Chapter 4 - Alessandro
ALESSANDRO
The calls start before I’ve even left the DeLuca compound.
“Alessandro.” I answer the first one while sitting in my car in the circular driveway, already knowing this is going to be a long night.
“We need to talk.” Vincent Aguilera’s voice carries that careful neutrality that means he’s fishing for information. “This Giuseppe situation—it’s causing ripples.”
Ripples.
Like the systematic exposure of decades-old federal evidence is some minor inconvenience rather than a potential war declaration against every family that’s maintained the delicate balance of power in New York.
“I’m aware of the situation,” I reply, keeping my own voice equally neutral.
Vincent’s been testing the boundaries of our alliance for months, looking for any sign of weakness he can exploit.
“My concern is how this affects our business arrangements. If the DeLuca name becomes too…visible…it could complicate things for all of us.”
Translation: he’s wondering if this is the moment to distance himself from the DeLucas and align with someone less exposed.
The vultures are already circling, and the story hasn’t even been public for two hours.
“The DeLuca family has weathered worse storms than this,” I say, watching security personnel move across the compound grounds. “The DeLucas didn’t build their empire by accident.”
“Of course not. But public scrutiny changes things. Federal attention has a way of making everyone nervous.”
I end the call without committing to anything, but Vincent’s already made his position clear.
He’ll maintain our business relationship as long as it’s profitable, but the moment the heat becomes too intense, he’ll cut ties to protect his own interests.
Three more calls follow the same pattern—family heads who’ve done business with us for years, suddenly concerned about their exposure, their reputations, their federal liability.
Each conversation is a careful dance around the real question: is this the beginning of the end for DeLuca power?
The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m fielding calls about political stability while my own foundation feels like it’s shifting beneath my feet.
Every conversation about alliance strategy and federal exposure is filtered through thoughts of Bianca—how she’s handling this revelation, whether she understands the full implications, what this means for her future as Matteo’s heir.
My phone rings again and I exhale loudly, scrubbing my face with my hands.
This time it’s Angelo Manzo, one of the older family heads who’s never quite trusted the alliance between the Riccis and DeLucas.
“Alessandro,” Angelo says, his voice gravelly and raspy from too many years of cigar smoking. “I assume you’ve seen the news.”
“Hard to miss.” I lean back in the leather seat, already preparing for another probing conversation about loyalty and business arrangements.
“This Giuseppe business—it’s bringing up old memories.” There’s a chewing noise in the background, as if Angelo is chomping on a cigar. “Makes a man wonder what other secrets might surface if people start digging deep enough.”
There’s something in his tone that puts me on edge.
Angelo wasn’t just commenting on the situation—he was testing to see how much I know about the family’s deeper secrets.
“Giuseppe’s been dead for years,” I reply carefully. “Whatever he did or didn’t do, it’s ancient history.”
“Is it?” Angelo’s laugh carries no warmth. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like the past has a way of catching up with people. Especially when there’s federal evidence involved.”
The conversation continues for another ten minutes, but the message is clear: if more damaging information surfaces, the other families won’t hesitate to use it against us.
Every relationship I’ve spent years building, every alliance that’s kept the peace, is suddenly conditional on how well we weather this storm.
After I hang up, I find myself staring at the main house through my windshield, thinking about how I got here—how a street-level operator with nothing but ambition and intelligence managed to build an empire that now sits at the center of New York’s most dangerous political web.
It started with loyalty.
Specifically, my loyalty to Matteo during the darkest period of his life.
I was a captain in my mid-twenties when the Sophia situation came to a head.
Smart enough to see patterns others missed, ambitious enough to want more than street-level operations, but not yet powerful enough to command real respect.
Matteo was dealing with suspicions about his wife’s activities—whispers that she was meeting with enemies, sharing information, undermining family operations.
Most men in his position would have handled it with violence first and questions later.
But Matteo was different.
He wanted proof before he acted, wanted to understand the scope of the betrayal before deciding how to respond.
That kind of thinking in the face of personal betrayal showed me what real leadership looked like.
When everything exploded—when Sophia’s alliance with Johnny Calabrese became undeniable, when the confrontation in the house ended with her death—I was one of the few people who knew the real story.
Not the sanitized version that protected Matteo’s reputation, but the truth about a desperate woman who’d chosen power over family and paid the ultimate price.
That knowledge, and my discretion in handling it, earned me Matteo’s trust in ways that money or fear never could.
In our world, loyalty demonstrated during a crisis is the foundation of all real power.
But it was Bianca’s kidnapping several years later that transformed our professional relationship into something deeper.
Mario DeLuca’s betrayal cut deeper than Sophia’s ever could, because blood is supposed to mean something in our world.
When Giuseppe’s bastard son decided that his brother was weak, that the family needed different leadership, he chose the most brutal method possible to make his point—taking a twelve-year-old girl and using her as leverage against her father.
I’ll never forget the call that came in the middle of the night. Matteo’s voice, raw with panic and rage: “They took Bianca. Mario’s got her, and he’s going to kill her if I don’t step down.”
I’d helped coordinate search efforts before, but this was different.
This was personal in a way that surprised me—not just because of my loyalty to Matteo, but because I’d known Bianca, had seen her intelligence and courage even at such a young age.
The shipping container where we finally found her was a testament to Mario’s cruelty.
Fucking Red Hook, surrounded by filth.
When we breached the container, I was right behind Matteo, weapon drawn, expecting the worst.
What we found was a child stripped of her dignity—twelve years old, silent, trembling in the corner of a shipping container.
Her uniform was torn, her wrists chafed and bleeding.
That moment branded itself into my memory, a wound I’ve carried ever since.
But what stayed with me most wasn’t the rescue itself.
It was what came after.
Bianca, once so guarded, silent through the chaos, finally letting go.
She didn’t speak, just reached for Matteo with this quiet desperation, as if some part of her had always known he’d come.
She clung to him not like a victim, but like someone claiming safety for the first time.
And when he carried her out, it wasn’t her tears I remembered most.
It was the way her hand fisted into his shirt, refusing to let go.
That was the moment I understood what family really meant to the DeLucas.
Not just blood and tradition, but the kind of love that would burn the world down to keep each other safe.
It was also the moment I realized that my loyalty to this family was no longer just professional.
Watching Matteo carry his daughter out of that warehouse, seeing the relief and love and determination on his face…
I knew then I’d follow this man anywhere, fight any battle, face any enemy to protect what he’d built.
That operation cemented my reputation as someone who could be trusted with the family’s most precious assets.
Within two years, I’d built my own organization with Matteo’s backing, creating a separate but allied power base that strengthened both our positions.
But now, seven years later, I’m sitting in my car in Matteo’s driveway, fielding calls from men who want to know if that loyalty still holds when the federal spotlight gets too bright.
Before I can decide whether to head home or stay close in case Matteo needs additional support, my phone buzzes with a text message from Bella DeLuca.
Alessandro, all hell has broken loose here. Bianca knows the truth about Giuseppe and Sophia. Matteo is falling apart. Can you please find her and talk to her? She might listen to you.
I stare at the message for a long moment, my chest tightening with an emotion I don’t want to examine too closely.
Bianca knows the truth.
After nineteen years of carefully constructed protection, she finally knows that Giuseppe wasn’t just her grandfather—he was her father.
That Matteo isn’t her father but her half-brother.
That everything she’s believed about her identity has been a lie designed to shield her from an unbearable truth.
I can’t imagine what that kind of revelation does to someone.
The complete destruction of your sense of self, the understanding that every relationship you’ve treasured is built on deception, the realization that you’re not just the heir to a criminal empire but the direct result of its founder’s violence.
And she’s alone with that knowledge probably feeling like she has no one left to trust.
The rational part of my mind knows I should maintain the professional boundaries that have kept our relationship functional for years.
But the irrational part—the part that’s been fighting inappropriate feelings since her sixteenth birthday—wants nothing more than to find her and offer whatever comfort I can provide.
To be the person she turns to when her world falls apart, regardless of the implications.
The question is whether I can find her and provide that support without crossing lines that can never be uncrossed.
But as I get out of my car, I realize I’m already past the point of caring about boundaries.
Bianca needs help, and I’m the one person who might be able to provide it without judgment or agenda.
Everything else—the political implications, the family dynamics, the inappropriate attraction I’ve been fighting for years—will have to wait until I know she’s safe.