Chapter 23
ALESSANDRO
Ten days.
Ten days since the Calabreses tried to murder us both in broad daylight, and my ribs still scream as phantom pain shoots through my chest where the bullet cracked bone and punctured lung.
The surgical site throbs with a dull, persistent ache that reminds me every time I breathe just how close we came to dying.
But Dr. Jane Schuyler made a full recovery.
My informant at the Bureau confirmed she’s been relocated under the Witness Protection Program with new identity, new life, somewhere far from New York where Dominic Calabrese’s reach can’t touch her.
I feel for the woman, I really do.
One moment she’s a forensic accountant with a normal life, and the next she’s disappeared forever because she had the misfortune of discovering financial crimes that put her in the crosshairs of a family war.
At least she’s alive. That’s more than the Calabreses intended.
I shift in my desk chair, wincing as the movement pulls at the healing tissue around my ribs, and glance across my office at Bianca.
She’s hunched over a stack of surveillance photos, her dark hair falling like a curtain around her face as she studies each image with the intensity of a scholar examining ancient manuscripts.
Her fingers trace patterns across the glossy surfaces.
For ten days, she’s thrown herself into planning the destruction of an entire crime family with the single-minded focus of someone possessed.
She barely sleeps, picks at her food, and speaks only when necessary.
Every waking moment has been consumed by reconnaissance reports, financial analyses, and strategic assessments.
And I’m starting to worry that the planning process is breaking her apart.
“The warehouse district gives us the best approach to their primary money laundering operation,” she mutters, not looking up from the photos spread across the mahogany surface.
Her voice carries the hoarse quality of someone who’s been talking to herself for hours. “But the residential area might be more psychologically effective. Hitting them where they sleep sends a different message than hitting them where they work.”
Her brow furrows as she chews on her lower lip—a nervous habit she’s developed over the past few days.
The skin there is raw and slightly swollen from constant worry.
Dark circles ring her eyes, and her cheekbones appear more pronounced than usual, giving her face a gaunt, almost haunted quality.
“Unless we coordinate simultaneous strikes,” she continues, her tone shifting abruptly. “Multiple targets, overwhelming force, no opportunity for regrouping or retaliation. Complete annihilation in a single night.”
She pauses mid-sentence, her head tilting slightly to the right as if she’s listening to something I can’t hear.
Her lips press together in a thin line before she scowls.
A moment later, her expression becomes blank again, like she’s resolved some internal argument.
This is the fifth time in the last hour I’ve witnessed this pattern.
The sudden shifts in strategy, the internal debates that play out across her features, the way she responds to conversations that aren’t happening aloud.
It’s been getting worse.
And to be honest, it’s kind of scaring me.
“What about the children?” I ask, testing something. “Dominic has two daughters. Seven and five years old.”
Bianca’s head snaps up, her eyes blazing with cold fury that makes my breath catch. For a moment, she looks exactly like Giuseppe.
“The children are off-limits,” she declares with absolute finality, but then her expression flickers, uncertainty creeping in around the edges. “Unless…no. No, that’s not…” She shakes her head sharply, as if dismissing an unwelcome thought. “We’re not monsters.”
Her voice wavers on the last word, carrying a note of uncertainty that suggests she’s not entirely convinced of her own declaration.
“But their school schedules could be useful for timing,” she continues, her tone becoming businesslike again. “If we know when Dominic will be distracted by parent-teacher conferences or soccer games, we can predict his movements more accurately.”
The rapid shift from moral certainty to calculation and back again is giving me whiplash.
This isn’t the woman I know—sharp, decisive, unwavering in her convictions.
This fragmented version of herself seems to be fighting multiple battles simultaneously, none of them visible to anyone but her.
“Bianca,” I say carefully, setting down the financial report I’ve been pretending to read. “Can we talk about—”
“Did you know that Dominic’s wife shops at the same boutique as Bella?” she interrupts, her voice taking on an almost manic quality as she rifles through another stack of photos. “Every Tuesday at two p.m., like clockwork. Very predictable. Very…vulnerable.”
What? She’s not just talking about surveillance opportunities—she’s talking about targeting civilians.
Innocent people whose only crime is being related to our enemy.
“Pump the breaks, Bianca. That’s not who you are,” I tell her firmly.
“Isn’t it?” She laughs, but there’s no humor in the sound—just a bitter, brittle edge that reminds me uncomfortably of broken glass. “Maybe this is exactly who I am.”
Her hands are shaking now, barely perceptible tremors that she tries to hide by gripping the edge of the desk.
The knuckles stand out white against her pale skin, and I can see the effort it’s taking for her to maintain even this semblance of control.
“I need to think,” she mutters, pressing the heels of her palms against her temples as if trying to stop a headache. “I need to…there are too many variables. Too many voices telling me different things.”
Voices.
It’s like a lightbulb is going off in my head, and suddenly everything makes sense.
The internal arguments, the shifting strategies, the way she responds to conversations that aren’t happening aloud.
“What voices, Bianca?” I ask quietly, already knowing I’m not going to like the answer.
Her entire body goes rigid, every muscle tensing as if she’s been caught doing something shameful.
The color drains from her face, leaving her skin almost translucent in the afternoon light streaming through my office windows.
“It’s nothing,” she says quickly. Too quickly. Her voice is pitched higher than usual. “I just meant…you know, internal dialogue. Everyone has that.”
“Bianca.” I stand slowly, moving around the desk toward her with the careful movements of someone approaching a wounded animal. “What voices?”
She scrambles backward, her chair rolling away from me until it hits the wall with a soft thud.
Her breathing is becoming rapid and shallow, and I can see panic beginning to bloom in her eyes.
“I said it’s nothing!” The words explode out of her with more force than necessary, echoing off the office walls. “Why can’t you just leave it alone?”
“Because you’re falling apart,” I respond bluntly, refusing to let her deflect this time. “Because for ten days I’ve watched you have conversations with people who aren’t here. You’re talking about targeting children and innocent civilians like it’s a viable strategic option for Christ’s sake.”
“I said the children were off-limits!” she shouts, surging to her feet with enough violence to send her chair spinning.
“And then thirty seconds later you started talking about using them for timing intelligence!” I fire back, my own voice rising to match hers. “You’re contradicting yourself every five minutes, Bianca. You start sentences going in one direction and end them somewhere completely different.”
“That’s just…that’s just careful planning,” she insists, but her voice wavers with uncertainty, her eyes darting around the room as if trying to figure out an escape route. “Considering multiple approaches, weighing different options—”
“That’s having arguments with yourself!” I interrupt, taking another step closer. “That’s responding to advice from people who aren’t fucking here!”
I watch her face cycle through emotions—denial, anger, fear, and finally, devastatingly, resignation.
“Y–you think I’m crazy,” she whispers, her voice so quiet I have to strain to hear it. “You think I’ve finally lost it.”
The vulnerability in her tone stops me cold.
This isn’t the DeLuca heiress or the dangerous woman who has made it through four deadly trials.
This is nineteen-year-old Bianca who’s terrified that she’s becoming something unnatural.
“I think you’re under more stress than any human being should have to handle,” I tell her honestly, gentling my voice and switching tactics. “I think you’ve been pushed past your breaking point and you’re struggling to cope.”
She sinks back into her chair, her body folding in on itself as if she’s trying to make herself smaller.
Her hands twist together in her lap, and I can see tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.
“They won’t stop talking,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “Ever since that night in Montreal when I learned the truth about Giuseppe, there have been voices in my head. Three of them. And they never shut the fuck up.”
Well, shit.
That wasn’t what I was expecting. Relief and concern course through me.
Relief because now I understand what’s been happening. Concern because the implications are staggering.
“Whose voices?” I ask, settling into the chair beside her instead of looming over her.
She’s quiet for so long I think she might not answer. When she finally speaks, her voice is thick with unshed tears and something that sounds like shame.
“Giuseppe’s,” she admits, not looking at me. “Sophia’s. And…” She pauses, swallowing hard. “Matteo’s.”
I lean back in my chair, unable to speak for several moments as I process what she just said.
Holy shit.
The three people who have shaped her the most are all talking to her simultaneously like goddamn angels and devils on her shoulder.
“What do they tell you?” I ask carefully.