32. Bianca
Bianca
The early morning October air transforms each breath into a miniature cloud that breaks apart as I pass through. The muscles in my legs cry out for mercy as I slow down before the estate, the dappled light spilling through the tree-lined sidewalk offering some much-needed warmth.
I had this idea in my head that a jog might clear my head, but if anything, the idyllic Midtown neighborhood is so quiet and peaceful that my chaotic thoughts take center stage.
Every time I remind myself not to let Marco distract me, he undermines my resolve. No matter how many walls I build, he just finds a way over them or under them. Or hell, straight through. He’s all I think about anymore, and the urge to share everything I’m hiding weighs heavily on my conscience.
I skip up the steps into the place I’ve come to view as my home and get ready for the day.
An hour or so later, the bell rings above the entrance of Cacao, announcing my arrival. Livia’s already seated at our usual table, and I can tell as soon as I see her that something’s wrong.
My heart plummets as I note the deep bags beneath her eyes and her cracked and peeling lips. And the splint on her pointer and middle finger stands out in stark contrast to her otherwise polished appearance.
He broke her fingers.
Rage floods me, and I bite my cheek until I taste copper.
Like always, my order waits for me, still steaming, a sign that despite everything she endures, my sister continues to put others before herself.
Carefully, I set my purse on the table and sit across from her.
I should launch into a normal conversation in case anyone is watching, but my brain glitches on what to say.
Eyes and ears are everywhere, and as much as I want blood for what was done to my sister, this is vengeance I can’t claim. Instead, I sift through the last several days’ transgressions and mistakes only to draw a blank.
He’s getting impatient. It’s the only explanation. The longer it takes to get the book, the more frustrated he’ll become, and Livia will bear the brunt of that.
Reaching across the table, Livia places her uninjured hand on top of mine and squeezes.
“It’s good to see you.” Her manner is as easy as always, as if this is just like any other visit.
I force my shoulders to relax and turn my hand over so it clasps hers as she continues.
“I’m not keeping you from anything important today, am I? ”
“Of course not. Nothing is more important than you.” I clear my throat and grit out the next question. “How’s Father?”
Livia flinches and withdraws her hand. “Same as always. You know how he can be.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “You should worry more about yourself.”
Frowning, I search her lovely features, noting the scars that have gone white with time, small enough not to raise eyebrows, and the yellowing remnants of the black eye from a few weeks back. “What do you—?”
“Have you found the book?”
My heart constricts with guilt. If I’d located the book already, maybe Aldo would have left her fingers intact.
“Not yet.” Understanding that she’ll have to report back, I shift, recrossing my legs once more and tugging at the hem of my shirt. “But I have a plan. You can tell him that. I’ll have the book very soon. I swear.”
Livia’s hand trembles as she takes mine again. “Please, Bianca. There isn’t much time left before it costs us both more than we’re willing to pay.”
I palm the small vial Livia slipped me, checking briefly to confirm what my heart already knows. Powdered foxglove.
My stomach clenches, and I clamp my lips shut, trying not to throw up.
This is the same poison I used to kill Elio. The beautiful, deceptive foxglove. The venom infiltrated his system until he clutched his chest as his heart rate plunged into nothingness.
I tuck the vial into my purse and swallow a quick sip of my coffee, hoping the warmth will settle the sudden sick twisting in my middle. It doesn’t. Nothing will ever wash away the memory of what I’ve done.
I don’t realize that I’m clutching my cup too hard until a wash of hot liquid spills onto my hand. I draw back, pressing my fist to my stomach. The message is clear. If I can’t find the book, the only recourse left to me is to murder my husband and inherit his organization.
Kill…Marco?
My stomach roils. The very idea repulses me. Whatever crosses my features causes Livia to wince. “Bianca…I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”
She’s not wrong. I cross my heart and wait until she crosses hers.
It’s the sign we developed over the years to mean whatever the other confesses or does next must be kept a secret from Aldo.
Once Livia signs the promise in return, the truth spills from me in a rush.
I tell her about the confusing physical relationship between Marco and me and the emotions that have plagued me for the last few weeks.
By the time I’m done, Livia’s studying me with a calculating expression, her muscles tense, as if she’s trying to recalibrate our entire situation.
I know my inconvenient feelings have complicated things, and I struggle not to shrink under the heavy weight of her gaze.
To buy myself a few seconds, I glance out the window and note the Conti guards stationed on the sidewalk below, doing their best to blend in among the New Yorkers hurrying past.
Yvette and Kane, the pair I had assigned to Livia after I first married Marco, are nowhere to be found. I need to contact them to see what happened, but my gut insists their absence is Father’s doing. He’s closing in, slowly cutting Livia off from anyone who’s not under his direct control.
We don’t have much time.
I’m relieved to spot Zo seated on a bench by the front door reading a newspaper, but I spin away before he can catch me staring. “I’m sorry, Livvy. I just don’t think I’ll be able to use what you gave me…the same way that I did before.”
“I understand, Bianca. I just…Whatever your plan is, I hope it works.” Her defeated sigh indicates that she fully comprehends what this hitch will cost her, and reality hits me like a bucket of cold water.
What the hell am I even thinking? It isn’t just my life I’m playing with.
Livia’s safety is on the line until I can find a way to protect her.
Until that happens, I can’t do anything about this piercing Marco-shaped ache in my heart and soul.
Not that I ever wanted to.
If I say it often enough, maybe I’ll actually believe it.