Chapter 6 Alessandro
ALESSANDRO
Bianca’s car is still parked in its usual spot, the silver Audi gleaming under the security lights.
Relief floods through me.
At least she hasn’t fled into the city where anything could happen to her in her current emotional state.
But if she’s still here, where would she go?
I stand in the driveway for a moment, considering.
Her bedroom would be too obvious, too much the response of a child seeking comfort in familiar surroundings.
And right now, nothing in this house feels familiar or safe to her anymore.
She’d need somewhere private, somewhere she could think without interruption.
Somewhere that feels like hers alone, separate from the family dynamics that have just imploded around her.
Her study.
Not the formal library that the family uses for business meetings or Matteo’s own office, but the small private study on the second floor that Matteo had converted for her when she started high school.
Her sanctuary, filled with her books and papers and the kind of controlled environment she uses to process complex problems.
I head toward the main entrance, noting how quiet the compound has become.
The usual background hum of activity—security making rounds, household staff completing evening tasks—has been muted to almost nothing.
Even the guards at the door look uncomfortable, like they’re not sure what protocol to follow when the family implodes.
The house feels like a tomb as I step inside.
My footsteps are deliberately quiet on the marble floors, years of moving through dangerous situations making silence second nature.
I can hear voices from the direction of Matteo’s office—heated conversation that suggests the crisis management is still ongoing—but I bypass that entirely and head for the main staircase.
The second floor is even quieter than the first, shadows pooling in corners despite the overhead lighting.
I move down the hallway toward Bianca’s study, each step feeling weighted with the understanding that whatever happens in the next few minutes will determine whether Bianca will open up to me.
The door to her study is ajar, and I can hear something that makes my chest tighten—the sound of breaking glass, followed by what might be a sob or a curse. I pause outside, listening.
“Fucking liar.” Her voice is raw, broken. “Nineteen years of fucking lies.”
More breaking glass.
The sharp crack of picture frames being destroyed.
I push the door open carefully and find her in the center of what can only be described as devastation.
Her study is normally a chaotic mix of college textbooks stacked haphazardly on every surface, empty energy drink cans lying about and fairy lights strung around the window that she insisted on despite Matteo’s eye-rolling.
Today, it looks like a hurricane hit it.
The air smells like her favorite Bath & Body Works candle—some sickeningly sweet vanilla scent—stale coffee, and that particular smell of stress-eating junk food.
Her laptop is still open on the desk, probably with seventeen different tabs open for some paper she’s procrastinating on.
There are clothes everywhere—a Columbia hoodie thrown over her chair, jeans crumpled in the corner, and what looks like a dress she wore to some party last weekend hanging off her bookshelf.
Family photos are scattered across the hardwood floor, their frames shattered, glass glinting like stars under the string lights.
Books have been swept off shelves—mostly textbooks she probably never opens, a few romance novels with shirtless guys on the covers, and what looks like her high school yearbook.
Her bulletin board is hanging crooked, covered with photos of her and her college friends making duck faces, ticket stubs from movies, and a Columbia parking permit.
She’s holding another framed photo—this one of her and Matteo at her high school graduation, both of them smiling at the camera with obvious love and pride.
As I watch, she hurls it against the far wall with enough force to shatter the glass in the frame and leave a mark on the wallpaper.
I have to stop her before she completely destroys everything. “Bianca.”
She spins toward me, and the sight of her face leaves me breathless.
Tears have left tracks through her makeup, her hair is disheveled from running her hands through it, and her eyes are red and swollen from crying.
But it’s the raw fury in her expression that makes me pause—the kind of rage that burns so hot it’s almost incandescent.
“Alessandro.” Her voice cracks on my name. “Did you know?”
The question hangs between us like a loaded weapon.
I could lie, could pretend ignorance to spare her the additional betrayal of knowing that one more person in her life has been keeping secrets.
But looking at her now, seeing the desperate need for honesty in her eyes, I know that anything less than the truth will destroy whatever trust might exist between us.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “I’ve known since the beginning.”
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it—just a bitter sound that seems to scrape her throat raw. “Of course you did. Of course the one person I thought might be different, might be honest with me, has been lying too.”
“I wasn’t lying to you,” I say carefully, taking a step into the room. “I was keeping Matteo’s secret. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” She picks up another photo—this one of the whole family at Christmas last year, Bella and Matteo with the twins, Bianca laughing at something Giovanni was doing while Arianna sneezes into Matteo’s face.
“Because from where I’m standing, it feels like everyone I’ve ever trusted has been playing some elaborate game where I’m the only one who doesn’t know the fucking rules. ”
She throws the photo, and I watch it shatter against the bookshelf, family happiness reduced to fragments.
“He’s not my father,” she says, her voice empty now. “Matteo’s not my father, he’s my brother. My half-brother—whatever it is. And Giuseppe—Giuseppe is my father. The monster who built this empire on blood and violence and rape, he’s my actual father.”
I move closer, drawn by the devastation in her voice. “Listen—”
“Don’t.” She holds up a hand, but there’s no real force behind it. “Don’t try to make this better. Don’t try to explain why everyone thought it was okay to lie to me for nineteen years. Just…don’t.”
But I can’t stay away.
Not when she’s falling apart like this.
Not when every instinct I have is screaming at me to comfort her somehow.
“In our world,” I say carefully, “trust is the only currency that matters. And everyone you’ve trusted has just shattered that trust simultaneously.”
She looks at me then, really looks at me, and something hard flashes in her expression. “Uh, including you, Alessandro. You literally just said you’ve known since the beginning, so don’t act like you’re somehow better than the rest of them.”
She’s not wrong and I’m not going to piss her off by arguing with her. “You’re right. I kept the secret too.”
“So why should I trust anything you say?” Her voice is raw, challenging as she folds her arms tightly across her chest.
“Because I’m not trying to protect you from the truth anymore,” I say quietly.
“I’m not going to lie to you or sugarcoat what happened or tell you everything’s going to be fine.
Matteo made a choice when you were born to shield you from something he thought would destroy you.
Maybe it was the right choice then, maybe it wasn’t.
But you deserved to know the truth before now, and keeping it from you was wrong. ”
She stares at me for a long moment, those blue-gray eyes appraising. “You’re not making excuses for him.”
“No. I’m not.”
“You’re not telling me I should be grateful for the lie.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re just…telling me the truth. Even when it makes you look bad too.”
I nod. “Even then.”
She tilts her head, inky black hair spilling over her shoulder as she looks at me. “You understand.”
“I understand that learning your entire identity was built on lies is devastating. I understand that feeling like everyone you love has been playing a long con on your life is worse than any physical pain.” I take another step closer.
“And I understand that right now, you need something real. Something honest.”
“I don’t know what’s real anymore,” she whispers, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “I don’t know who I am or where I belong or what any of this means.”
“You’re still you,” I tell her, close enough now that I could reach out and touch her if I wanted to. “The circumstances of your birth don’t change who you’ve become.”
“Don’t they?” She laughs again, that same bitter sound. “I’m Giuseppe’s daughter, Alessandro. What if everything dark inside me comes from him? What if I’m destined to become the same kind of monster he was?”
Impossible. “You’re not a monster.”
“How do you know?” The question comes out desperate, pleading. “How can you be sure when I can’t even be sure myself anymore?”
The honest answer is that I can’t be sure.
None of us can predict what someone will become under pressure, how they’ll respond when everything they’ve believed is stripped away.
But looking at her now—seeing her pain and fury and desperate need for something solid to hold onto—I know with absolute certainty that whatever darkness might exist in her isn’t the defining characteristic of who she is.
“Because I know you,” I say simply. “I’ve seen how you treat people, how you make decisions, how you handle power when you have it. Giuseppe was a monster because he chose to be. You choose to be something different.”
She stares at me for a long moment, face impassive. “You’re the only one who’s been honest with me tonight.”
“I’m sure—”