Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Bianca
After the Caterina exchange, I need air.
Or alcohol.
Or both. Definitely both.
But Dante keeps me anchored to his side as he works the room, introducing me to what feels like every dangerous man in New York City and honestly, all I want to do is disappear.
Senators. Judges. Men with dead eyes and expensive watches who smile like sharks who constantly see blood.
I play my part. Smile. Laugh at the right moments. Touch Dante's arm affectionately when people are watching. When he leans closer to whisper, I plaster a smile and try not to shiver.
It's exhausting.
"Bianca! There you are! There's someone I want you to meet," Alessia appears at my elbow, saving me from a conversation with a state senator who won't stop staring at my chest. "Come on."
She loops her arm through mine and extracts me with the kind of grace that comes from practice. Dante nods his permission—because apparently, I need permission for everything. I wonder if I should ask every time I breathe as we walk through the crowd toward a quieter corner near the windows.
“Thank you for saving me there, I was ready to scream.” I say and Alessia grins.
“I totally understand. I saw you and knew I had to save you.”
A woman stands there, with long dark hair and striking features that remind me of Matteo. She's beautiful and looks to be in her early twenties but there's something guarded in her eyes, something that speaks of walls built high and thick.
"Bianca, this is Isabella Romano. Matteo's sister." Alessia gestures between us. "Isabella, this is Bianca. Dante's girlfriend."
"Hi." Isabella's smile is warm but doesn't quite reach her eyes. "It's nice to meet you. I've heard you caused quite a stir with Caterina. Sad I wasn’t there to witness it."
I grunt. "News travels fast."
"In this world? Always." She glances across the room, and I follow her gaze to where Enzo stands alone, near the bar, his expression thunderous. When he sees Isabella looking, his jaw clenches and he turns away deliberately.
The tension is thick enough to cut.
Hmm.
"Everything okay?" I ask carefully.
"It's complicated." Isabella's voice is tight. "Enzo has... opinions. About my life. About my choices."
"Opinions he has no right to have," Alessia adds pointedly.
"He's protective," Isabella says, but there's hurt underneath the words. "Too protective. He treats me like I'm still twelve instead of twenty-two."
I know that feeling. Being treated like you can't make your own decisions. Like you're property instead of a person.
These dangerous mafia men need to be taught a lesson or two.
"Men in this world think they own everything," I say. "Including the women around them."
Isabella laughs, but it's bitter. "Exactly. Though I see you're holding your own, it seems. I like you already," Isabella says.
We talk for a while—safe topics, surface level, but there's an understanding between us. Three women navigating a world run by dangerous men. Three women trying to maintain some piece of ourselves in the process.
It's nice. Almost normal and I’m starting to really enjoy myself.
Until everything crashes.
"Hello?" A male voice behind me, uncertain. "Excuse me?"
My blood turns to ice.
Goodness, please no.
I turn slowly, already knowing this is bad, and see a man in his fifties. Well-dressed. Graying hair. A face I recognize from three years ago when I was desperate, my mother’s medical bills were piling up and I did what I had to do to survive.
Richard something. Finance. Married. Paid me two thousand dollars for dinner and conversation and nothing more because he said I reminded him of his daughter and he just wanted company.
One of the few decent ones.
And he's here. At Dante's father's party. Looking at me with recognition dawning in his eyes.
This is really bad.
"I'm sorry?" I keep my voice steady even though my hands are shaking. "I think you have me confused with someone else."
"No, I—" He steps closer, smiling. "I never forget a face. We met at—"
"You must be thinking of someone else." I cut him off, my heart hammering. "This is not my usual circle. I don't think our paths would have crossed."
Please don't say it. Please don't say it. Please don't—
"Maybe you're right." He looks uncertain now. "You just look so familiar. What was your name again?"
"Bianca Mancini." My voice doesn't shake. Doesn't betray the panic clawing at my throat.
"Hm. Well, my apologies. You just reminded me of someone." He nods politely and moves away.
I can't breathe.
The room is too hot. Too crowded. Everyone is staring even though they're not, and if he remembers, if he tells anyone, if Dante finds out—
"Bianca?"
Dante's hand on my lower back makes me jump.
"You okay?" His eyes are sharp, assessing. "Who was that?"
"No one." The lie comes easily, practiced. "He thought he knew me from somewhere. Mistaken identity."
"You look pale."
"It's hot in here." I force a smile. "And I'm not used to parties like this. Can we get some air?"
He studies me for a long moment. I can see him calculating, trying to read what I'm not saying.
Please don't push. Please just let it go.
"In a minute," he says finally. "Let me grab us drinks."
He moves toward a passing server, and I try to breathe normally. Try to convince myself that Richard won't remember. That even if he does, he won't say anything.
That my past isn't about to destroy everything I’m working off my ass for here.
The server approaches with a tray of champagne. Dante reaches for a glass of water, then pauses when the server offers me champagne.
I lift my hand to take it—I need something to do with my hands, something to calm the panic—
Dante's hand shoots out and snatches the glass midair. The champagne sloshes but doesn't spill.
The people around us turn around.
"She doesn't drink," Dante says smoothly, his smile charming even though his grip on the glass is white-knuckled. "Never has. Part of her wholesome teacher charm."
Laughter. The moment passes. People go back to their conversations.
But I saw the look in his eyes. The flash of something dark and furious before he masked it.
"Balcony," he says quietly. "Now."
It's not a request.
I follow him through the French doors onto a stone balcony overlooking the gardens. The air is cooler here, fresher, but it doesn't help the tight feeling in my chest.
The second we're alone, his mask drops.
"Never," he says, his voice razor-sharp. "Do you understand me? Never."
"Never what?" I'm genuinely confused. "Dante, it was just champagne—"
"I don't care what it was. You don't drink. Not here. Not anywhere."
The arbitrariness of it hits me like a sledgehammer to the stomach. "What the fuck is wrong with you? You don't get to decide that."
"Yes, I do." He steps closer, his presence overwhelming.
The anger is boiling over now, all the fear and frustration from the Richard encounter, from the dress confrontation, from everything.
"Your mood swings from reasonable human being to barbaric neanderthal are giving me whiplash.
I'm my own person. I have thoughts and feelings and the right to make my own choices! "
"Not when those choices reflect on me." His jaw is tight. "Not when we're here, in front of everyone who matters."
"It was one glass of champagne, not heroin!"
"The answer is no." Final. Absolute. "And if you can't accept that, then maybe this arrangement isn't going to work."
He walks away before I can respond, leaving me standing on the balcony, shaking with rage.
I'm my own person.
I'm my own person.
I'm my—
Screw it.
I go back inside, find a server, and take a glass of champagne. And then another. Not because I even want it—champagne tastes like bitter bubbles and it’s too cold—but because he doesn't get to tell me what to do.
Not with this.
By my third glass, the edges are softer. The room is warmer. Alessia is telling a story about Matteo and a botched attempt at cooking that has me laughing harder than it probably deserves.
"You look like you’re having fun," Isabella observes.
"I'm making a point," I correct, raising my glass in a mock toast.
The champagne is making everything pleasantly fuzzy. The fear about Richard has dulled. The anger at Dante has transformed into something much more reckless and defiant.
I'm laughing at something Alessia says when a hand closes around my upper arm. Tight. Possessive.
It’s Dante. I know his touch.
"We're leaving," Dante says in my ear, his voice deadly quiet.
"But, I'm having a conversation—"
"Now." He doesn't wait for an answer, just starts pulling me toward a side door, and suddenly we're in a empty hallway, and he's slamming me against the wall hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" His face is inches from mine, blue eyes blazing. "Do you have any idea how you look right now? Laughing too loud, face flushed, practically throwing yourself at everyone—"
"I was talking to the girls!"
"You’re drunk." He seethes.
"I had three glasses of champagne! I'm not drunk, I'm just a little tipsy. There's a difference." I try to push him away, but he doesn't budge, stubborn mountain of a man. "Maybe if you weren't such a controlling bastard—"
"Controlling?" His laugh is bitter. "I'm trying to protect you. To protect us. But you're so determined to prove you're your own person that you'll sabotage everything just to make a point."
"Maybe I want to forget!" The words burst out before I can stop them. "Maybe I want to forget that I'm trapped here. That my mother's life depends on me playing dress-up and pretending to love a man who treats me like shit. Maybe I want five minutes where I don't have to think about any of it!"
Something in his expression shifts. The anger is still there but underneath it, something else. Something hungry.
My breath hitches.