Chapter 9 Bianca #2
After everything that happened last night, after I explicitly told him I was handling this myself, after I made it crystal fucking clear that I was done with his protection and his lies and his decisions about my life—he’s here.
Sitting at the head of the table like he owns the place.
Looking calm and collected and completely in control, like he has every right to be here when I specifically said I didn’t want him involved.
The betrayal cuts deeper than I expected.
I’d thought, maybe stupidly, that he might actually respect my choice for once.
That he might let me prove myself without swooping in to save me from my own decisions.
I should have known better.
Every eye in the room is on me, watching my reaction, analyzing how I handle this obvious power play.
I can feel their interest, their calculation, as they wait to see whether I’ll lose my composure or maintain control.
So instead of screaming at him the way I want to, instead of demanding to know what the fuck he thinks he’s doing here, I paste on my most saccharine smile and let my voice drip with fake sweetness.
“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.” I let my gaze slide over him dismissively. “I didn’t realize this was a family reunion, Don DeLuca.”
The emphasis on “Don DeLuca” lands exactly as intended. Several of the men exchange glances, clearly intrigued by the obvious tension between us.
Matteo grips his glass almost imperceptibly, but his voice remains perfectly controlled when he responds.
“Bianca.” His tone is cold, professional, like I’m a business associate he barely tolerates rather than someone he raised from birth. “How good of you to join us.”
The dismissal in his voice stings more than I expected, but I refuse to let it show.
Instead, I raise an eyebrow and let my smile turn sharp as I take a seat, making a show of settling into my chair as Alessandro takes the seat next to me.
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. After all, it’s not every day Giuseppe DeLuca’s daughter gets to meet with the Families,” I deadpan.
The room goes dead silent.
“So it is true,” Don Vitelli says quietly, his wine glass frozen halfway to his lips.
“Very true,” I say, my smile turning razor-sharp as I feel Matteo’s fury radiating from across the room.
The silence stretches for exactly three heartbeats before all hell breaks loose.
“You lied to us.” Marconi’s voice cuts through the air like a blade as he turns to face Matteo directly. “Two years ago, in this very room, when we asked if she was yours, you said she was.”
“I never lied.” Matteo’s voice is steady, controlled, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands have gone completely still on the table. “I told you that Bianca was mine in every way that matters.”
“Semantics,” spits another don whose name I don’t remember. “You deliberately misled us about her parentage.”
“I protected my family’s privacy,” Matteo replies coolly. “Which is my right as head of the DeLuca organization.”
God, I have to admit he’s handling this well.
Even caught completely off-guard by my public announcement, he’s not backing down or showing weakness.
There’s something almost admirable about watching him navigate this political minefield with such precision.
Almost. If I wasn’t still furious with him for being here in the first place.
“Privacy?” Dominic Calabrese finally speaks, his voice sounding so similar to Johnny’s that it makes my mouth dry. “Or shame? Because let’s be honest about what we’re really discussing here.”
He leans back in his chair, swirling his wine like he’s about to deliver a particularly enjoyable piece of gossip.
“Giuseppe DeLuca raped a sixteen-year-old girl, and this”—he gestures at me with obvious disdain—“is the result. The question isn’t whether Matteo lied about biology.
The question is whether that tainted bloodline makes her unfit for future leadership. ”
The words sting, but I keep my expression neutral.
I’ve heard worse in the last twenty-four hours, and I’m not going to give this piece of shit the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
“Tainted bloodline?” I raise an eyebrow, letting amusement color my voice. “That’s rich, coming from a Calabrese. How’s the family business these days, Dominic? Still profiting off Johnny’s legacy of failure?”
His face darkens, but before he can respond, Matteo’s voice cuts across the room.
“Watch your mouth, Calabrese.” The temperature in the room becomes glacial. “You’re talking about my daughter. And unlike the Renaldis, who let you walk away from Sofia’s kidnapping with all your limbs intact, I won’t be so forgiving if you disrespect her again.”
The threat hangs in the air like a blade, and I watch Dominic’s face darken with fury before he forces himself to lean back in his chair, affecting a casual shrug.
“How touching,” he says, his voice dripping with false amusement. “But we’re not here to relitigate old grievances. We’re here to discuss whether Giuseppe’s daughter—”
“She’s my daughter,” Matteo barks.
“Is she?” Dominic’s smile is pure poison. “Because five minutes ago, she just told us she’s Giuseppe’s daughter. So which is it, Matteo? Is she yours, or are you just the man who was foolish enough to raise his father’s victim’s child out of misplaced guilt?”
Matteo’s composure finally cracks.
His jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle jumping, and his eyes have gone cold in that way that usually means someone’s about to die.
For once, someone else is putting him on the defensive, forcing him to scramble for control instead of being the one pulling all the strings.
It’s fucking delicious.
But even as I’m enjoying his discomfort, I find myself studying Alessandro’s reaction.
While Matteo seethes and the other dons mutter among themselves, Alessandro remains perfectly still, perfectly controlled.
His eyes track every movement in the room, assessing threats and watching responses.
And even though I told him not to get in my way, I notice how he’s positioned himself—close enough to reach me in seconds, his body angled to block any potential attack from the other men at the table.
He’s protecting me without making it obvious.
Even here, even during what’s supposed to be a civilized meeting, he’s ready for violence.
The realization sends an unexpected warmth through my chest.
“Enough.” Don Vitelli’s voice cuts through the growing chaos. “We’re not here to litigate ancient history. We’re here to address a current problem.”
“Which is?” Matteo’s voice is dangerously quiet.
“Whether Giuseppe’s daughter—regardless of who raised her—is fit to inherit the DeLuca empire.” Vitelli’s pale eyes fix on me. “The leaked documents have raised…questions. About bloodline, about temperament, about judgment.”
“Then let’s answer those questions,” Dominic says with obvious relish. “I propose a series of trials. Let her prove she’s worthy of the name she’s so eager to claim.”
The room erupts in discussion, voices rising as the dons debate the merits of testing me like some kind of laboratory rat.
Part of me wants to tell them all to go fuck themselves, that I don’t need their approval or their trials to know who I am.
But a larger part—the part that’s been awakened by learning the truth about Giuseppe—is intrigued.
This is my chance to prove myself without Matteo’s protection, to forge an identity that belongs entirely to me.
“What kind of trials?” I ask, cutting through the chatter.
The room falls silent again, and I can feel Alessandro tense beside me.
But I keep my eyes on Dominic, knowing instinctively that whatever he’s about to propose will be designed to break me.
And I won’t let him.
“Simple,” he says, his smile widening. “Four tests of worthiness. Prove you have the stomach for what leadership in our world requires.”
Okay, that doesn’t sound too bad. “And the first test?”
“Personal execution of a family traitor.” His eyes glitter with malicious amusement. “Someone who sold information to the FBI. You’ll do it yourself, publicly, to send a message about the consequences of betrayal.”
The brutality of it should shock me.
The coldness of asking a nineteen-year-old to commit murder should appall me.
Instead, I feel something dark and satisfied unfurl in my chest.
“Absolutely not.” Matteo’s voice cuts across the room like a whip. “She’s nineteen years old. I won’t allow—”
“You won’t allow?” I turn to face him, letting every ounce of fury show in my voice. “You don’t get to allow or disallow anything in my life anymore. Remember? You’re not my father.”
The words hit their target and I feel that same dark satisfaction grow stronger.
“You will not—”
“No.” I turn back to face the room, my decision crystallizing with startling clarity. “I accept.”
The room erupts again, but this time I can barely hear the voices over the sudden rush of sound in my head.
Not external sound—internal whispers, distinct and unmistakable.
Kill them quickly, a harsh voice growls inside my head. Show no mercy, no hesitation. Make them fear what you’re capable of.
What the fuck—
Use their sympathy, a softer voice murmurs, completely different from the first. Play the reluctant heir forced into violence. Make them pity you even as they respect your strength.
My heart starts racing.
There are voices in my head.
Actual voices that aren’t mine, speaking with such clarity it’s like having other people in the room with me.
Think strategically, a third voice cautions, and this one I recognize with a jolt.
It sounds like Matteo, like years of his training embedded so deeply in my psyche that I can hear his guidance even when I don’t want anything to do with him.
Consider the long-term implications, the political ramifications, the message you’re sending.
I keep my expression neutral even as panic starts to claw at my chest.
I’m hearing…voices.
Multiple distinct voices giving me conflicting advice, and I have no idea what this means or why it’s happening now.
Am I losing my mind?
Is this what happens when you find out your entire life has been a lie?
Do you just…break?
But I can’t let anyone in this room see me falter.
Not now, not when they’re all watching for signs of weakness.
I force myself to breathe normally, to keep my hands steady, even as the voices continue their strange chorus in my head.
Whatever this is, I’ll figure it out later.
Right now, I have a room full of dangerous men to deal with.
I stand up, and the room gradually falls silent as all eyes turn to me.
Alessandro shifts beside me, still ready for violence, still protecting me even as I embrace something that might terrify him.
“Fine,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “You want to test me? Let’s do it. I’m tired of everyone acting like I can’t handle the truth about this world.”
I look directly at Dominic, letting him see the anger in my eyes. “You think Giuseppe’s blood makes me weak? Let’s find out.”
The silence that follows feels heavy, dangerous.
I can see surprise on some faces, calculation on others.
Matteo looks like he wants to drag me out of here by force.
And judging by the expressions around the table, I’ve just stepped into something I might not be ready for.