Chapter 9 Bianca
BIANCA
The private jet cuts through the sky toward Montreal, and I’m trying not to think about how this is the first time I’ve traveled anywhere without Dad’s—without Matteo’s—explicit approval.
The leather seat beneath me is buttery soft, the kind of luxury I’ve grown up with and never really appreciated until this moment when it represents my freedom to make my own choices.
I’m staring out the window at the clouds below, mentally rehearsing what I’m going to say to the Families, when footsteps echo down the aisle.
I don’t look up—probably just the flight attendant checking if I need anything—but then a familiar cologne hits me.
Cedar and something uniquely masculine that makes my stomach do this stupid little flip.
“Mind if I sit?”
I whip around so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
Alessandro stands in the aisle, and Jesus Christ, he looks good.
He’s wearing an expertly tailored charcoal suit, the fabric hugging his broad shoulders in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
His white dress shirt is crisp and expensive, open at the collar just enough to show the strong line of his throat.
Even his hair looks perfect—those dark waves styled just messy enough to make me want to run my fingers through them.
Which is exactly what I was doing last night when we—
Stop.
Don’t think about the kiss.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” The words come out sharper than I intended, but I’m too shocked to care about politeness.
This is a private jet—how did I miss him?
“Flying to Montreal, apparently.” He slides into the seat beside me without waiting for permission, his movements fluid and confident in that way that’s always made him seem untouchable.
“Did Matteo send you?” Anger flares in my chest, hot and immediate. “Did he decide I needed a babysitter after all?”
“No one sent me.” His voice is calm, matter-of-fact. “This was my choice.”
“Bullshit.” I twist in my seat to face him fully, ignoring how the movement brings us closer together. “He probably told you the second I left to follow me and make sure I don’t embarrass the precious DeLuca name.”
“Bianca.” There’s something in the way he says my name that makes me pause. “Matteo didn’t send me. This was my choice.”
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard, but I’m too angry to let it soften me. “Then why—”
“Because you’re walking into a room full of predators who want to see you fail.” His hazel eyes are serious, intense. “Because they’ll be looking for any sign of weakness they can exploit. I can’t let you face that alone.”
The words should piss me off.
They should sound like more protection I don’t need, more people thinking I can’t handle myself.
Instead, they make something warm unfurl in my chest.
Which is ridiculous.
I’m supposed to be angry at him too.
He’s part of the world that’s been lying to me, part of the careful construction that kept me from knowing the truth about myself.
But then I remember the kiss.
Heat floods my cheeks as the memory hits me—his hands in my hair, the way he kissed me back like he’d been waiting years for permission, the solid warmth of his body against mine.
God, I’d liked it so much it scared me.
For those few moments, everything else had disappeared.
The betrayal, the lies, the devastating revelation about my parentage—none of it mattered when his lips were on mine.
“You’re blushing,” he observes, and there’s something almost smug in his voice.
“I’m not,” I start to deny it, then stop. Fuck it. “Maybe I am. So what?”
“So nothing.” But his eyes have gotten darker, and there’s something in his expression that makes my toes curl. “I just didn’t expect you to be thinking about last night.”
“Who says I was thinking about last night?” I ask, my heart rate accelerating rapidly.
“The way you looked at me when I sat down. The way you’re looking at me now.” He leans closer, just a fraction, but enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “The way your breathing just changed,” he whispers, his voice dropping several octaves.
Fuck me.
He’s right, and I hate that he’s right.
My pulse has picked up, and I’m hyperaware of every inch of space between us.
Which is basically no space at all in these airplane seats.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, but my voice comes out breathier than I intended. Come on Bianca, stay cool. Don’t be pathetic.
“I’m not flattering myself. I’m stating facts.” His gaze drops to my lips for just a second before meeting my eyes again. “You’re thinking about how it felt when I kissed you. How it felt when you kissed me back.”
The words send heat spiraling through me, and I have to resist the urge to lean closer.
Instead, I force myself to sit back, to put some distance between us.
“That was a mistake,” I say, trying to sound more convinced than I feel.
“Was it?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with implication.
Because the honest answer is no, it wasn’t a mistake.
It was the first real thing that had happened to me in a night full of devastating revelations.
It was honest and raw and was one hundred percent what I’d needed in that moment.
But admitting that feels dangerous in ways I’m not ready to deal with.
The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing our descent into Montreal, and I’m grateful for the distraction.
I need to focus on what’s coming, not on how Alessandro’s presence makes my skin feel too tight.
“Just…don’t get in my way tonight,” I say finally. “I know what I’m doing.”
“I hope you do.”
There’s something in his voice that makes me look at him sharply, but his expression is unreadable.
Whatever he’s thinking, he’s keeping it to himself.
Bastard.
The jet touches down smoothly, and within minutes we’re being escorted to a waiting car.
The October air in Montreal is crisp and cold, carrying the scent of autumn leaves and the promise of winter.
I pull my coat tighter around myself as we slide into the backseat of the black sedan.
Le Saint-Martin appears shortly after—all gleaming glass and elegant stonework, with warm golden light spilling from every window.
It’s the kind of place where rooms are eye-wateringly expensive and where every detail is designed to remind you that you’re in the presence of serious money and serious power.
I’ve been to places like this my entire life, but tonight it feels different.
Tonight, I’m not here as Matteo’s daughter, sheltered and protected.
I’m here as Giuseppe’s daughter, and these men are going to see what that means.
For the first time since leaving New York, I feel nervous.
The feeling hits me like a punch to the gut as we walk through the lobby.
Every surface screams luxury—marble floors so polished they reflect the crystal chandeliers above, fresh flowers that permeate the room, staff members who move with the kind of trained discretion that comes from serving the truly powerful.
I’ve grown up with this kind of wealth, but tonight it feels intimidating rather than familiar.
Tonight, I’m not just another rich girl playing at being important.
I’m walking into a room where my words could start wars, where my behavior will be analyzed and judged by men who’ve spent decades building and maintaining empires.
Suddenly, I want to vomit.
Stay calm, I tell myself. You’re a DeLuca. You can do this.
The thought steadies me, reminding me of who I am and why I’m here.
I may be Giuseppe’s daughter, but I’m also the heir to one of the most powerful families in New York.
These men may want to test me, but I’ve been preparing for this my entire life without even knowing it.
A hotel manager in an expensive suit leads us through a series of corridors, each more opulent than the last.
Finally, we stop before a set of heavy wooden doors.
“The private dining room,” he says with the kind of deference reserved for people who could buy and sell entire city blocks.
The doors open, and I step inside.
Holy shit.
The room is like something out of a movie about old-world power.
Crystal chandeliers that belong in a museum cast these perfect, dramatic shadows across this massive mahogany table that looks like it could seat an army.
The light catches on cut crystal glasses filled with the finest wine because that’s just how these men operate.
Everything screams old money, old power—from the hand-painted silk wallpaper that probably took some artist months to complete, to this antique carpet under our feet that I’d bet anything is worth at least seven figures.
It’s gorgeous and intimidating and exactly the kind of power display I’d expect from the Families.
Twelve men sit around the table, each one radiating the kind of authority that comes from controlling territory, money, and lives.
I recognize most of them from family gatherings and business meetings—Don Vitelli with his silver hair gleaming under the chandelier light as he writes something down, Alberto Marconi talking softly into a cell phone.
And then I see Dominic Calabrese.
My heart stops.
He looks so much like Johnny it’s almost physically painful.
The same dark hair, the same sharp features, the same cruel mouth.
For a second, I’m trapped in that goddamn monastery.
Dominic’s eyes meet mine across the room, and his smile is pure predator.
He looks me up and down like I’m something he’s considering buying, his gaze lingering in ways that make my skin crawl.
The expression on his face suggests he finds me lacking, amusing, or both.
I feel Alessandro stiffen beside me, and I know he’s caught the look too.
There’s something comforting about having him there, about knowing I’m not facing this alone.
Then I see who’s sitting at the head of the table, and all thoughts of comfort disappear.
Matteo.
Rage floods through me so fast and hot that I actually see red around the edges of my vision.
He’s here.