Ignited Secrets (Bonds of Betrayal #4)

Chapter 1 - Bianca

BIANCA

“That’s complete bullshit, Lucas, and you know it.”

I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms as I stare down the pompous jackass sitting across from me in Professor Chen’s Advanced Strategic Management seminar.

Lucas Wellington III—because of course he has a fucking numeral after his name—adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses and gives me that condescending smile that makes me want to throw my textbook at his perfectly groomed head.

“I’m simply suggesting that hostile takeovers are a legitimate business strategy,” he says in that nasal tone that screams trust fund baby. “Sometimes aggressive acquisition is the most efficient path to market dominance.”

“Efficient for who?” I shoot back, my voice sharper than I intended. “The executives who get golden parachutes while thousands of employees lose their jobs? Real fucking efficient.”

A few classmates shift uncomfortably.

Professor Chen raises an eyebrow but doesn’t intervene. She likes when we get heated in these discussions, saying it shows we’re actually thinking instead of just regurgitating whatever garbage we read in our textbooks.

Lucas’s cheeks flush pink. “Well, I suppose someone with your…background…might not understand the complexities of high-level corporate strategy.”

My background.

Like I’m some charity case who stumbled into Columbia on accident.

If only he knew what my actual background was, but Lucas Wellington III with his daddy’s hedge fund money and his summer house in the Hamptons has no fucking clue what real power looks like.

“You’re right,” I say sarcastically, slow clapping for him. “I don’t understand how someone can be so comfortable destroying lives for profit margins. Must be nice to never have to worry about consequences.”

The truth is, I understand power dynamics better than any of these trust fund brats ever will.

While they were playing lacrosse and getting into prep schools based on their parents’ donations, I was learning that true control comes from knowing exactly when to apply pressure and when to show mercy.

That sometimes you have to make hard choices to protect what matters most.

That weakness gets you killed, but unnecessary cruelty makes you a monster.

Not that I can explain any of that to my classmates.

“Miss DeLuca makes an excellent point about stakeholder responsibility,” Professor Chen interjects smoothly. “Lucas, how would you address the ethical implications of your approach?”

I tune out his predictable response about shareholder value and necessary market corrections.

My phone buzzes against my thigh—a text from Dad asking if I need a ride home.

I glance at the time. 3:27 p.m.

Weird. I wasn’t expecting anyone to pick me up today.

The thought makes something flutter in my chest when I see the follow-up text: Alessandro will get you. Something came up.

Which is…unexpected.

Alessandro doesn’t usually do random pickups—that’s more Antonio’s job, or one of the other drivers.

After what happened when I was twelve, Dad insists on security protocol, but Alessandro’s time is usually reserved for more important family business.

But lately, I’ve been noticing him differently.

It started around my sixteenth birthday, this awareness of how Alessandro’s presence affects me when he comes to the house for meetings with Dad or during family dinners when he stays late discussing business.

How I find myself watching the way he moves through a room, or how his cologne smells like cedar and something uniquely him that makes me want to lean closer when he’s near.

God, I’m pathetic. Crushing on my dad’s ally like some cliché mafia princess.

“What do you think, Bianca?”

Professor Chen’s voice snaps me back to reality.

Shit. I have no idea what she just asked.

“I think,” I say slowly, buying myself time, “that any strategy that doesn’t account for long-term stability is ultimately self-defeating. You can win every battle and still lose the war.”

It’s generic enough to apply to whatever they were discussing and true enough that Professor Chen nods approvingly.

Lucas looks annoyed that I managed to sound intelligent without actually participating in their debate.

Ha. Fucker. Take that.

My phone buzzes again.

This time it’s a text from an unknown number: Car waiting outside. -AR

Alessandro never contacts me directly. He’s Dad’s ally, not my personal driver. Something must be wrong.

I start packing my bag as Professor Chen wraps up the discussion, my mind already shifting from corporate strategy to whatever’s waiting for me outside.

The other students file out, chattering about weekend plans and upcoming assignments.

Normal college problems that feel increasingly foreign to me.

“Leaving us early, princess?”

I glance up to find Lucas smirking at me, clearly still bitter about our earlier exchange.

The nickname makes my skin crawl—not because it’s inaccurate, but because of how he says it.

Like I’m some spoiled brat who’s never had to work for anything.

“Some of us have actual responsibilities,” I reply, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “Enjoy your trust fund meeting or whatever it is you do when you’re not embarrassing yourself in class.”

His face goes red, but I’m already walking away.

I don’t have time for his wounded ego—not when Alessandro is waiting.

The October air hits me as I step outside Hamilton Hall, cool enough to make me pull my leather jacket tighter around my shoulders.

Students stream past me, heading to afternoon classes or back to their dorms, and for a moment I feel that familiar disconnect—like I’m watching their normal college lives from behind glass.

Then I see the black BMW parked at the curb, and everything else fades away.

Alessandro is leaning against the driver’s side, and goddamn, he looks good.

He’s wearing a charcoal suit tailored perfectly to his broad shoulders and lean frame.

His dark hair is slightly tousled by the wind, those thick waves that I’ve caught myself wanting to run my fingers through more times than I care to admit.

When he spots me, he straightens up, and I get the full effect of those hazel eyes that seem to see everything.

He’s beautiful in a way that makes me want to swoon, if I were the swooning type.

Strong jaw with just the hint of stubble, full lips that quirk up slightly when he’s amused, and a nose that’s perfectly straight except for the tiniest bump that suggests it’s been broken at least once.

There’s a thin scar along his jawline that I’ve always wondered about but never asked.

Everything about him looks expensive and kind of dangerous, and it’s annoying how hot I find that.

“How was class?” he asks as I approach, his voice carrying that slight rasp that makes me think inappropriate thoughts.

“Educational,” I reply, trying to keep my tone casual.

Educational, Bianca? That’s what you say to the man? Jesus Christ, you’re pathetic. “Lucas Wellington the Third learned some hard truths about stakeholder responsibility.”

Alessandro’s lips curve into a genuine smile, and I feel stupidly proud that I amused him. “Poor Lucas. I take it he didn’t appreciate your insights?”

“He called me princess.” I roll my eyes as Alessandro opens the passenger door for me. “Like that’s supposed to be an insult.”

“Technically accurate,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that makes me look at him more carefully as I slide into the car.

The BMW smells like leather and Alessandro’s cologne.

I’ve never been alone with him like this.

Usually when I see him, it’s at the house with Dad and other family around.

This feels…different.

Alessandro slides behind the wheel, and I study his profile as he starts the engine.

There’s tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there when I first spotted him, and his jaw is tighter than usual.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

He glances at me, those hazel eyes unreadable. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

It’s a non-answer, which means something is definitely wrong. I’ve known Alessandro long enough to recognize when he’s deflecting.

“Because you’re picking me up from school,” I point out. “And you’re doing that thing where you clench your jaw when you’re thinking about something you don’t want to talk about.”

For a second, I think he might actually tell me what’s going on.

His mouth opens as if he’s about to speak.

But then his phone starts ringing through the car’s speakers, and I see Dad’s name on the dashboard display.

“Answer it,” I say before Alessandro can hesitate.

He accepts the call. “Matteo.”

“Where are you?” My dad’s voice fills the car, and there’s an edge to it that makes my stomach seize.

“Just picked up Bianca. We’re heading to the compound now.”

“Good. How quickly can you get here?”

Alessandro’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “Twenty minutes if traffic cooperates.”

There’s a pause that feels loaded with significance. “Good. We’ll see you soon.”

The call ends, leaving us in silence.

I stare at the dashboard, my mind racing through possibilities.

Dad sounded frazzled, if that’s even the right word and Matteo DeLuca is never frazzled.

“Alessandro.” My voice comes out smaller than I intended. “What’s going on?”

He reaches over and squeezes my hand briefly, the contact sending electricity up my arm. “Whatever it is, we’ll handle it.”

I want to ask more questions, but his phone starts buzzing with notifications.

Text after text after text, the sounds overlapping until it’s almost constant.

My own phone starts doing the same thing, messages flooding in from classmates, acquaintances, even people I barely know.

With growing dread, I pull up my messages. The first one is from a friend: Holy shit, B. Is this real???

Attached is a link to a news article. My stomach drops as I read the headline: Leaked Documents Reveal DeLuca’s Criminal Empire: FBI Files Expose Decades of Violence and Corruption.

“Fuck,” Alessandro breathes, clearly reading his own messages.

I tap the link with shaking fingers. The article is from the New York Times, posted less than an hour ago.

There are photos—old surveillance shots of Giuseppe that I recognize from family albums, FBI documents with names and dates, financial records that trace money through shell companies I’ve never heard of.

This isn’t just bad publicity anymore.

This is official federal evidence splashed across every major news outlet in the country.

My normal college life, my carefully maintained anonymity—all of that just disappeared.

Every reporter in New York is probably already digging through our family’s history, looking for more dirt.

Every federal agent who worked these cases is getting calls from their superiors asking about current investigations.

Fuck fuck fuck.

My grandfather’s name is trending on Twitter.

Giuseppe DeLuca, the man who built our family’s empire, whose legacy Dad has spent years carefully maintaining and modernizing, is suddenly all over social media with official FBI documentation attached.

College kids are posting screenshots of surveillance photos.

True crime podcasters are probably already recording emergency episodes with actual federal evidence to back up their theories.

“This is bad,” I whisper, scrolling through more articles as they pop up. CNN, Fox News, the Washington Post—everyone is picking up the story.

Alessandro’s jaw is granite as he navigates through increasingly heavy traffic. “It’s worse than bad. Someone leaked classified FBI files. This isn’t speculation anymore—it’s official federal evidence. Every agency that worked these cases is going to be under pressure to reopen investigations.”

It hits me like getting punched in the gut.

People gossiping about our family is one thing—but seeing the FBI’s evidence blasted all over every major news site?

That’s a whole different level.

You don’t just walk away from that kind of exposure. It brings heat from everywhere—cops, reporters, people who suddenly think they know everything.

“Who would do this?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.

“Someone with access to federal files and a reason to want the DeLucas exposed.” Alessandro’s voice is measured, as if he was trying to find the right words. “The question is whether this is random or if the DeLucas are being specifically targeted.”

My phone keeps buzzing. More messages, more links, more people who suddenly want to talk to me now that my family’s business is front-page news with federal documentation.

I turn the notifications off and stare out the window, watching normal people go about their normal lives while mine potentially falls apart.

“Matteo will handle this,” Alessandro says quietly, but there’s something strained in his voice that makes me think he’s more worried than he’s letting on. “We need to get you home.”

As we pull into the long driveway leading to the compound, I catch sight of news vans already parked across the street from our gates. Reporters with cameras, trying to get shots of our property.

My stomach drops.

“Fuck, they’re fast,” I mutter.

“They’ve probably been monitoring federal databases for leaks like this,” Alessandro explains, his voice laced with frustration. “The moment those documents went public, they would have mobilized. Fucking vultures.”

The gates close behind us, but I can still see the media circus through the bars.

This is my life now—under scrutiny, under suspicion, every move analyzed and dissected by people who think they understand what we are based on decades-old FBI files.

As we pull up to the main house, I see several cars already parked outside.

Dad’s inner circle, called in for crisis management.

Whatever discussion is about to happen, it’s going to determine how we survive this.

Alessandro turns off the engine and looks at me. Really looks at me, those hazel eyes intense and worried in a way that makes my chest tight.

“Whatever you learn in there,” he says slowly, “whatever these documents contain—remember that it doesn’t change who you are.”

There’s something in his voice that makes me think he knows more than he’s saying.

Like he’s preparing me for something specific, something worse than just bad publicity.

“Alessandro,” I start, but he’s already getting out of the car.

I follow him toward the house, my mind racing with questions I’m not sure I want answered.

Behind us, I can hear the distant shouts of reporters still gathered at our gates, hungry for a story that could destroy everything my family has built.

When we reach the front door, I realize that whatever I learn in the next few minutes is going to change everything.

The careful world Dad has constructed around me, the identity I’ve built for myself, the future I thought I understood—all of it is about to shift.

I just don’t know how much yet.