Chapter 15 Bianca #2
“To break you?” Torres grins, looking like the cat got the canary.
“Because I’ve been watching you since you walked in here.
The way you second-guess yourself, the way you look lost without backup, the way you flinch when someone challenges your authority.
You’re not a leader, little girl. You’re a follower who’s been thrust into a role you can’t handle. ”
His words burn because they echo every doubt I’ve had about myself since learning the truth about Giuseppe.
Am I really becoming someone powerful, or am I just a scared teenager pretending to be something I’m not?
“Your hands are shaking,” Torres continues relentlessly. “Your breathing is shallow. You keep looking at that mirror like you’re hoping someone will come save you. Face it—you’re in over your head.”
He’s right, both voices say in unison now. You’re nothing. You’re nobody.
The room tilts, and I have to grab the back of my chair to keep from falling.
My vision is starting to tunnel, black spots dancing at the edges.
I’m hyperventilating now and I can’t seem to get enough air.
“Where is he?” I whisper, tears burning my eyes. “Matteo, where are you? Why won’t you help me?”
But there’s still only silence from the voice that used to guide me through everything.
Torres laughs, low and satisfied. “There it is. The real you. Not Giuseppe DeLuca’s daughter—oh yes, Bianca DeLuca—I know exactly who you are. You’re not some dangerous heir. You’re just a broken little girl who can’t function without daddy—or should I say your brother—holding her hand.”
I’m doubled over now, gasping for breath, the voices screaming so loud I want to claw at my own skull to make them stop.
Everything Torres is saying is true.
I am pathetic, I am failing, I am—
Stop.
The word cuts through everything else.
Not Giuseppe’s voice, not Sophia’s, not even Matteo’s.
It’s my own voice, quiet but absolute.
Stop letting him win.
I straighten slowly, my breathing still ragged but more controlled.
The voices are still there, still loud, but suddenly I’m not drowning in them anymore.
“You’re right,” I say quietly, and Torres’s triumphant expression falters slightly. “I was having a breakdown. About which approach would be most effective with someone like you.”
The shift in my tone makes him blink, confusion creeping into his eyes.
“See, I have access to different perspectives on persuasion,” I continue, wiping my face with the back of my hand. “And I was trying to choose between them instead of using them all.”
I don’t fight the voices anymore.
I let them exist, let them rage, but I don’t let them control me.
Giuseppe’s brutality, Sophia’s manipulation, and yes—even without his voice, Matteo’s strategic thinking is still there, embedded in everything he taught me.
“Thank you,” I tell Torres softly. “For showing me exactly who you think I am. Now let me show you who I actually am.”
I move to the supplies in the corner, my movements deliberate now instead of frantic.
The voices are still there.
Giuseppe is demanding immediate brutality, while Sophia whispers about psychological manipulation—but they’re background noise rather than controlling chaos.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Marcus,” I say, pulling on latex gloves with steady hands.
The rubber snaps against my wrists with a sharp sound that echoes in the small room.
“I’m going to apply very precise pressure to specific nerve clusters.
Nothing permanent, nothing that will leave lasting damage.
Just enough discomfort to make thinking clearly… difficult.”
I select a thin metal instrument from the interrogation tools, testing its weight. Torres watches my movements now with growing wariness instead of amusement.
“While you’re dealing with that physical stress,” I continue, my voice taking on an almost clinical tone, “I’m going to speak to you with complete understanding and compassion. I’ll acknowledge your pain, sympathize with your situation, maybe even apologize for having to cause you discomfort.”
I move behind his chair again, close enough that he can feel my presence but can’t see what I’m doing.
“The combination is quite effective, you see. Your body will be processing acute discomfort while your mind struggles to reconcile gentle words with deliberate torture. It creates a fascinating psychological conflict.”
“You’re bluffing,” Torres says, but his voice lacks the confidence it had before. “You don’t have the stomach for real interrogation.”
“You’re probably right,” I agree easily, moving back around to face him. “A few minutes ago, I would have broken down completely if you’d kept pushing. But you made a mistake, Marcus.”
I lean forward slightly, meeting his eyes directly. “You showed me that my self-doubt was more dangerous than any physical threat you could pose. And once I realized that, everything else became very simple.”
The first application of pressure makes Torres’s breath hiss sharply through his teeth. His jaw clenches, muscles standing out in his neck.
“I’m sorry,” I say immediately, my voice full of genuine warmth. “I know that’s uncomfortable. I really don’t want to hurt you, Marcus, but you’re not giving me much choice here.”
“That’s…that’s nothing,” he pants, but sweat is already beading on his forehead. “I’ve been through worse.”
I tut sympathetically. “I’m sure you have,” I agree, maintaining steady pressure. “Your training was probably excellent. But this isn’t about your pain tolerance, is it? This is about how long you can think clearly while I’m doing this.”
After two minutes, his breathing becomes labored. “Okay…okay, stop. Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing to me?”
“Just some pressure points,” I explain gently, easing off slightly. The relief makes him sag. “Nothing permanent. See? Much better when I stop.”
“You’re…you’re fucking insane,” he gasps.
My brow furrows. “I don’t think so. I think I’m being very reasonable.” I move to a different location. “All I need is basic information. Where’s the shipment, Marcus?”
The pressure resumes. This time he lasts maybe ninety seconds before: “Shit! Shit, okay, the docks! It’s at the fucking docks!”
“Which docks?” I ask patiently, not stopping the pressure. “There are a lot of docks in the city.”
“Pier 47! Pier fucking 47!”
Immediate relief. I dab his forehead with the cool cloth. “Thank you. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I warmly pat his cheek. “You’re doing great, Marcus.”
He’s breathing heavily now, staring at me with growing panic. “How…how did you learn to do that?”
I’m not about to tell him that I’m making this up as I go along.
That would ruin this.
Besides, I find I’m really enjoying what I’m doing. “Practice,” I say simply. “Now, what time is the shipment arriving?”
“I don’t—” He cuts himself off as I prepare to apply pressure again. “Wait! Wait! E-eleven p.m. Tomorrow night, eleven p.m.”
I smile at him. “See? You’re getting the hang of this,” I praise warmly. “Much easier when we work together.”
By the fifth question, he’s answering before I even apply pressure, just at the sight of me moving toward him.
Power courses through me.
“Three guards! Standard rotation every two hours! Radio check every fifteen minutes!” He cries out, sweat sliding down his face. His lips are cracked and dry from screaming.
“Excellent, Marcus,” I praise him, smiling at my prey. “You’re being so cooperative now.”
His voice cracks. “Please…please just tell me what you want to know. I’ll tell you everything. Just…just don’t do that thing again.”
“Of course,” I say gently. “I never wanted to hurt you in the first place. You’re making this so much easier now.”
When I finally have all the information, Torres is slumped in his chair, exhausted and defeated.
“Container 847-Alpha,” he whispers without being asked. “Pharmaceutical supplies. Street value maybe two million.”
“Thank you, Marcus,” I say genuinely, removing my gloves. “I really appreciate your cooperation.”
He looks up at me with something between fear and gratitude. “What kind of monster are you?”
I consider this seriously. “I don’t know what I am anymore.”
When I exit the interrogation room, my breathing is controlled.
The voices in my head have settled into something like harmony for the first time in weeks.
Dominic Calabrese waits outside with poorly concealed disappointment.
He’d orchestrated this whole scenario hoping to watch me crumble without Alessandro’s support.
Instead, he got a demonstration of exactly why underestimating me is a mistake.
“Twenty-two minutes,” Vitelli observes with genuine surprise. “For complete intelligence extraction from a trained professional. That’s…impressive.”
“The information has been verified through independent sources,” Marconi adds, checking his phone. “All details are accurate.”
Dominic’s smile looks painful. “Your methods were quite sophisticated, Miss DeLuca. Wherever did you learn such advanced interrogation techniques?”
Like hell I’m telling him.
I may be young but I’ve learned enough about Family politics to navigate this carefully.
“Good teachers,” I say simply. “And some things just come naturally.”
As we walk toward the exit, I catch my reflection in a darkened window.
For just a moment, I see Giuseppe looking back—the same eyes, the same satisfied expression of someone who’s just proven their superiority.
But there’s something else there too.
Something that’s uniquely mine, forged from three different influences but belonging entirely to me.
I’m something different now.
Something that scares me, but…I like how it feels.