Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Bianca
I wake up to sunlight streaming through windows I don't recognize, in a bed that's too soft, in a room that smells like expensive candles instead of the vanilla body spray I use because it's cheap.
For three blissful seconds, I forget where I am.
Then reality crashes back.
Right. Mobster's house. Fake girlfriend. Mother dying. Life ruined.
I check my phone. 6:47 AM. I have just over an hour to get ready and make it to school, assuming I can figure out how to leave without getting stopped by armed guards in Dante’s palace.
I drag myself out of bed and head for the en suite bathroom, marble everywhere, a shower with six different heads, a tub that could fit three people. There are bottles lined up on the counter, all expensive brands I've only seen in magazines.
The shower is heaven. I'll give Dante that much.
When I step out five minutes later, wrapped in a towel that's softer than anything I own, I notice something on the bed that wasn't there before.
Clothes. A whole pile of them.
I freeze.
The door is still closed. Locked, even, from the inside. Which means someone came in while I was in the shower and—
No. There must be a connecting door I missed. Or Maria has a key.
I approach the pile slowly, like it might bite.
On top is a note in neat handwriting:
Mr. Vitale thought you might need options for today.
Maria
I lift the first item.
It's a nightgown. If you can call it that. Black silk, barely there, with lace that's completely see-through. The kind of thing you wear when you want someone to take it off immediately.
"You've got to be kidding me," I mutter, tossing it aside.
The next item is worse. A red lace bralette with matching underwear that's basically just string.
Then a dress that's so short it might as well be a long shirt.
Another nightgown in white that's somehow even more revealing than the black one.
Jeans that look like they were painted on.
Tops with necklines that plunge to my navel.
I keep digging, increasingly frantic, looking for something—anything—that doesn't scream "there’s nothing left to the imagination.”
At the very bottom, I find one of my own shirts. A simple cream blouse I've had for three years. And my work pants.
Everything else is gone.
"That bastard," I say to the empty room.
I yank on my blouse and pants, not caring that they're wrinkled. Then I storm out of the room, down the hallway, toward what I'm pretty sure is Dante's office based on the tour yesterday.
The door is closed. I don't knock.
Empty.
I check his bedroom. Also empty, though the bed is made with military precision.
"Maria!" I call out, heading toward the main staircase.
She appears from the kitchen hallway, looking concerned. "Miss Mancini? Is everything all right?"
"Where is he?"
"Mr. Vitale left early this morning. He had business to attend to."
"Of course he did." I cross my arms. "And the clothes? The lingerie explosion in my room?"
Maria's expression becomes carefully neutral. "Mr. Vitale arranged for a selection to be delivered. He thought you might need—"
"Thought I might need to dress like I'm auditioning for a porno?" I can see her embarrassed blush and I start to feel bad for pouring all my anger out when she’s around.
"He mentioned something about updating your wardrobe for upcoming events."
"By throwing away my actual clothes and replacing them with—with—" I gesture helplessly. "I teach seven-year-olds, Maria. I can't show up to school looking like that."
"I'm sure he didn't mean for those items to be worn to school," Maria says gently. "Perhaps for evening events?"
"Evening events where I'm supposed to what? Stand on a corner?"
A throat clears behind me.
I spin around to find one of Dante's man—Tony, I think his name is—trying very hard not to smile.
"Miss Mancini," he says carefully. "I'm supposed to drive you to school this morning."
I take a deep breath, count to five, and remind myself that murdering my captor's employees probably violates the terms of our arrangement. And it’s not like they’re guilty of anything anyway.
"Fine," I say through clenched teeth. "Let's go."
The drive to school is silent. Tony doesn't try to make small talk, which I appreciate. I spend ten entire minutes composing and deleting angry texts to Dante after coercing Tony for his number. This guy is very tough but not more than me, I guess.
Who do you think you are, throwing away my clothes?
Delete.
I'm not wearing that trash you left in my room.
Delete.
If you think I'm going to dress like your personal fantasy, you're insane.
Delete.
By the time we pull up to the school, I've settled on: We need to talk. Today.
I hit send before I can second-guess it.
Tony opens my door. "I'll be here at 3:30 to pick you up."
"I can take the bus."
"Mr. Vitale's orders."
Of course.
I slam the door harder than necessary and head into the school, trying to shake off the anger clinging to my skin like smoke.
The classroom is my sanctuary. The one place that still feels normal, untouched by Dante's money and control. My desk with Emma's crayon drawing taped to it. The reading corner with its mismatched bean bags. The alphabet border I put up myself because the school couldn't afford the nice ones.
I lose myself in lesson plans, in preparing materials for today's math lesson, in the familiar rhythm of being Miss Mancini the teacher instead of Bianca the possession.
By the time the kids arrive at 8:15, I've almost convinced myself yesterday was a nightmare.
Then I see Alex.
He shuffles in last, backpack dragging on the floor, his eyes red-rimmed like he's been crying. Or didn't sleep.
"Hey, buddy." I crouch down to his level as the other kids settle into their seats. "You okay?"
He shrugs, not meeting my eyes.
"Alex?"
"I don't get the homework," he says quietly. "The math. I tried, but—" His voice cracks.
My heart breaks a little.
"Let me see."
He pulls out his worksheet, and I see the problem immediately. Long addition with carrying. We covered it last week, but Alex was absent two days for a dentist appointment his mom couldn't reschedule.
"Okay, this is totally fixable," I tell him. "It's just a small thing you missed. Want me to show you?"
He nods, relief flooding his face.
I walk him through it step by step—how to line up the numbers, when to carry, how to check his work. He catches on quickly because he's smart, but he needs someone to explain it slowly. Patiently.
Someone who has time. Something his mother doesn’t have while trying to put food on their table.
"Does that make sense?" I ask when we're done.
"Yeah." He looks up at me, and there's something in his expression that makes my chest tight. Trust. Pure, unconditional trust. "Thanks, Miss Mancini."
"Anytime, sweetheart." I ruffle his hair. "And listen—if you get stuck on homework again, tell your mom she can call me, okay? I gave her my number at the beginning of the year. I'm always happy to help."
"Okay," he says quietly, then adds, "She works a lot though."
"I know, buddy." My throat tightens. "That's why I'm here. To help however I can."
He nods, gives me that sunshine smile, and heads to his seat.
I watch him go, then turn back to my desk and take a slow breath.
This is all I want to be.
To kids like Alex who need someone to see them. To care. To be the constant in a world that keeps shifting under their feet.
No matter what else is happening in my life—no matter who owns my debt or controls where I sleep—I can still be that for them.
I have to be.