Chapter 10 Alessandro #2
More difficult because every moment we spend planning brings us physically closer, intellectually synchronized in ways that make the air between us electric.
I offer counsel only when asked, support her decisions without trying to override them, and respect her need to prove she can handle this independently.
But every protective instinct I have screams at me to take charge, to shield her from the psychological weight of what she’s about to do, to find a way to complete this trial without requiring her to personally pull the trigger.
I don’t.
Because I’m beginning to understand that what she needs isn’t protection—it’s partnership.
Someone who believes she’s capable of making hard choices and living with the consequences.
“The social club has three entrances,” she says, spreading surveillance photos across the hotel room’s dining table. “Main entrance on Northern Boulevard, service entrance in the alley, and emergency exit that leads to the parking structure.”
“Torrino’s routine?” I ask, leaning over her shoulder to study the layouts. The scent of her perfume makes it hard to focus on planning.
“He arrives every Tuesday at four PM for the weekly card game. Stays until eight, sometimes later.” Her finger traces the building’s perimeter on the photograph. “Security is minimal—two guys, maybe three. They’re not expecting trouble.”
“Because they don’t know he’s been compromised,” I observe. “Which means we have the element of surprise.”
“Exactly.” She looks up at me, and for a moment we’re close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her blue eyes and can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. “The question is how public we want to make it.”
The moment stretches between us, loaded with more than just tactical considerations.
Then she steps back, putting professional distance between us, and I force myself to focus on the mission rather than how much I want to close that distance again.
“We need witnesses, but we also need to control the narrative,” I say, moving to the other side of the table. “Too public and we risk law enforcement response. Not public enough and the message doesn’t get delivered.”
“What about during the card game?” She points to the interior layout. “Main room, multiple witnesses, but contained environment. We control who sees what.”
The plan develops organically over the next several hours.
Entry strategy, positioning, contingencies for various scenarios.
Bianca’s mind works with a precision that both impresses and concerns me.
She thinks like Giuseppe.
But it’s when we move to practical preparations that things become truly dangerous.
My private shooting range is in the basement of a building I own in Midtown, soundproofed and equipped with everything from basic target practice to tactical scenarios.
I’ve brought Bianca here to test her accuracy under pressure, to make sure she can actually follow through when the moment comes.
“Have you ever killed anyone before?” I ask as she examines the glock I’ve selected for the operation.
“No.” Her voice is steady, matter-of-fact. “But I’ve thought about it. More than I probably should.”
The honesty in her admission sends heat through me in ways it shouldn’t.
She’s not trying to sound tough or impress me—she’s just stating a fact about herself that most people would find disturbing.
I find it intoxicating.
“Thinking about it and doing it are different things,” I warn, moving behind her to adjust her stance.
My hands settle on her shoulders, and when I guide her positioning, my chest brushes against her back.
I feel her sharp intake of breath, the way she goes perfectly still under my touch.
“I know.” Her voice comes out slightly breathless.
She leans back into the contact for just a moment—long enough for me to feel the warmth of her body against mine—before straightening with obvious effort.
The air between us crackles with energy as I reluctantly step back to the safety line, my hands still tingling from touching her.
I watch as she fires round after round into the target, each shot grouping tighter than the last.
Her hand is steady, her breathing controlled, her focus absolute.
The way she handles the weapon—confident, precise, unflinching—sends heat spiraling through me in ways it shouldn’t.
There’s no hesitation, no distress at the weapon’s recoil.
Instead, there’s a cold precision that makes my mouth go dry and my pulse race.
She’s inherited Giuseppe’s capacity for necessary violence, and watching her embrace that darkness makes her more irresistible than ever.
“How was that?” She sets down the weapon and turns to face me. There’s a flush in her cheeks—from adrenaline or our earlier contact, I can’t tell.
“Perfect,” I say, my voice rougher than intended.
The look that passes between us is loaded with everything we’re not saying.
She takes a small step toward me, then stops, her teeth catching her bottom lip in a way that makes me want to close the distance between us and finish what we started in her study.
“Alessandro,” she says quietly, and hearing my name on her lips like that nearly undoes me.
“Yeah?” I take a step closer despite every rational thought telling me not to.
She opens her mouth like she’s about to say something important, then seems to change her mind. Instead, she reaches for another magazine with hands that aren’t quite as steady as they were a moment ago.
“We should practice the timing,” she says, but her voice has gone breathless again.
“Right. The timing.”
But neither of us moves to resume training.
We just stand there, close enough that I can see the pulse beating rapidly at her throat and can smell that damn perfume that’s been driving me crazy for days.
The awareness between us has shifted, intensified.
Working this closely while maintaining appropriate distance isn’t just difficult—it’s becoming impossible.
Especially when watching her embrace the darker aspects of her nature only makes me want her more.