Chapter 19 Bianca
BIANCA
“I still don’t know what to call him.”
Alessandro looks up from his tablet, one dark eyebrow raised in that way that always makes my stomach do this stupid little flip.
We’re having breakfast in my penthouse—well, I’m having breakfast.
He’s drinking coffee and reading financial reports like the responsible adult he is while I mash fruit into a pulpy mess on my plate and obsess over stupid things.
“What do you mean?” He eyes my decimated pineapple. “Are you done pulverizing that poor fruit?”
“No.” I stick out my tongue but then sigh. “Matteo. I can’t keep calling him ‘Matteo’ forever, right? It sounds so formal and weird. But I can’t go back to calling him ‘Dad’ either.” I take a bite of toast, thinking. “Maybe I could just say ‘hey you’ and point whenever I need his attention.”
Alessandro snorts, setting down the table carefully.
His hair is still messy from sleep, and he’s wearing pajama pants and a white t-shirt that shows off his arms.
God, even when he’s being sarcastic, he’s gorgeous.
I could melt into a puddle of goo right now.
“Yes, I’m sure a woman positioning herself to inherit a criminal empire will command tremendous respect by addressing the current don with ‘hey you.’” His voice is dry as dust. “Very intimidating. The other families will be terrified.”
“Shut up,” I laugh, grabbing the throw pillow from beside me and hurling it at his head. “You’re supposed to be supportive of my emotional growth.”
He catches the pillow easily, his reflexes too good for my amateur throwing skills. “I am being supportive. I’m preventing you from making a fool of yourself in front of people who could have us killed.”
“You love me anyway.” I steal a piece of his bacon.
“Unfortunately.” But he’s smiling when he says it—woof, there goes my heart again—and when he reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers linger against my cheek longer than necessary.
This is what I love about us.
Even with all the darkness, all the violence and complicated family drama and criminal empire bullshit, we can still be like this.
Playful. Normal.
Like two people who are just figuring out how to be together instead of partners in psychological warfare.
It’s been four days since the reconciliation meeting with Matteo, and I do feel lighter somehow.
Not fixed—I don’t think I’ll ever be completely fixed after learning the truth about Giuseppe and Sophia—but less like I’m drowning in anger all the time.
The knot in my chest that’s been there since that awful night everything went to hell has loosened enough that I can breathe normally again.
And it allows me to want to eat again. Starting with Alessandro’s bacon.
But seeing the twins… Ugh, their faces when they saw me.
Pure joy, no complicated emotions or hurt feelings.
Just “Banca’s here!” and everything was right in their world again.
I read them three bedtime stories that night, and when Arianna fell asleep holding onto my finger, I almost started crying again.
“We should head over to the compound soon,” Alessandro says, checking his watch. “Matteo wanted to discuss the potential timeline for the final trial.”
My stomach clenches at the mention of it. The final trial that hasn’t fucking been announced yet, hasn’t even been hinted at.
Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.
It’s been over a week since I passed the interrogation test, and the silence is making me crazy.
“It’s taking too long,” I say, pushing my plate away. My appetite has basically disappeared. “Something’s wrong.”
Alessandro’s expression grows serious, and he sets down his coffee cup, biting his lip.
That means he’s thinking hard about something. “You think they’re planning something specific?”
“I think the longer they wait, the more time they have to design something that will destroy me.” I stand up, suddenly too restless to sit still.
The anxiety has been building for days, this low-level buzz of worry that makes my skin feel too tight. “What if they’re not planning a trial at all? What if they’re planning something else entirely?”
They want to break you, Giuseppe’s voice snarls in my head, his voice low and menacing. They want to prove you’re weak.
They’re afraid of what you’ve become, Sophia whispers. That’s why they’re stalling. They’re looking for a way to eliminate you without looking like cowards.
The voices are getting louder again, more insistent. I press my palms against my temples, trying to shut them out, but they just keep talking over each other. Just shut up! I mentally order the voices, but they ignore me.
“Hey.” Alessandro is suddenly in front of me, his hands on my shoulders, his hazel eyes focused intently on my face. “Breathe. You’re spiraling.”
My stomach is in knots and my mouth feels dry, like it does before I vomit.
Alessandro’s hands slide up from my shoulders to cup my cheeks, forcing me to look at him. “Bianca. Focus on me. What’s wrong?”
“I can’t stop thinking about what they might be planning,” I admit, my voice shaky.
God, I hate this. I hate that I sound like a little girl. “Every scenario I come up with gets worse. What if it’s not a test at all? What if it’s an execution disguised as a trial?”
“Then we’ll handle it,” he says simply as if it were that easy. Men.
“But what if,” I try again, but Alessandro stops me.
“Bianca.” His voice is firm and grounding as his thumbs stroke my cheekbones. “What if the sun doesn’t rise tomorrow? What if gravity stops working? You can’t plan for every possible disaster. You can only prepare for what you know and adapt to what you don’t.”
I take a shaky breath, trying to center myself.
He’s right, but the waiting is killing me.
I’m used to action, to having something to do, some way to prove myself.
This limbo is torture.
An hour later, we’re sitting in Matteo’s study, and I can see the worry lines around his eyes have gotten deeper.
He looks tired and much older.
It kind of startles me.
I’ve always seen Matteo as invincible—something akin to a god.
To see him this stressed out and human makes my stomach seize with anxiety.
“Still nothing from the Families?” Alessandro asks, settling into the chair beside mine. I inhale his scent, using that to calm me down.
Matteo shakes his head, his fingers drumming against his desktop in a nervous rhythm I don’t think he realizes he’s doing. “Complete silence. No communications, no hints about timeline or format. It’s unusual.”
“Unusual how?” I lean forward, studying his face. The afternoon light streaming through the windows catches a cluster of silver threads in his dark hair that I swear weren’t there a month ago.
“Typically, the Families follow a predictable pattern. Announcement, preparation time, execution, evaluation. The gaps between communications are usually consistent.” He pulls up a calendar on his tablet, showing me dates and timelines.
“Your first three trials followed a standard rhythm. This delay is deliberate.”
“To do what?” My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but I can feel my anxiety spiking again.
“To demonstrate that the Families control the process,” Alessandro says, crossing his arms tightly across his broad chest. “They decide when you’re tested, how you’re tested, whether and whether you’re worthy of their approval. The waiting is part of the test.”
“Psychological warfare,” Matteo agrees, and there’s something in his voice that makes me think he’s remembering his own experiences with Family politics. “They want you uncertain, second-guessing yourself, building up the stakes in your own mind.”
It’s working, I think but don’t say.
Because the longer I wait, the more convinced I become that whatever they’re planning is going to be impossible to survive.
“So what do we do?” I ask.
“We prepare for every scenario we can imagine,” Matteo says. “Physical combat, strategic planning, interrogation, negotiation. We make sure you’re ready for whatever they throw at you.”
So basically exactly what Alessandro said at the penthouse. “And if it’s something we can’t prepare for?” I ask, voicing the one thought I can’t get rid of.
“Then you adapt,” Alessandro says. “Like you did during the warehouse operation when everything went sideways. Like you did during the interrogation when Torres tried to break you psychologically. You figure it out in the moment and you survive.”
His confidence in me is both comforting and terrifying.
Because what if this time I can’t adapt fast enough?
What if this time survival isn’t an option?
Three days later, I’m in Alessandro’s office going over defensive tactics when his assistant’s voice crackles through the intercom.
“Mr. Ricci? There’s a courier here with a delivery for Miss DeLuca. He says it’s from the Families.”
Time seems to freeze as Alessandro and I lock eyes across his desk. I can see my own apprehension reflected in his expression.
“Send him up,” Alessandro says, his voice carefully controlled.
The courier is young with closely cropped brown hair, maybe mid-twenties, wearing an expensive suit that screams Family money.
He hands me a heavy envelope with the kind of ceremonial wax seal that means this is official business.
“Miss DeLuca,” he says formally. “The Families request your presence at Le Saint-Martin tomorrow evening at eight PM for the announcement of your final trial.”
“Announcement?” Alessandro steps closer to me, his presence solid and reassuring. “Not the trial itself?”
The courier shakes his head. “Just the announcement, sir. Additional instructions will be provided at that time.” The courier’s smile is polite but empty. “Transportation will be provided if needed.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I say, finding my voice. “We’ll be there.”
After he leaves, I stare at the envelope in my hands.
The wax seal bears the combined insignia of all families—a reminder that this isn’t just Dominic Calabrese playing games. This is official Family business.
“Tomorrow night,” I say, more to myself than to Alessandro.
“We knew this was coming,” Alessandro remarks.