Chapter 11 Bianca
BIANCA
I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror, adjusting the collar of my black silk blouse one more time.
The outfit is perfect—a fitted black skirt that shows off my legs, knee-high leather boots with just enough heel to make me feel taller, and the blouse tucked in to show I mean business.
My hair falls in sleek waves past my shoulders, and I’ve kept my makeup minimal except for the dark eyeliner that makes my blue eyes look sharper, more dangerous.
I look like money. I look like power. I look like someone who belongs in this world.
What I don’t look like is a nineteen-year-old girl who’s about to commit her first murder.
I exhale and look around.
The penthouse hotel suite around me screams luxury—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, expensive furniture, and a marble bathroom bigger than most apartments.
I moved here after returning from Montreal, needing space that belonged entirely to me rather than existing in a world built on lies.
But even surrounded by all this expensive comfort, I can’t escape the low murmur of voices in the background of my thoughts.
Show them no mercy, the harsh voice growls. Make it quick and brutal.
Play the part, the softer voice whispers. Let them see reluctance even as you pull the trigger.
Consider your positioning, the familiar voice cautions. Think about witnesses and angles.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push them away.
It’s been days since they first appeared during the Families meeting, and they haven’t gone away.
If anything, they’ve gotten stronger, more distinct. More…real.
Which is fucking terrifying.
Normal people don’t hear voices.
Normal people don’t have conversations with dead or estranged relatives in their heads.
Normal people definitely don’t get tactical advice from what might be their own fractured psyche.
But then again, normal people don’t have to prove their worthiness to inherit a criminal empire by personally executing traitors either.
I force myself to focus on something else.
Something that makes my skin flush and my pulse quicken in ways that have nothing to do with nerves about the mission.
Alessandro.
Yesterday at the gun range, when he moved behind me to adjust my stance, I was so sure he was going to kiss me.
The way his chest pressed against my back, the heat of his hands on my shoulders, the sharp intake of his breath when I leaned into him—every cell in my body was screaming for him to turn me around and finish what we started in my study.
But he didn’t, damn him.
He stepped back and watched me shoot with those intense hazel eyes that made me feel like he was seeing straight through to my soul.
And when I looked at him afterward, when the air between us crackled with all that unspoken want, I almost said something that would have changed everything.
I touch my lips without thinking, as if I can still feel his mouth against mine from that night in my destroyed study.
The kiss that tasted like desperation and possibility.
I want him to kiss me again.
Hell, I want him to do more than kiss me.
I want him to stop being so careful, so professional, so determined to maintain boundaries that we both keep pushing against.
I want him to want me as much as I want him.
But right now, I need to focus.
I have a mission.
I have to prove myself worthy of the DeLuca name, worthy to inherit, worthy of the respect that should come with being Giuseppe’s daughter.
A sharp knock on the door interrupts my spiraling thoughts.
My heart jumps, but I know it’s Alessandro before I even check the peephole.
Something about the confidence of that knock, the authority behind it.
When I open the door, my mouth goes dry.
He’s wearing all black—tailored pants, a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show his strong forearms, and a black jacket that’s probably concealing at least two weapons.
His dark hair is styled just messy enough to make my fingers itch to run through it, and those hazel eyes are serious, focused, scanning my face like he’s reading my mind.
He looks dangerous. Professional. Sexy as hell. Goddamn.
He also looks serious in a way that makes my stomach erupt with butterflies I’ve been trying to suppress all morning.
“Ready?” His voice carries that subtle rasp that always makes me think inappropriate thoughts.
The question hangs between us, loaded with everything we both know is about to change.
Once I walk out this door, once I go through with this trial, I’ll have crossed a line I can never uncross.
I’ll be someone who’s taken a life, someone who’s proven she has Giuseppe’s capacity for violence.
I should be terrified. I should be having second thoughts, moral crises, some kind of normal human reaction to what I’m about to do.
Instead, I feel calm. Focused. Ready.
“Yes,” I say, and I mean it. “I’m ready.”
The social club sits on Northern Boulevard like a relic from another era—brick facade, small windows, the kind of place that screams “mind your own business” to anyone walking by.
As we pull up in Alessandro’s car, I feel my stomach clench with nerves again.
I take a shaky breath, and Alessandro immediately notices.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I bite out, probably sharper than necessary. But I can’t show weakness now. Not when we’re this close.
I force myself to breathe deeply, pushing down every emotion until I feel that familiar cold settle over me.
It’s like flipping a switch—all the nerves, the voices whispering in the back of my mind, the human parts of me that might hesitate, they all get locked away behind a wall of ice.
When I look at Alessandro again, I know my expression has changed.
Become emptier.
More dangerous.
“Now I’m fine,” I say, and my voice is steady as granite.
We move according to the plan we spent hours perfecting.
Alessandro enters through the service entrance in the alley, his role to secure the back exit and neutralize the minimal security—two guys who think they’re guarding a simple card game, not a target for family justice.
I wait exactly three minutes, then walk through the main entrance like I own the place.
The interior is what I expected—dark wood paneling, the smell of cigars and old whiskey, men in expensive suits hunched over poker tables.
The kind of atmosphere that’s remained unchanged for decades because it works.
Vincent Torrino is exactly where our intelligence said he’d be, at a corner table with four other men, cards in hand and a stack of chips in front of him.
He’s in his fifties, gray at the temples, wearing an expensive Armani suit.
He looks successful, comfortable, completely unaware that his world is about to end.
The room goes quiet as I enter.
Not silent, but the conversations shift, become more muted.
A young woman in a place like this draws attention whether she wants it or not.
Perfect. I need witnesses.
“Vincent Torrino,” I say clearly, my voice carrying across the room.
He looks up from his cards, confusion flickering across his face. “Do I know you, sweetheart?”
The condescension in his voice makes something cold and vicious unfurl in my chest. “You sold information to the FBI for six months. Information about Vitelli family operations. Information that put soldiers at risk.”
The color drains from his face.
Around the room, chairs scrape as men push back from tables, some reaching for weapons, others heading for exits.
But Alessandro’s already there, blocking the back entrance, his own weapon visible enough to discourage anyone from trying to leave.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Torrino stammers.
“Vincent Torrino, FBI informant number 47291,” I continue, pulling the folder from my jacket and letting it fall open on his table.
Photographs, documents, bank records—all the evidence of his betrayal spread out for everyone to see.
“Three years of payments. Six months of active cooperation. The lives of five Vitelli soldiers compromised because of information you provided.”
The room is dead silent now.
Every man here understands what they’re witnessing—not just an execution, but a lesson.
A demonstration of what happens to traitors.
“Please,” Torrino whispers, his cards forgotten on the table as the smell of fear pours off him. “I have children. Grandchildren—”
“So did the soldiers who died because of you.” I draw my weapon with practiced ease, the glock fitting perfectly in my hand. “This is family justice, Vincent. For betrayal. For treachery. For forgetting where your loyalty was supposed to lie.”
Then the voices explode in my head, each one screaming different instructions.
Show no mercy, Giuseppe’s harsh voice roars. Take what’s yours. Make them fear you. Pull the trigger now and establish your reputation through blood.
Wait, Sophia’s softer voice whispers urgently. Use their sympathy. Let them see you struggle with this choice. Play the reluctant heir forced into violence. It will make you seem more human, more trustworthy.
Think first, Matteo’s familiar voice cuts through the chaos. Control the situation. Consider the positioning, the witnesses, the long-term consequences. This moment defines how they’ll see you forever.
For a heartbeat, I stand frozen, three different approaches warring in my mind.
The room holds its breath, waiting to see what Giuseppe DeLuca’s daughter will choose.
Then something settles in my chest—cold, certain, inevitable.
I feel the genetic pull toward decisive brutality, the understanding that this is what I was born for.
Not Matteo’s careful strategy or Sophia’s manipulation, but Giuseppe’s direct, merciless action.
I pull the trigger without hesitation, without theatrics, without giving Torrino another moment to beg.
The shot is clean and final, placed exactly where Alessandro taught me.
Vincent Torrino slumps forward onto his cards, blood spreading across the green felt.
The violence feels natural.
Not foreign or frightening or morally complex—just necessary.