Chapter 2 - Alessandro
ALESSANDRO
The call comes while I’m reviewing the weekly security reports in my office, three floors above the legitimate investment firm that serves as my public face.
Matteo’s name flashes on the secure line—the one we use only for business that can’t wait.
“Alessandro,” I answer on the second ring, already reaching for my jacket. Matteo doesn’t call during business hours unless something’s wrong.
“Get to Columbia now.” His voice carries an edge I haven’t heard since the Calabrese situation two years ago. “Bring Bianca home immediately.”
I’m already walking toward the door, car keys in hand. “What’s the situation?”
“The Giuseppe files are about to leak. Federal documents from the eighties and nineties—someone’s shopping them to major news outlets.” His voice is tight with controlled fury. “My contact at the Times says they’re running the story within the hour.”
Christ. I pause at my office window, watching the city move as if nothing is wrong. “How extensive?”
“Extensive enough.” The weight in that single word tells me everything I need to know. “We need her home before this hits. Once it’s public, every reporter in the city will be hunting for the DeLuca princess.”
If he’s saying that, that means… “Understood. Twenty minutes.”
The line goes dead, and I’m left staring at my reflection in the window—a thirty-five-year-old man who’s built an empire through careful planning and a long-term vision, now facing a crisis that could unravel years of work in a matter of hours.
I grab my coat and head for the elevator, my mind already shifting into crisis mode.
The Giuseppe files.
After all these years, someone finally managed to get their hands on the federal evidence that was supposed to be buried so deep it would never see daylight.
The question isn’t just who had access—it’s who had the balls to use it and why they chose now.
The BMW starts with a quiet purr, and I pull into Manhattan traffic that’s already thickening with the afternoon rush.
My phone buzzes with incoming messages—probably my lieutenants checking in, maybe other family heads who’ve heard rumors.
I ignore them all.
Right now, the only thing that matters is getting to Bianca before the story breaks and the media circus begins.
As I navigate through the congested streets, my mind races through the immediate implications.
Giuseppe’s federal files hitting the front pages will bring heat we haven’t seen in years.
Every agency that worked those cases will be under pressure to justify why investigations were closed.
Every family that’s maintained the careful balance of power in New York will be reassessing their positions, looking for opportunities in the chaos.
I turn onto Broadway, the familiar weight of my gun against my ribs a reminder that in our world, protection is always a matter of life and death.
The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m racing through traffic to protect the one person who’s become both my greatest strength and my most dangerous weakness.
Bianca DeLuca has been a problem for me since her sixteenth birthday.
Not because she’s done anything wrong, but because watching her grow from the traumatized child we rescued from Mario’s warehouse into the brilliant, fierce young woman she’s become has been like watching a natural disaster in slow motion—beautiful, inevitable, and absolutely destructive to any peace of mind I might have once possessed.
At twelve, she was all fragile bones and haunted eyes, clinging to Matteo like he was the only solid thing in a world that had tried to kill her.
I was just another ally then, someone who’d helped coordinate the rescue and earned a place at the family table through loyalty and value.
She barely looked at me except to whisper polite thank yous when I brought her books or sat quietly while she recovered from nightmares.
By sixteen, everything had changed.
The haunted child had transformed into someone who could walk into a room and command attention without saying a word.
Those steel-blue eyes that once looked through everything with traumatized distance now saw everything—and everyone—with an intelligence that was both thrilling and terrifying.
The way she’d started looking at me during family dinners, the careful attention she paid when I spoke, the subtle shift in her body language when I entered a room.
It was impossible to ignore and equally impossible to acknowledge.
Because I’m thirty-five years old and she’s Matteo’s daughter, and there are lines that can’t be crossed no matter how much chemistry crackles between us during those moments when our eyes meet across a crowded room.
But fuck, she makes it difficult.
Every family gathering has become an exercise in self-control.
Watching her debate politics with the sophistication of someone twice her age, catching glimpses of the woman she’s becoming—it’s like being slowly tortured by anticipation of something that can never happen.
And now I’m driving to pick her up from Columbia, knowing that crisis situations have a way of stripping away the careful boundaries we’ve both maintained.
When adrenaline runs high and danger feels imminent, people reach for whatever comfort they can find.
The thought of being alone with her in my car while her world potentially falls apart around her is both necessary and dangerous in ways I’m not sure I’m prepared to handle.
I take the turn toward Columbia’s campus, already spotting the news vans positioned strategically around the area.
They’re not at the gates yet.
They’re probably waiting for confirmation that the DeLuca princess actually attends classes here.
But it won’t be long before someone makes the connection.
Or someone leaks it.
My phone buzzes with a text from one of my media contacts: Giuseppe DeLuca story going live in thirty minutes. You might want to check the news.
Fuck. Goddammit.
Which confirms what Matteo already told me, but seeing it from an independent source makes it real. In half an hour, everything changes.
I pull out my phone and send Bianca a quick message: Car waiting outside. -AR
Direct contact instead of going through Matteo, which will signal to her that something’s seriously wrong.
She’s smart enough to read between the lines, but hopefully not smart enough to guess just how catastrophic this situation could become.
As I park outside the academic building where her seminar should be ending, I realize the news vans I spotted earlier are probably already positioning themselves around the city, waiting for the story to break.
Once it does, Bianca’s carefully constructed normal life will be over.
No more anonymous college experience, no more blending in with trust fund kids.
And there she is.
She’s wearing a fitted black sweater with a black leather jacket and dark jeans, her hair falling in those sleek waves that catch the light when she moves.
Even in casual clothes, there’s something about the way she carries herself that sets her apart from the other students.
A confidence that comes from knowing exactly who she is and what she’s capable of, even if her classmates remain blissfully unaware of the truth.
When she spots my car and starts walking toward me, I feel that familiar tension coil in my chest—part protective instinct, part inappropriate attraction, part dread at having to be the one to tell her that everything’s about to change.
Because this pickup isn’t just about getting her home safely.
It’s about managing a situation where her safety, the family’s stability, and my own carefully controlled feelings are all about to be tested in ways that could destroy everything we’ve built.
I open the passenger door for her, and Bianca slides into the seat.
When I sit beside her in the behind the wheel, I’m nearly overwhelmed by the scent of her perfume and that particular energy that always makes the air feel charged between us.
As we talk, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes search my face for clues about what’s wrong.
She knows something’s coming—she’s too smart not to—and part of me is already dreading the moment when I have to watch her world shatter and know that I’m powerless to protect her from this particular kind of pain.
The drive to the DeLuca compound is going to be the longest twenty minutes of my life.