Page 81 of Crown of Blood

A group gathered in what appears to be a private club—Vito Ravelli, younger but unmistakable; Dmitri Volkov with less silver in his hair; and between them, my mother—younger, vibrant, radiating a confidence I've never seen in Marina Sutton. Her arm is linked with a handsome man I don't recognize, his features sharp and proud, standing slightly apart from the others but clearly part of their circle.

They stand before what looks like a signed contract, champagne glasses raised in toast. My mother's eyes shine with something that looks like triumph, not submission.

With trembling fingers, I reach for the frame, lifting it from its hook. The back comes loose easily, and I slip the photograph out, turning it over to find a date scrawled in faded ink:June 18, 1991.

I was born in March 1992.

Nine months later.

Another photo beside it shows my mother again. This time with just the handsome stranger, their heads bent close in what appears to be intimate conversation.

The way she looks at him... I've never seen that expression on her face. Not with anyone.

The implication hits me, my knees weakening as pieces begin to align. My mother working with these families. The care facility bills being paid from an untraceable account. The way she'd never spoken of my father, but warned me about men with wolf eyes.

These weren't wolf eyes in the photo of the handsome stranger with my mother. They were something else entirely—cunning, calculating, containing secrets I'm only beginning to unravel.

"Mrs. Ravelli."

Teresa's voice cuts through my revelation, a blade of ice down my spine. I turn slowly, the photographs still clutched in my hand, to find her standing in the doorway.

Her expression gives nothing away. No surprise, no anger, just the careful neutrality of a woman who has witnessed decades of Ravelli secrets.

"This is not a part of the house you should be exploring," she says, eyes dropping to the photographs in my grasp. "Especially not alone."

"This woman," I hold up the image, my voice steadier than I feel. "This is my mother. With the Ravellis and the Volkovs."

Teresa sighs, a sound heavy with resignation. She closes the door behind her, moving further into the room.

"Some questions are better left unasked, Bianca," she says, reaching for the photographs. "Some doors should remain closed. And some wives should stay where they are supposed to be."

I pull back, keeping the images from her grasp.

"I deserve answers, Teresa. About my mother. About why the Volkovs think they have a claim on me. About who this man is." I tap the stranger standing close to my mother. "About why Luca chose me that night."

Her eyes shift to the man in the photo, something like recognition—perhaps even fear—flickering across her face before she masks it again.

"What you deserve and what is safe for you to know are not always the same thing," she says. "The Ravelli family carries its secrets in blood. Once you know them, there's no unknowing. No escape."

"I'm already caught," I counter, touching the healing mark on my breast where Luca's blade claimed me. "I'm already his."

Teresa watches the gesture, understanding dawning in her eyes. "He marked you."

I nod.

She reaches out again, and this time I allow her to take the photographs. She studies them for a long moment, her fingers lingering over the face of the man beside my mother.

"These connections," she says finally, her voice lifting just above a sigh, "they run deeper than you know. Between families… and between enemies. Blood and loyalty intertwined in ways that can destroy everything."

She carefully returns the photos to their frames, replacing them on the wall with movements that suggest she's done this before.

"Your husband will be looking for you," she says. "These rooms are forbidden for a reason, Bianca. Not just by Luca's command, but by the nature of what they contain."

"And what is that?"

Her gaze cuts to mine, sharp as a blade. "Truth. And in this family, truth is more dangerous than lies."

She moves toward the door, beckoning me to follow. "Come. Before your absence is noted by others less forgiving than I."

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