Chapter 20 Alessandro
ALESSANDRO
The Montreal air bites through my wool coat as we approach Le Saint-Martin, crystal clear and sharp enough to cut.
Not a cloud mars the brilliant blue sky, but there’s a foreboding that has nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the men waiting inside that gleaming hotel.
I don’t mention it to Bianca. She has enough to worry about without my inexplicable sense of dread.
Instead, I study her as our escort leads us through the marble lobby.
She’s wearing an impeccably fitting black suit that emphasizes her height and the sharp angles of her bone structure—very much the image of a woman who belongs in boardrooms and power meetings.
Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail that shows off the elegant line of her neck, and her makeup is flawless, subtle enough to look natural while highlighting those striking steel-blue eyes.
She looks every inch the heiress to a criminal empire. Confident, controlled, dangerous.
But there’s something else, something I’ve been noticing more frequently over the past few weeks.
Her eyes dart slightly to the left, then narrow as if she’s listening to something I can’t hear.
Her lips press together in a thin line, and her jaw clenches almost imperceptibly.
Then her expression smooths out, becomes neutral again, like she’s resolved some internal argument.
It happens again as we wait for the elevator, this time accompanied by the slightest shake of her head—so subtle I might have missed it if I wasn’t watching so carefully.
She’s having conversations with herself. Internal debates that play out across her features in micro-expressions most people would never notice.
I’ve been telling myself it’s nerves, pre-trial anxiety manifesting in unusual ways.
But the frequency has increased, and now I’m starting to wonder if there’s something more going on.
Something I should be concerned about.
I file the thought away for later. After the trial, when we have privacy and time, I’ll ask her about it. Right now, she needs all her focus for whatever the Families have planned.
The private dining room on the top floor is exactly the same as it was when we last were here.
The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of Montreal’s skyline, and the late morning sun turns the glass into sheets of gold.
All family heads are present, seated around the table with the kind of casual authority that comes from decades of wielding life-and-death power.
Don Vitelli examines his fingernails with studied boredom. Alberto Marconi scrolls through his phone like this is just another business meeting.
The others maintain expressions of polite interest, but I can see the calculation in their eyes.
They’re here to witness what they expect will be Bianca’s final humiliation.
Final humiliation. As if she hasn’t excelled in every fucking trial they’ve thrown at her.
Matteo sits at the far end of the table, his posture perfectly straight, his hands resting calmly on the polished wood.
His face is a mask of controlled neutrality, but when his eyes find Bianca, I catch the subtle tightening around the corners—worry he can’t quite hide.
He gives us a barely perceptible nod, acknowledging our presence while maintaining the formal distance required by the circumstances.
The tension in the room is palpable, a charged atmosphere that makes the expensive air feel heavy.
Everyone knows this isn’t just another trial.
This is the culmination of months of political maneuvering, the moment when alliances will be tested and power structures potentially reshuffled.
Then Dominic Calabrese enters, and it’s as if the room is holding its collective breath.
He’s dressed impeccably, as always—a navy suit, silk tie, gold cufflinks that catch the light when he moves.
His dark hair is perfectly styled, his smile polished and predatory. But it’s his eyes that make my skin crawl.
They’re dark brown, almost black, with the kind of cold amusement that suggests he’s already savoring what’s about to happen.
“Gentlemen,” he says, his voice carrying the practiced cadence of someone who enjoys being the center of attention. “Thank you all for gathering here today. We are about to witness what I believe will be a truly memorable conclusion to Miss DeLuca’s trials.”
The way he says her name—with just enough emphasis to make it sound like an insult—makes my hands clench into fists under the table.
“The final trial,” he continues, moving to stand behind his chair with theatrical flair, “has been designed to test not just Miss DeLuca’s individual capabilities, but her ability to function under the kind of pressure that real leadership demands.”
He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle over the room.
I can feel Bianca beside me, perfectly still, her breathing controlled and even.
But I catch another of those micro-expressions—her eyes flicking to the side, biting her lip as if she’s listening to advice I can’t hear.
“The trial is this,” Dominic announces with obvious satisfaction.
“Miss DeLuca will be responsible for protecting a high-value witness against assassination attempts by Calabrese operatives. The witness possesses information critical to ongoing federal investigations into organized crime activities.”
My stomach bottoms out.
He’s not just asking her to protect someone.
He’s asking her to protect a federal witness against his own people.
The operational challenges alone are staggering: multiple hostiles, unknown variables, the need to keep a civilian alive while potentially facing lethal force.
But the political implications are even worse.
If she fails, if the witness dies, the Families can claim she’s not capable of protecting valuable assets and she can be killed.
If she succeeds, she’ll have interfered with a Calabrese operation, potentially creating grounds for retaliation.
She could be killed.
Either way, Dominic wins.
Worse, protecting a federal witness puts her in direct conflict with everything our world stands for.
We don’t cooperate with law enforcement, we don’t protect people who threaten our operations, and we certainly don’t put ourselves at risk for the benefit of federal investigations.
Men have been murdered for less than this.
He’s designed a trial where success makes her look like a traitor and failure makes her look incompetent.
“The witness is currently being held at a secure location,” Dominic continues, clearly enjoying every word.
“Miss DeLuca will have forty-eight hours to establish protection protocols and prepare for the assassination attempts, which will commence at a time of our choosing within a seventy-two-hour window following the preparation period.”
I want to stand up and call this what it is—a fucking rigged game designed to destroy her regardless of the outcome.
But Bianca remains perfectly calm beside me, her expression neutral, showing no reaction whatsoever to what should be devastating news.
“The parameters seem quite extensive,” Don Vitelli observes, his tone carefully neutral. “Perhaps Miss DeLuca would like clarification on certain aspects?”
“I’m sure she would,” Dominic replies with false sympathy. “After all, this is significantly more complex than her previous trials. Some might say impossibly so.”
The provocation is obvious, designed to make her react, to show doubt or fear or anger that can be used against her.
But Bianca just sits there, hands folded in her lap, face serene as carved marble.
“Of course,” Dominic continues, his smile growing sharper, “we understand if Miss DeLuca feels this trial is beyond her capabilities. There’s no shame in recognizing one’s limitations. Some people are simply not cut out for the highest levels of leadership.”
Still nothing. Not even a flicker of emotion.
“Perhaps she’s inherited more than just her father’s eyes,” he says, and I can hear the venom creeping into his voice. “Perhaps she’s inherited his particular…weaknesses as well. His tendency toward violence over strategy. His inability to inspire genuine loyalty among his subordinates.”
My vision starts to blur red around the edges and I grip the arms of my chair.
He’s attacking Giuseppe now, trying to goad her through family insults.
But Bianca remains unmoved, as if she’s not even hearing him.
“Then again,” Dominic presses on, clearly frustrated by her lack of reaction, “maybe the real weakness runs deeper. Maybe it comes from her mother’s side.
After all, Sophia DeLuca proved herself quite…
accommodating to our family’s interests.
Perhaps her daughter has inherited that same flexibility when it comes to loyalty. ”
The insult is so far below the belt it’s staggering.
He’s essentially calling Sophia a whore and suggesting Bianca might be equally treacherous.
The rage that floods through me is so intense I actually see spots.
My chair scrapes against the floor as I start to rise, but Matteo’s voice cuts through the air.
“Careful, Dominic.”
Two words, spoken quietly, but they carry enough menace to make every person in the room freeze.
Matteo hasn’t moved from his position, hasn’t raised his voice, hasn’t even shifted his goddamn expression.
But something in his tone—cold, controlled, absolutely lethal—makes the air itself seem to thicken with danger.
“I’d hate for you to say something that requires a more…personal response.”
The threat has its intended effect. Don Vitelli straightens in his chair.
Marconi looks up from his phone for the first time all evening.
Even the other family heads seem to recognize that they’ve just witnessed something significant.
Dominic’s face flushes slightly, but he maintains his composure. “Of course, Matteo. We’re all family here, after all.”