my every movement, barely blinking, like she already knows the answer and is waiting to see if I’ll prove her right.

"Bianca. My name is Bianca."

She’s not just scared. She’swrecked.

With that name swirling in my mind, I settle into the armchair, the leather creaking beneath my weight. The sound of muffled activity filters through the wall - my men doing what they do best. Cleaning up messes. Making my problems disappear.

Except for the one standing before me.

The next Don needs more than a body count—he needs a bride. A life that looks stable on the outside, even if it rots underneath. I refused to parade around some heiress like a fucking accessory.

But maybe what I need isn’t an heiress. Maybe what I need is a ghost like her.

"Sit." I gesture to the bed with my gun, but she remains standing. Defiant little thing.

"I prefer to stand."

"That wasn't a request."

Ice coats my words, but I don't dare shout. My father taught me that men who raise their voices are already losing. So I just sit back, one ankle resting over my knee, and let the silence stretch as she does as she's told like a good fucking girl.

The Ravelli family has owned this hotel longer than she’s been alive. Not on paper, of course. But every marble tile, every corridor, every housekeeping cart that creaks past the wrong door at the right time? Paid for in blood, favors, and silence.

The entire third floor is reserved for our business. Always. Management knows better than to ask questions and it's no surprise that this woman doesn't know who I am despite claiming to be a worker here.

Tonight, the room next door was booked for a man who forgot what loyalty costs. He remembered just in time to scream as I pulled the trigger and splattered his brains across the floor.

But somehow, I still have a fucking witness wrapped in my sheets, looking at me like she might be more than a problem.

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