Chapter 15 Bianca
BIANCA
The guilt hits me in waves as I sit in the back of the town car, heading toward what the Families have designated as my third trial location.
I can’t stop thinking about dinner the other night.
About the way Arianna’s face crumpled when I rejected her request to play or Giovanni’s confused stare when I spoke to him like a stranger instead of the big sister who used to make him laugh.
Or Bella’s tears that I pretended not to see.
My stomach clenches as I remember their faces.
God, what kind of monster treats innocent children like that?
They didn’t lie to me.
They didn’t betray me.
They’re fucking babies who love me unconditionally, and I threw that love back in their faces because I was angry at Matteo.
Hot tears well up in my eyes and I lean my head back, willing the tears to go away.
I take deep breaths to calm myself down.
The worst part is Alessandro’s reaction afterward.
The silence in the car when he dropped me off, the way he declined my invitation to come up to the penthouse. “I have a lot on my mind,” he’d said, but I could see the judgment in his eyes. The disappointment.
That rejection stung worse than anything that happened at dinner.
You’re pathetic, Giuseppe’s harsh voice sneers in my head. Weak. Worrying about the feelings of children when you should be focused on power.
They’ll never forgive you anyway, Sophia’s voice whispers with cruel satisfaction. You’ve shown them who you really are. Might as well embrace it completely.
I wait for Matteo’s voice to chime in, but there’s only silence where his guidance used to be. Even in my own head, he’s gone quiet.
“Shut up,” I hiss, clamping my hands over my ears, my jaw clenched so tight it hurts my teeth. “Both of you, just shut the fuck up.”
But the voices don’t disappear. They never do anymore.
The warehouse in Queens looks exactly like what it is—a place for off-the-books operations.
Dominic Calabrese waits outside with Don Vitelli and Alberto Marconi, their presence telling me this trial will be scrutinized closely.
“Miss DeLuca,” Dominic says with his oily smile. “Ready for your next test?”
I scan the area, noticing how empty it is. “Where’s Alessandro?”
“Ah, Mr. Ricci had urgent business elsewhere. You’ll be handling this solo.” His satisfaction is obvious. “Leadership is often a solitary responsibility, after all.”
The bastard planned this.
He wants me isolated, wants to see if I crack under pressure without my partner’s steadying presence.
“Your objective is simple,” Dominic explains as we approach the warehouse entrance.
His cologne hits me in a wave—it’s so damn strong that it makes my stomach turn.
“We have a former military intelligence officer who’s been feeding information to our competitors.
Captain Marcus Torres. Three days of conventional interrogation have yielded nothing. ”
“What kind of information?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. My palms are starting to sweat.
“Details about a pharmaceutical shipment we’re planning to intercept. Location, timing, security protocols.” Dominic’s smile is anything but friendly. “He has what we need. Your job is to extract it.”
Vitelli nods approvingly. “The captain is professionally trained to resist interrogation. This will be a true test of your…creative abilities.”
My mouth goes dry.
This isn’t like the execution of Torrino.
That was child’s play compared to this.
This requires sustained psychological pressure, breaking someone down piece by piece.
What if I can’t do it?
What if I freeze up like I did during the warehouse operation?
Inside, they lead me through corridors that smell of concrete dust and industrial cleaning chemicals.
Each step echoes off the bare walls, making me hyperaware of my own footsteps.
My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it.
“He’s been isolated for seventy-two hours,” Marconi explains as we walk. “Minimal sleep, basic nutrition, no human contact except for necessity. He should be psychologically vulnerable, but his training is extensive.”
“Remember,” Dominic says quietly, his breath reeking of coffee and that awful cologne, “leadership requires the ability to break people when necessary. This is your chance to prove you have what it takes.”
I nod. Taking a deep breath, I push open the door and step inside.
The interrogation room is typical and about what I expected—soundproofed walls, adjustable lighting, one-way mirror, and a steel chair bolted to the floor.
But seeing it in person makes my butterflies erupt in my stomach.
Behind that mirror, I know they’ll all be watching, judging every move I make.
In that chair sits Captain Marcus Torres.
He’s maybe forty-five, graying at the temples but still fit.
His clothes are rumpled from three days of captivity, stubble darkening his jaw, but his posture radiates military confidence.
When he looks at me, there’s no fear in his expression—just amused disdain.
“They’re sending children now?” he asks, voice carrying the kind of authority that comes from commanding men in combat. “What’s next, toddlers with toy guns?” He laughs, his voice raspy.
Break his fingers, Giuseppe snarls immediately. Start with pain.
He’s underestimating you, Sophia whispers. Use that against him.
I study Torres carefully—the way he holds himself, the calluses on his hands, the small scar above his left eyebrow.
Military bearing, defensive posture, eyes that track every movement. He’s been trained to resist interrogation.
“Captain Torres,” I say, settling into the chair across from him. The metal is cold even through my clothes. “I’m Bianca. I’ll be conducting your interview today.”
“Interview?” He laughs again, a sound that echoes off the concrete walls. “Kid, I’ve been through interrogations by people who make your worst nightmares look like bedtime stories. What exactly do you think you’re going to accomplish that three days of professionals couldn’t?”
The dismissal is complete, absolute.
He’s not just unafraid—he’s entertained.
Fuck this is already going so badly.
If Alessandro were here, he would know what to do. I press my toes into my shoes, steadying myself. Think Bianca. Think. What would Alessandro do?
I try to read him for vulnerabilities. “You were married once,” I observe, noting the pale band of skin where a ring used to be.
“Divorced five years ago,” he says cheerfully, his blue eyes amused. “No kids, no family, no pressure points for you to exploit. Nice try though, sweetheart.”
You’re embarrassing yourself, Giuseppe roars in my head. He’s laughing at you!
Pathetic, Sophia hisses. You’re losing control already.
The voices are getting louder, more insistent.
My hands start to tremble slightly—just barely, but Torres catches it. His smile widens.
“Getting a little overwhelmed?” He leans forward as much as his restraints allow. “What’s wrong? Not going according to your little plan? You look like you’re having some kind of internal debate.”
Heat floods my cheeks.
He can see my uncertainty, my indecision about which approach to take.
“Let me guess—you’ve got different ideas about how to handle me, and you can’t decide which one to use?” Torres continues with obvious amusement. “The tough approach? Maybe some psychological manipulation? Something daddy taught you?”
Stop letting him control the conversation, Giuseppe demands, his voice so loud it makes my skull ache.
Fight back, Sophia insists. Do something unexpected.
The competing advice crashes together in my head like cymbals.
I can barely think through the noise of their conflicting demands.
Torres watches my internal struggle with interest.
“Poor little girl,” he says with mock sympathy. “They sent someone who can’t even make up her own mind to break a professional. This is actually pathetic.”
He’s right, Giuseppe roars in my head. You are pathetic! Weak like your mother!
You’re failing, Sophia hisses. Everyone can see you’re breaking down. Look at you—shaking like a child.
The voices are so loud now that I actually wince, my hands flying to my temples.
The room feels like it’s spinning, and I can hear my own breathing getting ragged and shallow.
“Oh, this is even better than I thought,” Torres says with genuine delight. “You’re having some kind of breakdown, aren’t you? What’s wrong, sweetheart? Daddy didn’t prepare you for this part?”
I stand up abruptly, the chair scraping against concrete.
My chest feels tight, like I can’t get enough air.
The voices are screaming at me from all directions and I can barely think through the noise.
You’re embarrassing the family name, Giuseppe snarls. Giuseppe’s daughter, falling apart in front of a nobody. Pathetic.
He can see right through you, Sophia whispers venomously. He knows you’re just a scared little girl playing dress-up.
“Matteo,” I whisper desperately, barely audible. “Where are you?” But there’s only silence where his guidance should be. Why won’t he help me? Even in my own head, he’s abandoned me when I need him most.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Torres leans forward, his voice taking on a predatory quality. “You’re used to someone else making the hard decisions. Someone else telling you what to do. But daddy’s not here now, is he? And you’re realizing you don’t actually know how to do this on your own.”
I’m pacing now, my movements jerky and uncontrolled.
I press my palms against my ears, trying to block out the cacophony in my skull, but it doesn’t help.
The voices just get louder.
Worthless, Giuseppe spits. No daughter of mine would crumble like this.
Everyone’s watching you fail, Sophia taunts. Behind that mirror, they’re all seeing what you really are.
“How?” I gasp, spinning to face Torres. My voice comes out cracked, desperate. “How do you know? How do you fucking know exactly what to say to—”