Page 85 of Crown of Blood

My own father.

The possibility that's been growing in my mind since the night in his study, when he spoke of Elena's death with that careful distance—it's taking shape now, solidifying from suspicion to almost pure certainty.

But I need proof.

A knock at the door breaks my concentration. I close the folder before me, sliding it beneath others as Teresa enters with fresh coffee.

Her eyes scan the chaos of my desk.

"You should rest, sir," she says, setting the steaming cup beside me. "Two days without sleep makes even the sharpest minds dull."

"I've gone longer," I dismiss her concern, reaching for the cup. "Has my wife returned from her ride?"

Teresa arranged for Bianca to tour the grounds with Alessio this morning—a way to keep her occupied while I hunt through my family's bloody past. Since the night in the red room, she's been subdued but watchful, sensing the tension building within the mansion's walls.

"Hours ago, sir. She's reading in the garden now." Teresa hesitates, fingers lingering on the edge of my desk. "She asks questions, you know. About your mother. About the Volkovs."

I look up sharply. "What have you told her?"

"Nothing, of course." Teresa's voice carries a hint of reproach at the suggestion. "But she's found her way to the east wing once. She'll try again."

"Not if she knows what's good for her."

Teresa's expression doesn't change, but something in her eyes shifts. "The photographs she found. I replaced them, but..."

"But what?" I set my cup down and look at Teresa.

"You should know what she saw." Teresa straightens her shoulders and sighs. "Images of Marina Sutton with both families. From before."

"Marina Sutton worked for us?"

The pieces shift again, realigning into a pattern I hadn't considered. Bianca's mother—not just connected to the Volkovs, but to us as well. The timeline in my mind extends further backward, new connections forming after two days of untangling this fucking mess.

"She was a translator," Teresa confirms, voice carefully neutral. "For the Russian deals. In the late eighties, early nineties."

"Before Bianca was born."

Teresa nods once. "She was... valuable. Marina's language skills were exceptional, and she had connections that made certain negotiations easier."

"Connections to the Volkovs," I say, not a question.

"Among others." Teresa clasps her hands before her, knuckles whitening slightly. "It is my understanding, Luca, that Marina worked closely with your father on several deals."

I lean back in my chair, mind racing through implications. "And then she disappeared."

"Quite suddenly. Around the time..." Teresa trails off, but I hear the words she doesn't say.

Around the time Bianca would have been conceived.

"My father knew where she went," I guess, watching Teresa's face for confirmation. "He tracked her."

"He could well have maintained an interest in her welfare, yes," Teresa says carefully. "Even after she left our employ."

The picture forming in my mind grows clearer. And darker.

The care facility bills paid from untraceable accounts. The surveillance I discovered when investigating Bianca's background. Someone watching over Marina Sutton and her daughter for decades.

"Who was she to him, Teresa?" I press, rising from my chair to tower over her. "What was Bianca's mother to Vito Ravelli?"

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