Chapter 20 Alessandro #2
“Indeed we are,” Matteo replies, his voice carrying the weight of generations of power and violence. “Which is why I’m sure you’ll remember that disrespecting the dead—particularly the dead who died in service to family interests—is considered poor form in our circles.”
The rebuke is delivered well, reminding everyone present that Sophia died because of her betrayal, but that speaking ill of her reflects poorly on the speaker rather than the subject.
“Now then,” Matteo continues, his tone becoming businesslike again, “I believe my daughter has heard enough to make her decision.”
All eyes turn to Bianca, who has remained perfectly still throughout this entire exchange.
When she speaks, her voice is clear and steady, betraying none of the internal struggle I’ve been watching play out across her features.
“I accept the trial as outlined,” she says simply.
“Excellent,” Dominic replies, though I can hear the frustration underneath his satisfaction.
He wanted her rattled, wanted her to show weakness or doubt. Instead, she’s given him nothing to work with.
Instead, he’s shown his own ass.
“The trial will commence in seventy-two hours,” he announces. “Additional operational details will be provided tomorrow morning.”
As the meeting breaks up, I watch the subtle power dynamics play out around the room.
Meaningful looks exchanged between family heads, quiet conversations that will shape tomorrow’s alliances.
But through it all, I can’t stop thinking about what I witnessed.
Bianca didn’t just handle Dominic’s provocations well—she handled them too well.
Almost like she wasn’t really present for parts of the conversation, like she was listening to something else entirely.
Something is wrong.
Later that evening, back in our hotel suite, I’m reviewing security protocols on my laptop when I notice Bianca standing by the windows, staring out at the Montreal skyline.
The city lights reflect off the glass, casting her profile in sharp relief against the darkness beyond.
She’s perfectly still for a long moment, then her head tilts slightly to the left.
Her lips move, barely perceptible, as if she’s responding to something.
I can’t make out the words from across the room, but there’s definitely a conversation happening.
A one-sided conversation.
“…not the right approach,” I hear her murmur, her voice so quiet I almost miss it. Her forehead wrinkles, and she shakes her head minutely. “No, that’s not—”
“Who are you talking to?”
She spins around so fast she nearly stumbles, her eyes wide with something that looks like panic before her expression smooths into practiced neutrality.
“What do you mean?” Her voice is perfectly controlled, but I catch the slight elevation in pitch that suggests she’s rattled.
“Just now. You were having a conversation with someone.” I close my laptop and give her my full attention. “Who?”
She lets out a small laugh that sounds forced. “I stubbed my toe on the chair leg. I was just muttering at myself for being clumsy.”
The lie comes easily.
But I notice she doesn’t look directly at me when she says it, and her hands are clasped tightly in front of her—defensive body language that contradicts her casual tone.
I stand up, not liking that she’s lying to me. “Really? Because from here it looked like you were responding to someone. Having an actual conversation.”
Her expression hardens, and I can see walls going up behind her eyes. “It was nothing, Alessandro. Just…thinking out loud.”
Why won’t she talk to me? “Tell me what’s going—”
“I said it was nothing.” The words come out sharp, final. “Can we please focus on what actually matters? Like the fact that Dominic has designed a trial specifically to get me killed?”
The subject change is abrupt, clearly meant to deflect from my questions.
I want to push harder, to demand answers about what I’ve been observing, but the edge in her voice warns me off.
For now.
“Fine,” I say shortly as I sit back down, mentally filing this conversation away for later. “Let’s talk strategy.”
But even as we discuss tactical approaches and potential contingencies,
I can’t shake the feeling that Bianca is fighting battles I can’t see.
And if I can’t see them, I can’t help her win them.
The operational details arrive the next morning via encrypted email and reading them makes my stomach drop.
The witness is Dr. Jane Schuyler, a forensic accountant who’s been tracing money laundering operations for the FBI.
She’s scheduled to testify before a federal grand jury in two days, and her testimony could implicate multiple families in a complex web of financial crimes.
The transport route is a nightmare of variables: she’ll be moved from a safe house in downtown New York to the federal courthouse, a journey that requires traveling through three different jurisdictions with multiple potential ambush points.
The FBI has provided a basic security detail, but they’re clearly expecting us to supplement their efforts.
Which means we’ll be working alongside federal agents to protect a witness who’s testifying against our own people.
The political optics alone are staggering.
“It’s worse than I thought,” I tell Bianca as we spread the details across the hotel room’s dining table, my heart pounding as I take it all in. “They’re not just asking you to protect someone. They’re asking you to actively cooperate with a federal investigation.”
“I know.” Her voice is calm, matter-of-fact, as she studies the floor plans and security protocols and it aggravates me. Why isn’t she freaking out? “But refusing isn’t an option.”
“Succeeding isn’t much better,” I point out, running my fingers through my hair. “Half the families will see you as a traitor for helping the FBI.”
“Then I’ll have to make sure the other half see me as someone who can handle impossible situations,” Bianca shoots back. She looks up from the documents, her blue eyes determined. “They’ll see me as someone who can navigate complex political waters without losing sight of the ultimate goal.”
Before I can respond, there’s a knock at the door. It’s Matteo.
He looks exhausted, like he’s Atlas holding the world on his shoulders.
But when he sees the details spread across the table, his entire demeanor shifts.
The exhausted father disappears, replaced by the sharp mind that’s kept the DeLuca family in power.
“May I?” he asks Bianca, who gives a sharp nod. I’m impressed that Matteo actually asked for permission to do anything. He’s usually an “seek permission later” type of person.
“Federal witness protection,” he says, scanning the documents. “High-profile target, multiple jurisdictions, political complications.” He hisses through his teeth as the conclusion hits him. “They want you to fail, but they want it to look like an honest attempt.”
“Can you provide additional backup?” I ask. I already have men who will be assisting, but it never hurts to have more—especially well trained DeLuca soldiers.
“I’ve already positioned men throughout the city,” he replies without hesitation. “Twenty-four-hour surveillance, rapid response teams, medical support. Whatever you need.”
I can see the fear lurking behind his professional mask—the terror of a father who’s sending his daughter into a situation designed to kill her.
But his voice remains steady and his thinking is as sharp as ever.
“The transport route has seventeen potential ambush points,” he continues, pulling out his own tablet and overlaying our intel with his team’s reconnaissance.
“We can eliminate twelve of them with proper positioning. The other five…” He pauses, as if choosing his words.
“Those will require active countermeasures.”
We spend the next three hours going over every detail, every contingency, every possible failure point.
Matteo’s insights are invaluable.
He knows the city, understands the Calabrese operational methods, and can anticipate decisions in ways that come from decades of experience.
But I can see the toll it’s taking on him.
The way he keeps glancing at Bianca as if memorizing her face.
The careful control that’s barely containing his desperation.
I consider pulling him to the side and mentioning the conversations I’ve observed and the signs that Bianca might be struggling with something beyond the normal stress of the trials.
But one look at Matteo’s face convinces me to keep quiet.
He’s already carrying more weight than any father should have to bear.
“I think that covers the tactical considerations,” he says finally, gathering his papers with movements that are just slightly too careful, too controlled. “You have good plans in place. Solid contingencies.”
It’s clear he’s preparing to leave, but he hesitates at the door, turning back to face Bianca with an expression that’s trying desperately to be encouraging.
“You’re ready for this,” he says, and even I can hear how forced it sounds. “You’ve proven yourself in every trial so far. This one is just…more complex.”
Bianca’s face softens slightly, and I can see she recognizes his attempt at a pep talk for what it is—a father’s desperate effort to provide comfort when he has no real comfort to offer.
“You have good instincts,” he continues, his voice gaining slightly more conviction. “Trust them. Trust your training. Trust your partners.” He glances at me briefly. “And remember that sometimes the best strategy is the one your enemies don’t expect.”
It’s not exactly inspirational, but it’s genuine.
And from Bianca’s expression, it’s clear that she appreciates the effort, even if the words themselves fall short.
But then Matteo does something that surprises me.
He crosses the room in three quick strides and pulls Bianca into a fierce embrace, his arms tight around her as if he can keep her safe through sheer force of will.
“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers against her hair, his voice thick with emotion he’s no longer trying to hide. “Not because of these trials, not because of what you can do or who you might become. I’m proud because you’re my daughter, and you’re everything I hoped you’d be and more.”
He pulls back slightly, his hands framing her face, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
The resemblance between them is uncanny at this moment.
“I’m proud that you’ll succeed me. Not because you have to, but because you deserve to. Because you’ve earned it through your strength and intelligence and courage.” His voice breaks slightly. “Because I can’t imagine anyone better suited to carry on what we’ve built.”
Bianca’s mouth falls open, all her careful control dissolving in the face of his raw love and pride.
“Da—Matteo,” she whispers, and for the first time since the trials began, she sounds like the nineteen-year-old she is rather than the hardened leader she’s becoming.
“I love you, sweetheart,” he says simply. “Whatever happens, whatever choices you make, that will never change.”
He kisses her forehead, holds her for one more moment, then steps back and walks out of the room without another word.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Bianca stands frozen where he left her, tears streaming down her face, her composure finally shattered by the one thing that could break through her defenses.
A father’s unconditional love.
I want to go to her, to offer comfort, but something tells me this moment belongs to her alone.
Instead, I watch from across the room as she processes everything—the weight of his pride, the burden of his expectations, the terrible knowledge that tomorrow might be the last time he sees her alive.
When she finally looks at me, her eyes are red but determined.
“We’re going to succeed,” she says, and there’s something in her voice that wasn’t there before. Not just resolve, but purpose. “I’m not going to let him down.”
“We won’t let him down,” I correct gently.
She nods, wiping at her eyes. “Yes. We won’t let him down.”
But even as I say the words, even as I believe them with everything I have, I can’t shake the feeling that tomorrow is going to test us in ways none of our planning has prepared for.
And I’m terrified that it won’t be enough.