Chapter 13 Bianca #2
Mine are clumsy with adrenaline, my hands still trembling as I try to angle a pistol to look like it discharged during a struggle.
“Not like that,” Alessandro says quietly, gently repositioning the weapon in the dead man’s grip. “The angle needs to match the bullet trajectory we created.”
My face warms, feeling like a small child being schooled by a teacher.
This takes twice as long as planned because we have to compensate for the chemical residue, the bullet patterns that don’t match our story, and the general chaos that resulted from my failures.
Alessandro works efficiently, adjusting details I hadn’t even considered, turning disaster into something that might still pass for gang warfare.
We exit through separate routes, but I find myself shaken in ways I hadn’t expected.
Not by the violence or the killing, but by how completely I’d lost control of the situation.
How my careful planning had fallen apart the moment reality didn’t match my expectations.
Alessandro had been forced to save both the mission and my life because of my fuck up.
We make it to my penthouse, both running on adrenaline but for different reasons.
Alessandro looks controlled, focused, like someone who’s used to adapting when operations go sideways.
I feel like I want to crawl into a hole and die from shame.
“That was…” I start then stop, not sure how to finish the sentence without admitting how badly I fucked up.
“A clusterfuck,” Alessandro says bluntly, yanking off his blood-stained jacket with more force than necessary and throwing it onto the ground. “Your gas canisters failed, you broke cover when I explicitly told you not to, and you nearly got us both killed chasing targets like some amateur.”
The words hit like slaps, each one deserved but still stinging.
I want to defend myself; I want to argue that it worked out in the end, but I can’t lie.
“The scene will still read as gang warfare,” I say defensively. “The objective was achieved.”
“The objective was achieved because I salvaged your mistakes,” he shoots back, his hazel eyes blazing with anger I’ve never seen before. “You think this is a game, Bianca? You think because you can pull a trigger without flinching that makes you ready for complex operations?”
Okay, I know I fucked up but this is getting too much. I’m not going to stand for this. “I adapted under pressure,” I start but he cuts me off.
“You panicked under pressure.” His voice cuts through my excuse, anger radiating from him. “The moment your plan started falling apart, you abandoned everything you were taught about tactical thinking and went in guns blazing like some fucking cowboy.”
The criticism burns because it’s true, but I’m too proud to admit it.
Too stubborn to give him the satisfaction of being right about everything.
“I got the job done,” I snap, crossing my arms defensively.
“You got lucky,” he corrects, stepping closer. “There’s a difference between competence and luck, and tonight you learned what happens when you confuse the two.”
“So what? You want me to grovel? Admit I’m not ready?” My voice is getting louder, anger masking the shame that’s eating me alive.
God, give it a fucking rest. I get it. I fucked up. “Fine. You were right. Happy now?”
“No, I’m not fucking happy!” he explodes, his hazel eyes flashing as his face turns red. “I’m pissed off that someone I care about nearly died because she was too stubborn to listen to basic advice!”
It takes everything in me not to gape at his confession.
He cares about me.
I mean, I kind of knew that considering we had sex but it’s nice to get confirmation.
I open my mouth to say something, but he cuts me off again.
“Do you have any idea what it was like watching you break cover and run straight into enemy fire? Knowing that if something happened to you, it would be because I failed to make you understand how dangerous this world really is?” He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick straight up.
My fingers itch to smooth the strands down, but I jam my hands into my pockets to quell the urge.
There’s raw pain in his voice now, underneath the anger.
Not just frustration, but personal terror at the thought of losing me.
Shame fills me, hot and cloying, and tears burn my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, the words feeling inadequate but necessary. “You’re right. I fucked up. I let my ego override my judgment, and you had to clean up my mess.”
Some of the tension leaves his shoulders, but his jaw is still tight with residual fury.
“You have potential,” he says finally, his voice a bit gentler. “Real potential. But potential means nothing if you’re too dead to develop it.”
“I know.” I sink into one of the chairs, suddenly exhausted. “I thought I was ready for this. I thought understanding what I was capable of meant I could handle anything.”
“Understanding theory and executing under pressure are completely different things.” Alessandro moves closer, but there’s still distance between us. “Every operator learns that lesson eventually. The smart ones learn it during training. The dead ones learn it during real operations.”
I peer up at him, debating whether I should ask my next question. I probably won’t like the answer but fuck it. “Which category do I fall into?”
Alessandro raises an eyebrow. “That depends on whether you can swallow your pride long enough to actually learn from tonight instead of just sulking about being wrong.”
I wince.
Ouch, but I probably deserved that.
There’s still anger in his expression, but there’s something else too—concern, maybe, or assessment.
Like he’s trying to figure out whether I’m worth the risk of continued partnership for these trials.
“You want to know how I learned to handle situations like this?” He gestures to the blood on his clothes, the evidence of violence that surrounds us. “You want to understand why I’m not rattled by operations going sideways?”
No. “Yes.”
“Because I’ve been where you were tonight. I’ve made the same mistakes, felt the same panic, watched plans fall apart around me.” His voice is calmer now, but there’s an edge to it that suggests he’s remembering something specific. “The difference is, I learned from it instead of making excuses.”
“And what did you learn?” I whisper.
Alessandro sits in the chair next to me and grasps my hand, stroking my knuckles with the pad of his thumb.
I suppress a shiver. “That violence without discipline is just chaos. That confidence without experience gets people killed. That sometimes the smartest thing you can do is admit you’re not ready and ask for help. ”
The words sting because they’re aimed directly at my weaknesses, but they’re also oddly comforting. He’s not just criticizing me—he’s offering to teach me, to help me become better.
“You know a lot about what Giuseppe was like,” I observe, deflecting from my own failures but also genuinely curious. “About his methods, his approach to operations like this. More than you should know from business relationships or casual observation.”
Alessandro goes still, and I realize I’ve touched on something he doesn’t discuss freely.
“What do you mean?” His voice is sharp.
Suddenly I’m aware of how close he’s sitting to me, how his shirt clings to his chest, how the adrenaline from our earlier violence is transmuting into something else entirely.
“I mean you understand the dynamics of my family’s history better than most people who were actually there.” I stand up and he does too, closing some of the distance between us. “You know details about Giuseppe’s methods, about my mother, about why Matteo made the decisions he did.”
His breathing changes slightly as I move closer, and I can see his pupils dilate despite his attempt to maintain professional composure.
“That kind of knowledge doesn’t come from keeping your distance,” I continue, letting my voice drop to a whisper.
The tension that was anger moments ago is transforming into something electric, dangerous.
The way he’s looking at me—like he wants to shake me and kiss me simultaneously—sends heat spiraling through my chest.
“Alessandro,” I say softly, and his name comes out like a caress.
“Bianca.” His voice is rough, warning, but he doesn’t step back when I reach out to trace the line of blood still streaked across his jaw.
“If we’re going to be partners then I need to understand who you really are.” My fingers trail down to his throat, feeling his pulse racing beneath my touch. “What experiences shaped you into someone who can step in and fix my failures without missing a beat.”
He catches my wrist but doesn’t pull my hand away.
Instead, his thumb brushes across my knuckles, and the simple contact makes my breath catch.
“You want to know how I learned to handle violence?” His voice is barely above a whisper now. “You want to understand why watching you work—even when you’re fucking up—affects me the way it does?”
Instead of answering, I rise up on my toes and kiss him.
The response is immediate, electric.
His hands tangle in my hair as he kisses me back with desperate intensity.
When his tongue sweeps against mine, I make a sound that’s part moan, part surrender.
“Fuck, Bianca,” he murmurs against my lips, his control finally snapping. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
“Show me,” I breathe, pressing closer until there’s no space left between us.
His hands slide down to my waist, then lower, lifting me easily.
My legs wrap around him as he presses me back against the wall, his mouth moving to my throat as he lavishes hot kisses there.
I gasp, my fingers threading through his silken hair and tugging gently.
He snarls against my throat, his erection pressing against my center.
When he finds that sensitive spot just below my ear, I arch against him with a gasp that makes him groan.
I grind against him, desperate for any type of friction.
“Even when you’re being reckless,” he says, his teeth grazing my skin. “Even when you’re making mistakes that could get us both killed—I still want you so fucking much it scares me.”
The confession sends heat straight through me, and I tug his head back up so I can kiss him again.
His tongue plunders my mouth as I moan into his, wanting to drown in him.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, and there’s something wild in his eyes that matches the chaos in my chest.
“Then ask me what you really want to know, Bianca,” he says, his voice rough with desire and something darker. “Ask me directly.”
I study his face—the sharp angles, the way his eyes are dark, the heaviness in his breathing that speaks to barely controlled want.
“How do you know so much about Giuseppe and Sophia?” I ask quietly, my lips still tingling from his kiss. “How much do you know?”