Page 71 of Crown of Blood

"The night she died," I continue, unsure why I'm sharing this but unable to stop, "we were supposed to attend the opera.La Traviata. Her favorite." The words burn my throat. "Instead, I watched her bleed out on cathedral steps while my father made phone calls."

Her hand reaches across the table, fingers twining with mine. "I'm sorry, Luca."

I should pull away. Should maintain distance. Instead, I tighten my grip, feeling the delicate bones beneath her skin, the wedding ring that marks her as mine.

"The official story was that the Volkovs ordered the hit," I say, the words coming unbidden, dangerous. "A message to my father about territory disputes."

"You don't believe it," she says, perception sharp as always.

I meet her eyes, allowing her to see a truth I've barely admitted to myself. "My father has always been... meticulous about controlling narratives. About crafting the stories that serve his purposes."

The implication hangs between us, unspoken but understood.

"And Dante? Is he like your father?" she asks, seamlessly shifting to a topic that makes my blood heat for different reasons.

"Dante has always wanted what's mine," I reply, voice hardening. "We've been at odds since childhood. Where I plan, he attacks. Where I build, he destroys." I take a sip of wine, the taste suddenly bitter on my tongue. "Tonight's betrayal is just the latest in a lifetime of them."

"Will you kill him?" she asks, voice steady despite the question.

I study her face, looking for fear, for judgment. Find only calm curiosity.

"Not yet," I answer honestly. "But it is looking likely that Dante has chosen his path. When the time comes, he'll pay the price for it."

The conversation shifts as servants clear the main course and bring dessert. It's a delicious dark chocolate torte paired with aged whiskey that burns like liquid gold.

Bianca takes a sip, and I watch her throat work as she swallows, imagining my hands there.

"The man today," she says suddenly, setting her glass down. "Under Westminster. You cut him without hesitation."

I study her face for signs of fear, of disgust. I find none.

"Yes."

"You always carry it, don't you?" Her voice drops lower. "The knife."

My blood heats at the interest in her tone.

"Always," I confirm, watching her lips part slightly.

"Can I see it?"

The request sends a jolt of dark pleasure through me. Two weeks ago, she would have flinched at the thought. Now she's asking to see the weapon I used to mark another man hours earlier.

I reach into my jacket, removing the thin stiletto blade I keep there—silver, elegant, deadly. I place it on the table between us, its polished surface reflecting candlelight.

Her fingers hover over it, not quite touching. "You've killed with this."

It's not a question, but I answer it regardless.

"Yes." I watch her carefully, tracking every micro expression. "Many times."

She takes a deep breath, her chest rising beneath midnight silk. "Show me."

I feel my control slipping, desire coiling hot and tight in my veins. "Show you what, little rabbit?"

Her eyes meet mine, dark with intent that makes my cock harden instantly. "How it feels. To be marked by you."

The world narrows to this moment, this woman, this blade between us. Blood roars in my ears.

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