Page 73 of Savage Devotion

She's changed from my shirt into a simple black dress. Her feet are bare, a casual intimacy that speaks volumes about how far we've traveled from kidnapper and captive.

"Yes," I reply, setting aside the intelligence reports I've been reviewing. "I want to show you something."

Her expression registers curiosity rather than fear. Another change. When did she stop being afraid of what I might do to her? When did her defiance transform from self-preservation to genuine challenge?

"Come."

I lead her through corridors she's been permitted to explore since our return, past rooms now familiar to her. But at the end of the eastern wing of the penthouse, I stop before a door she's never seen.

"What's this?" she asks as I place my hand on the scanner.

"A place no one but me enters," I reply as locks disengage beneath my fingerprint. "My private sanctuary."

The room beyond is shrouded in darkness until I flip a switch, illuminating what lies within in a low reddish tinge.

Francesca's breath catches as she steps inside.

Display cases line the walls, each holding trophies, not of business victories, but darker conquests.

A bloodstained knife that ended the New York negotiations. Cufflinks taken from the Sicilian who thought he could cheat me. A diamond ring from the banker whose fingers I removed one by one until he revealed how he claimed my profits for his own.

At the center stands a glass case containing a single item—a straight razor with a pearl handle, its blade permanently stained despite meticulous cleaning.

"This is your trophy room," Francesca observes, her voice carefully neutral as she takes in the evidence of my violent history.

"My father kept one beneath the Ravelli mansion," I explain, watching her reaction as she moves among my collection. "Every significant kill, every major victory marked with a token. A reminder of what was necessary to build our empire."

She stops before a display containing a silver watch, its face shattered, hands frozen at 3:17. "And this one?"

"The first man I killed for my father. I was fourteen." The memory resurfaces with vivid clarity. "A dock worker who stole from our regular weapon shipments. Vito handed me that watch afterward. Said I'd earned the right to know exactly when I became a man."

Her eyes find mine, understanding rather than revulsion in their depths. "And you've kept a trophy for every murder you've made since."

"Yes. Until recently," I admit, moving deeper into the room where weapons line the walls. Each one used, each one blooded. "I haven't added to this collection since you arrived."

The significance of this confession is big.

"Why are you showing me this now?" she asks.

I approach a wooden cabinet at the far end of the room, unlocking it with a key I wear around my neck.

"Because what I'm about to tell you—about my family, about our future—requires complete understanding of who I am. What I've done. What I'm capable of doing again."

From the cabinet, I withdraw a wooden box. The Ravelli crest gleams on its lid, the same symbol carved into Francesca's inner thigh.

"I've hunted for the truth for years," I continue, setting the box on a table between displays of bloodied implements. "The truthabout my mother's death. About why Vito chose Luca over me. About the legacy I've fought to claim."

I open the box, revealing yellowed papers and photographs. Evidence gathered over decades of obsession.

"I know Luca has been searching too. And now, Nico has confirmed what I suspected." My voice remains steady despite the emotion rising beneath it. "My mother wasn't just killed because of political necessity or to shape Luca into the cold-blooded heir Vito wanted. She was killed because she planned to take us away from this life."

Francesca steps closer, her shoulder brushing mine as she peers at the documents. "What do you mean?"

I withdraw a worn photograph—Elena Ravelli standing on the cathedral steps, her expression determined as she whispers to a young Luca. I'm visible in the background, like I always was, watching them with longing eyes.

"Fifteen years ago, she discovered that my father was working with the Volkovs on certain... operations that crossed lines even in our world." My finger traces my mother's face, captured in one of her final moments. "Operations involving human trafficking that Elena couldn't stomach."

Understanding dawns in Francesca's eyes. "She wanted to protect you and your brothers."

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