Chapter 3 - Bianca
BIANCA
God, everything feels so awkward.
I can’t put my finger on what’s changed, but there’s different in the air.
A tension that makes my skin prickle.
More security guards than usual patrol the grounds, and they’re not trying to be subtle about it.
Their posture is changed too, alert in a way that suggests actual threat rather than routine protocol.
Alessandro walks me to the front door but doesn’t come inside, which is weird.
Usually when there’s family business, he at least comes in to debrief with Dad.
Instead, he just squeezes my shoulder and says, “Stay close to home tonight,” before heading back to his car.
Stay close to home.
Like I’m fucking twelve again.
Inside, the house feels like everyone’s holding their breath.
Maria, our housekeeper, practically jumps when I say hello, and Tony—one of Dad’s guys who’s usually relaxed around me—won’t quite meet my eyes when I pass him in the hallway.
Conversations stop when I enter rooms.
Not the normal pause when someone walks in, but the abrupt, guilty silence of people who were talking about something they don’t want me to hear.
I find Dad and Bella in the family room, and for a second, everything looks normal.
Dad’s sitting on the couch with Arianna on his lap, helping her stack colorful blocks while Giovanni crashes toy cars into the coffee table legs.
Bella’s curled up next to them, laughing at something Giovanni just said, her hand resting on Dad’s arm in that casual, intimate way that always makes their love obvious.
They look like the perfect family. Mom, dad, and their beautiful twins.
Suddenly I feel like I’m watching them through glass—like I’m looking at something I’m not really part of, even though I’ve always been part of it.
The feeling is so uneasy and unexpected that I actually pause in the doorway, studying the scene.
“Banca!” Arianna squeals when she spots me, abandoning her blocks to reach her arms up for a hug.
The nickname makes me smile despite my confusion. She can’t quite say “Bianca” yet, so I’m “Banca” to both twins, which Dad thinks is hilarious and Bella finds adorable.
I cross over and scoop her up, pressing a kiss to her soft hair.
She smells like baby shampoo and the sweet scent of apples, her favorite fruit.
Arianna is delicate like her mother, with Bella’s hazel eyes and soft features, but she has the DeLuca dark hair. “Hey, Aria. What are you building?”
“Castle!” she announces proudly, pointing at the scattered blocks.
Giovanni looks up from where he’s been systematically knocking down everything his sister builds, and I can’t help but smile.
He’s the complete opposite of his twin.
He’s sturdy and solid where she’s delicate, with Dad’s dark hair and those piercing blue-gray eyes that mark him as unmistakably DeLuca.
Even at eighteen months, there’s something about his expression that reminds me of the old family photos of Dad at that age.
“Gio knock down!” Arianna tells me, pointing accusingly at her brother.
Giovanni just grins and goes back to crashing his toy cars, completely unrepentant.
“Giovanni,” Bella scolds, but she’s smiling. “Be nice to your sister.”
I settle onto the couch with Arianna still in my arms, trying to shake off that weird feeling of displacement.
This is my family. This is where I belong.
So why do I suddenly feel like an outsider looking in?
“How was school?” Dad asks, but there’s something forced about his casual tone.
“Fine.” I study his face, looking for clues. “Alessandro said there was some kind of situation with the Giuseppe story. How bad is it?”
Dad and Bella exchange a quick look—the kind of silent communication that happens between two disgustingly in love married people who can read each other’s minds.
It’s the look that confirms they definitely know something I don’t.
“We’re handling it,” Dad says, which is basically a non-answer. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
Nothing for me to worry about.
Right.
Because Giuseppe was just my grandfather, and leaked FBI files about his criminal activities couldn’t possibly affect me.
I mentally count to five. “Dad, I’m nineteen, not nine. If this affects the family, it affects me too.”
“Bianca.” His voice carries that tone that used to end arguments when I was younger—the “because I said so” voice that meant the discussion was over.
Except I’m not younger anymore, and I’m getting really goddamn tired of being treated like I need protection from information that’s probably already all over the news.
“The story’s everywhere,” I point out. “My classmates are texting me screenshots. You can’t exactly keep this from me when it’s trending on Twitter.”
Bella shifts uncomfortably, adjusting Giovanni when he tries to climb over the back of the couch. “We just want to make sure you’re prepared for the media attention,” she says carefully. “This kind of exposure can be overwhelming.”
Which is true, but it’s not the whole truth.
I can tell by the way she’s not quite looking at me, how Dad’s lips are pressed into a thin line, that goes beyond just bad publicity.
“Is there something else?” I ask directly. “Something worse than what’s already public?”
“Bianca—” Dad starts.
Fuck this shit.
Dad starting off with my name means he’s going to give me some half-assed vague non-answer.
“Don’t.” I stand up, feeling my temper start to rise. I gently set Arianna down with her blocks. “Don’t lie to me. I can tell you’re both freaking out about something specific, so just tell me what it is.”
But Dad just shakes his head. “Let me handle this. That’s what I’m here for.”
Let him handle it.
God, I hate when he says that.
“Bullshit,” I snap, ignoring Bella’s alarmed look. “I’m not some fragile little princess who needs to be protected from the big bad world. I’m nineteen years old and this is my family too. So either tell me what’s really going on, or I’ll figure it out myself—and you won’t like how I do it.”
Dad’s face hardens, and suddenly he’s not the gentle father figure sitting with his toddlers—he’s Matteo DeLuca, the don who doesn’t tolerate being challenged.
“You’ll do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it,” he growls.
“This isn’t a democracy, Bianca. It’s my family, and I make the decisions. ”
His family. Not our family. His.
The words hit like a slap, and something cold and angry unfurls in my chest. “Right. Your family. Got it.”
I turn and walk out before the hurt can show on my face, leaving behind the sound of Giovanni’s confused babbling and Bella’s quiet, “Matteo, that was too harsh.”
The house suddenly feels suffocating, like the walls are closing in around me.
His family.
The words keep echoing in my head, and each time they sting worse.
I’ve lived here my entire life, called this place home for nineteen years, and apparently I’m just…what?
A guest?
Someone he tolerates out of obligation?
I need space to think, to figure out what’s really going on, because clearly I don’t know shit about my own life.
Instead of heading to my room like they probably expect—like the good little princess who does what she’s told—I decide to explore areas of the house I rarely visit anymore.
Maybe I’ll find some answers since no one seems interested in giving me any.
The east wing has always been quieter, used mostly for storage and guest rooms that never have guests.
When I was little, I used to play hide-and-seek here with Mario before, well, before everything went to shit with him.
Now it just feels forgotten, like a part of the house that time left behind.
I’m wandering through what used to be a sitting room when I spot something covered with a dust sheet in the corner.
Something about the shape seems familiar, so I pull the sheet away and freeze.
It’s a portrait of my mother.
Sophia DeLuca stares back at me from the canvas, and my breath catches.
I’ve seen pictures of her before—photos in Dad’s study, a few family albums—but this painting captures something the photographs never did.
She’s beautiful in an almost ethereal way, with delicate features and pale skin that makes her look fragile.
But there is something in her eyes—like she’s been through more than she let on.
Soft, sure, but sharp too, like she didn’t break easy.
Her hair is the same dark color as mine, falling in waves around her shoulders.
We have the same nose, the same shape to our lips. But her eyes are different—lighter, more green than blue.
Looking at her, I can see where I get my looks, but I can also see the differences.
I already know Dad isn’t my biological father.
I found that out two years ago when Johnny Calabrese kidnapped me.
But Dad explained that sometimes these things happen.
That Sophia had been with someone else before they got married, and it didn’t matter because he’d chosen to raise me as his own.
I’d accepted that explanation because I wanted to, because it didn’t really change anything between us.
But staring at this portrait now, I’m starting to wonder if there’s more to the story than Dad told me.
Except sitting here staring at this portrait, I realize how little I actually know about her.
Dad doesn’t talk about Sophia much, and when he does it’s usually just basic facts.
She died when I was seven, but even then I didn’t see her much.
She was always going to parties or locked in her room with headaches, more interested in beautiful clothes and social events than spending time with me.
I reach out and trace the painted curve of her cheek with my finger.
The canvas is smooth and cool under my touch.
If I think really hard, I can almost remember her perfume.
It was something expensive and floral that used to linger in the hallways long after she’d left a room.
But that might just be my imagination filling in blanks.
When she died, I didn’t really grieve. How do you mourn someone you barely knew?
Someone who felt more like a beautiful stranger living in your house than an actual mother?