Chapter 12 Alessandro
ALESSANDRO
The memory of Bianca’s skin against mine haunts every quiet moment.
I’m sitting in my office reviewing territory reports, but the numbers blur on the page as my mind drifts back to that night in her hotel suite.
The way she felt wrapped around me, the sounds she made when I touched her, the way she looked at me afterward.
Christ, I can still taste her on my tongue.
Still feel the way she shattered when I made her come, still hear that breathless way she said my name when I was buried deep inside her.
It’s been three days, and the memory burns through me like a brand.
I should regret it. I should feel guilty about taking advantage of her emotional vulnerability, about crossing lines that can never be uncrossed.
I should be focused on the political implications and professional complications.
Instead, all I can think about is when I’ll have her underneath me again.
She’s like a fucking addiction.
One taste wasn’t enough—it just made me hungrier, more desperate for everything she’s willing to give me.
The rational part of my mind keeps insisting this was a mistake, that we should maintain distance now that the immediate crisis has passed.
But the rest of me is already planning ways to get her alone again.
My secure line rings, interrupting thoughts that have no place during business hours.
The display shows it’s coming from the front desk.
Someone’s here to see me without an appointment.
“Send them up,” I say without asking who it is. In our world, unannounced visits usually mean crisis management.
Five minutes later, Matteo DeLuca walks through my office door, and I immediately know this conversation is going to be difficult.
He looks like hell.
The man who’s always been unshakeable, who commands respect through sheer presence, appears haggard in ways I’ve never seen before.
His usually immaculate suits are wrinkled, his face is drawn with exhaustion, and there are shadows under his eyes that suggest he hasn’t been sleeping.
But it’s the defeat in his posture that catches me off guard.
Matteo DeLuca doesn’t know how to lose; he doesn’t understand surrender.
Seeing him like this—shoulders slightly hunched, movements lacking their usual predatory grace—is deeply unsettling.
“Matteo.” I stand, gesturing to the chair across from my desk. “You look like shit.”
“Feel like it too.” He settles into the chair with a weary sigh that ages him twenty years. “We need to talk.”
“About the trial results?” The official confirmation came yesterday morning—Bianca passed the first test with flying colors. The Families were impressed by her execution of Torrino, her composure under pressure, and her ability to send a clear message about the consequences of betrayal.
“Among other things.” His hands rest on his knees, and I notice they’re not completely steady. “How is she?”
The question comes out carefully neutral, but I can hear the desperation underneath.
The need to know that his daughter is okay, even if she won’t speak to him.
“She’s fine,” I say honestly. “Back to her normal routine, mostly. Classes, though they’re online now, assignments, complaining about her professors.”
“And the killing?” Matteo asks, leaning forward. “How did she handle it afterward?”
This is the question he really came here to ask, and it’s the one I’ve been dreading.
Because the honest answer is going to hurt him in ways he’s not prepared for.
“She handled it perfectly,” I say, choosing my words carefully.
“That’s not what I asked.” His blue-gray eyes fix on mine with laser intensity. “I asked how she’s handling it. The psychological impact. The moral weight of taking a life.”
I lean back in my chair, studying his face.
He wants reassurance that his daughter is still fundamentally good, still the person he raised despite everything that’s happened.
He wants me to tell him that the violence affected her, that she struggled with the decision, that some part of her gentle nature survived the brutality.
I can’t give him that comfort.
“There was no psychological impact,” I admit quietly, watching his face turn to stone. “No moral struggle, no nightmares, no second thoughts. She pulled the trigger like she was turning off a light switch.”
The color drains from his face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean she felt nothing, Matteo. No guilt, no regret, no human reaction to taking a life. She was calm, controlled, and completely unaffected by ending Vincent Torrino’s existence.”
He stares at me for a long moment, processing this information. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.
“She enjoyed it.”
It’s not a question.
He already knows the answer; he just needed someone else to confirm what he’s been afraid to acknowledge.
“She enjoyed being good at it,” I correct, though the distinction feels meaningless. “She enjoyed proving herself, demonstrating her capabilities, and showing the Families what she’s capable of.”
He grips the arm rests. “That’s not the same thing.”
“Isn’t it?” I challenge gently. “In our world, competence and satisfaction often look identical.”
Matteo runs a hand through his hair, destroying what’s left of his usually perfect styling. “This is what I was afraid of. This is what I spent nineteen years trying to prevent.”
“You tried to protect her from her own nature,” I point out.
“I tried to give her choices!” The words explode out of him with more force than he probably intended. “I tried to raise her so she could choose to be better than what Giuseppe or Sophia were, better than what this world demands.”
“And she’s making her choices now.” My voice remains calm despite the anger radiating from him. “You may not like them, but they’re hers to make.”
His eyes are wild as he looks at me. “She’s nineteen years old and she’s becoming a monster.”
The accusation hangs between us, and I feel irritation start to rise in me. “She’s becoming what she needs to be to survive in this world. What she needs to be to lead.”
“Lead?” He laughs bitterly. “You think this is leadership? Killing without conscience, embracing violence like it’s a gift?”
“I think it’s power,” I reply steadily. “And power is what determines whether you live or die in our business.”
“There’s a difference between necessary violence and pathological brutality,” Matteo snaps.
I raise a brow. “Is there? Because from where I’m sitting, both get results.” I lean forward, meeting his gaze directly. “Giuseppe built an empire through pathological brutality. You’ve maintained it through necessary violence. The methods are different, but the foundation is the same.”
“The foundation is control,” he corrects sharply. “Knowing when to use violence and when to show mercy. Understanding that fear is a tool, not an end goal.”
I shrug. “And maybe Bianca will learn that balance. But she has to embrace what she is before she can learn to control it.”
Matteo stares at me like I’ve just confirmed his worst fears. “You’re encouraging this. You’re helping her become what Giuseppe was.”
“I’m helping her become what she chooses to become,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
“No, there isn’t.” His voice turns hard. “You’re enabling her worst impulses because you’re fascinated by her darkness. You think it’s attractive, don’t you? You like her capacity for violence.”
The words hit closer to home than I want to admit, but I keep my expression neutral. “I think she’s powerful. I think she’s making choices that will keep her alive in a world that wants to destroy her.”
Matteo’s laugh is rough and bitter. “And I’m sure you enjoy seeing her kill people, don’t you?”
The blunt accusation makes my jaw clench involuntarily. “That’s not—”
“Isn’t it?” He leans forward, his eyes boring into mine. “You were there when she shot Torrino. I heard about the way you looked at her afterward. Like you wanted to fuck her right there on the table with his blood still warm.”
Heat flashes through me, part anger and part something I don’t want to examine too closely. “My personal feelings don’t affect my professional judgment.”
“Your personal feelings are why you’re enabling her transformation into a sociopath.” His voice is getting louder, more agitated. “You want the monster, Alessandro. You want Giuseppe’s daughter because she reminds you of him, because she can match your own darkness.”
Matteo is getting dangerously close to being thrown out on his ass. “You’re wrong.”
“Am I?” His eyes glitter dangerously. “Then explain to me why you’re perfectly comfortable watching a nineteen-year-old girl turn into something inhuman.”
The words sting because there’s truth in them I don’t want to acknowledge.
Part of me is fascinated by Bianca’s evolution, aroused by her embrace of power and violence.
But it’s more complicated than Matteo’s making it sound.
“I’m comfortable with it because the alternative is watching her die,” I say finally.
“The Families are testing her, pushing her, looking for signs of weakness they can exploit. If she showed guilt or hesitation or any human reaction to killing Torrino, they would have marked her as unsuitable for leadership.”
“So you helped her become someone who feels nothing about taking lives.”
“I helped her survive the first trial. And I’ll help her survive whatever comes next, regardless of what that requires.”
Matteo slumps back in his chair, looking older and more defeated than I’ve ever seen him. “She’s lost to me, isn’t she? The daughter I raised, the person I tried to protect—she’s gone.”
The pain in his voice is raw, genuine, and it cuts through my defenses despite everything.
This isn’t just about losing political control or family authority.
This is about watching someone he loves transform into something he doesn’t recognize.
“I don’t know,” I admit quietly. “Maybe the person you raised was always temporary. Maybe this is who she was meant to become.”