Chapter 3 - Bianca #2
Dad grieved enough for both of us, and Bella’s felt more of a mother or older sister to me in the last two years, even though Bella is only five years older than me.
But what was she really like?
What did she think about, dream about?
Did she love Dad the way Bella loves him now, or was their marriage something else entirely?
What was her relationship like with my grandfather?
He must have liked her or approved of her on some level if he accepted her into the family, knowing she was pregnant with another man’s child.
The longer I stare at the painting, the more questions pile up in my head and the more frustrated I get with how few answers exist.
It’s like trying to solve a puzzle when half the pieces are missing.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore.
I need answers, and clearly no one’s going to volunteer them.
I’m done being the good little princess who waits patiently for scraps of information.
If Dad won’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll make him tell me.
Or bully it out of one of his captains.
They’ve always been suckers for me.
I head back through the house toward his office, my footsteps echoing in the quiet hallways.
But as I get closer, I hear voices drifting from behind his partially closed door.
Male voices, urgent and tense.
I shouldn’t eavesdrop—I know that—but after being shut out of every conversation today, I’m really past caring about should and shouldn’t.
I move quietly down the hallway until I can make out words.
“—damage control is going to be nearly impossible if—” That’s Antonio, Dad’s most trusted consigliere.
“I know the risks.” Dad’s voice, tight with strain. “But we can’t control what’s already out there.”
“The question is what Bianca needs to know.” Bella’s voice now, quieter but still audible. “And when.”
What Bianca needs to know.
My stomach drops.
They are keeping something from me.
Something specific and significant enough that they’re having strategy sessions about whether to tell me.
“She’s going to find out eventually,” Antonio says. “Better it comes from you than from some reporter digging through the files.”
“Find out what?” Bella asks, and there’s something in her voice that sounds almost…afraid. “No, Matteo. No.”
“The files don’t just contain financial records and murder evidence,” Dad says slowly. “There’s personal information. About Giuseppe and Sophia. About…what happened between them.”
A long silence follows, and I find myself holding my breath.
“Jesus,” Bella whispers. “How detailed?”
“Detailed enough.” Dad’s voice is weary, as if the weight of the entire world is on his shoulders. “Detailed enough that anyone who reads them will understand what Giuseppe was and what he did to her.”
What he did to her.
My ears are ringing.
What he did to her.
Not what happened between them—what he did to her. Like she didn’t have a choice. Like—
“Matteo,” Antonio says carefully, “if this comes out, it changes everything. Not just for the family’s reputation, but for Bianca specifically. People are going to do the math.”
Do the math. What math? What are they talking about?
“I know.” Dad sounds exhausted suddenly, older than I’ve ever heard him. “I’ve been dreading this moment for nineteen years.”
Nineteen years. My entire life.
“Maybe it’s time,” Bella says softly. “Maybe she deserves to know the truth.”
The truth about what?
I can’t take it anymore.
Whatever they’re discussing, whatever they’re hiding from me—I need to know.
Now.
I push open the office door without knocking, and all three of them jump like they’ve been caught doing something illegal.
“What truth?” I demand, looking straight at Dad. “What is it that I supposedly deserve to know?”
Dad’s face goes pale, and for a moment he looks like he’s going to be sick.
Bella reaches for his hand, and Antonio takes a step back like he wants to escape from whatever’s about to happen.
“There’s nothing,” Dad begins, but I can see the lie forming on his lips
“No.” I cross my arms and plant my feet. “No more deflecting, no more protecting me from whatever this is. I just heard you say that I’m going to find out eventually anyway, so tell me now. What did Giuseppe do to Sophia?”
Dad’s nostrils flare and he straightens to his full height—that intimidating posture that makes other men step back. “Bianca, go to your room. We’ll discuss this later.”
Is he seriously going to treat me like I’m five years old?
Go to my room?
He’s joking.
“Like hell we will.” My voice is getting louder, but I don’t care. “I’m not leaving until someone tells me what’s going on.”
“This isn’t up for debate,” Dad says, his voice taking on that cold authority that used to end arguments when I was younger. “You don’t need to know the details of—”
“Of what? What don’t I need to know?” I can feel my control slipping, nineteen years of being protected and sheltered and lied to finally boiling over. “I heard Antonio say I’m going to find out eventually anyway, so tell me now. What did Giuseppe do to my mother?”
Bella reaches for Dad’s arm, her fingers white where they grip his sleeve. “Matteo,” she says softly “maybe—”
“No.” Dad shakes his head sharply, his face set in stone. “She doesn’t need to carry this. It’s not her burden.”
“It’s not your choice!” I explode, my voice echoing off the office walls. “It’s about my mother and my family and my life, so it is absolutely my choice! What did Giuseppe do to Sophia?”
The silence that follows feels deafening.
Dad’s face has gone ashen, and Bella’s eyes are bright with unshed tears.
Antonio looks like he wants to disappear entirely.
Finally, Dad closes his eyes, takes a shuddering breath, and when he opens them again, I see something that looks like complete defeat.
“He raped her,” he says quietly. “Giuseppe raped Sophia. Repeatedly.”
I feel something splinter inside me, but before I can fully process them, Dad continues.
“And nine months later, you were born.”
The world tilts sideways.
Nine months later. Giuseppe raped Sophia. I was born.
The math Antonio mentioned crashes over me with devastating clarity.
If Giuseppe raped my mother, and I was born nine months later, then the story Dad told me about Sophia being with someone else before their marriage was a lie.
Giuseppe isn’t my grandfather.
He’s my father.
Which means the man who raised me isn’t my father at all. He’s my…
“You’re my brother,” I whisper, the words feeling foreign and wrong in my mouth. I’m going to be sick. “Oh my god. You’re not my dad. You’re my brother.”
Dad—Matteo—my brother—flinches like I’ve slapped him. “Bianca, please—”
But I can’t hear whatever he’s about to say over the roaring in my ears.
Everything I’ve ever believed about myself, about my identity, about my place in this family—it’s all been a lie.
Giuseppe DeLuca, the man whose picture is turned over in Dad’s study, the man whose legacy I’m supposed to inherit, the man I’ve spent my life trying to understand and live up to—he’s not the grandfather who built an empire for his family’s future.
He’s the monster who raped my mother and created me.
And Matteo—the man who raised me, who taught me everything I know, who I’ve called Dad for nineteen years—he didn’t just lie about who my biological father was.
He lied about everything.
The story about Sophia being with someone else, the casual explanation about genetics not always adding up—all of it was designed to hide the truth that my mother was raped by his own father.
I’m not Matteo DeLuca’s oldest daughter.
I’m Giuseppe DeLuca’s victim’s child, and Matteo’s half-sister, and everything I thought I knew about love and family and who I am has just been revealed as an elaborate construction designed to protect me from a truth that changes everything.
The room spins, and I have to grab the back of a chair to keep from falling.
“Nineteen years,” I manage to say, my voice sounding like it’s coming from very far away. “You’ve lied to me for nineteen years.”