Chapter 23 #2
Her hands are shaking more visibly now, and she wraps her arms around herself as if trying to provide comfort.
“Giuseppe wants blood. Complete annihilation. He tells me to hunt down every Calabrese and paint the streets red.” Her voice takes on a harsh quality as she mimics his tone. “‘Show no mercy. Take what’s yours.’”
She pauses, her breathing becoming more labored as she continues. “Sophia whispers about manipulation and psychological warfare. She wants me to use this situation to consolidate power, to turn the other families against each other while we benefit from the chaos.”
“And Matteo?” I prompt gently.
She looks away. “He provides guidance and advice. He’s always telling me to protect what matters and to not let emotion make me reckless.”
I study her face as she describes this internal chorus, noting the way her expression shifts subtly with each voice—harder and more ruthless when channeling Giuseppe, calculating and cold when echoing Sophia, measured and strategic when reflecting Matteo’s influence.
“They’re all talking at once,” she continues, her voice gaining a note of desperation. “During the planning sessions, during meals, when I’m trying to sleep. Three different approaches to every decision, three different sets of priorities, three different definitions of success.”
“And it’s tearing you apart,” I observe. So many things are making sense now.
She nods miserably, tears finally spilling over to track down her cheeks.
“I—I can’t think clearly anymore. I start planning something using Giuseppe’s approach, then Sophia suggests something completely different, then Matteo’s voice warns me about the long-term consequences.
B-by the time I’ve heard all three perspectives, I’ve forgotten what I was originally trying to accomplish. ”
Her breathing is becoming more erratic, and I can see the edge of panic beginning to creep in.
Her chest rises and falls rapidly and her leg jiggles up and down nervously.
“You think I’m losing my mind,” she whispers, her voice thick with terror. “You think I’m having some kind of psychotic break.”
The fear in her voice is heartbreaking, but as I study her face—noting the way her eyes track movement with perfect clarity, the coherent way she’s describing her experiences, and the rational concern she’s showing about her own mental state—I realize she’s probably not losing her grip on reality.
No, she’s gaining access to something extraordinary.
“No,” I tell her firmly, and the certainty in my voice makes her look up at me in surprise. “I don’t think you’re crazy at all.”
Her face momentarily lights up before it becomes drawn again. “But the voices—” she starts to protest.
“Are three different aspects of your personality,” I interrupt, leaning forward in my chair. “Three different approaches to leadership that you’ve internalized so completely they feel like separate entities.”
Her brow furrows as she processes this interpretation. “That’s not…I mean, they feel real. They have distinct personalities, different priorities—”
“Because they represent real people who shaped you,” I explain, my excitement growing as the implications become clearer.
“Giuseppe’s ruthless pragmatism, Sophia’s psychological manipulation, Matteo’s strategic thinking—you’ve absorbed all of it so thoroughly that you can access their decision-making processes as if they were actually advising you. ”
She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You’re saying this is…normal?”
“No, it’s not,” I tell her honestly, watching her face crumble before I continue.
“I’m saying this is incredible. Most leaders have to choose a single approach and stick with it.
You have access to three completely different leadership styles simultaneously.
Instead of being limited to one perspective, you can evaluate every situation from multiple angles. ”
I lean back in my chair, awed and slightly jealous.
The panic in her eyes begins to recede, replaced by something that might be hope. “But they contradict each other constantly. I can’t make decisions when they’re all shouting different advice.”
“Then we teach you how to coordinate them instead of letting them fight,” I suggest, my mind already racing through possibilities. “We turn this from a liability into your greatest asset.”
Her breathing is starting to slow, and some of the tension is leaving her shoulders. “You really don’t think I’m losing my mind?” she asks hopefully.
“I think you’re evolving,” I tell her with complete sincerity. “I think you’re developing capabilities that most people could never dream of. The question is whether you want to learn how to use them effectively.”
For the first time in days, she smiles—not the cold, calculating expression she’s been wearing during planning sessions, but a genuine smile that reaches her eyes.
“How?” she asks simply.
I lean back further in my chair, already formulating an approach. “We start by teaching you to recognize when the voices are becoming overwhelming. Then we work on techniques for evaluating their different suggestions systematically instead of letting them fight each other.”
“Like a debate?” she asks, her voice gaining strength.
“Exactly like a debate. You become the moderator instead of the victim.” I study her face, noting how the haunted quality is beginning to fade.
“When faced with a decision, you consciously ask each voice for its perspective, evaluate the merits of each approach, then synthesize them into something uniquely yours.”
Her eyes are brightening now, and I can see her sharp intelligence beginning to reengage.
“So instead of Giuseppe’s voice drowning out the others with demands for immediate violence, I could ask him specifically about tactical approaches while asking Sophia about psychological implications and Matteo about long-term consequences. ”
“And then combine the best elements of all three into a strategy that’s more comprehensive than any single approach could be,” I confirm.
She’s quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful as she processes this new framework.
When she speaks again, her voice carries a note of wonder.
“They’re not a curse,” she murmurs. “They’re tools.”
“The most sophisticated strategic planning tools anyone’s ever had,” I agree. “The question is whether you’re ready to learn how to use them.”
Her smile turns sharp, dangerous, and I catch a glimpse of the formidable leader she’s becoming. “Oh, I’m ready. Dominic Calabrese has no idea what’s coming for him.”
“None of them do,” I tell her, and for the first time since the hospital, I don’t feel as hopeless. “By the time you’re finished with them, they’re going to wish they’d never heard the name DeLuca.”
Before I can say anything else, she launches herself at me, nearly knocking me backward as her arms wrap around my neck.
The impact sends a sharp pain through my healing ribs, but I don’t care.
Her face is buried against my shoulder, and I can feel her shaking with relief.
“Thank you,” she whispers against my throat, her words coming out shaky. “Thank you for not thinking I’m insane. For not wanting to lock me away or fix me or make me see a psychiatrist.”
I wrap my arms around her carefully, mindful of both our injuries, and breathe in the familiar scent of her hair. “Never,” I murmur, pressing my lips to the top of her head. “I would never think that about you.”
She pulls back slightly, just enough to look at me, and her eyes are bright with unshed tears of gratitude.
Her face is still pale, still showing the strain of the past ten days, but there’s something lighter in her expression now.
Something hopeful.
I cup her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing across her cheekbones with infinite gentleness. “I love you,” I tell her. “All of you. Including the parts that talk to voices no one else can hear.”
A soft laugh escapes her, and she leans into my touch. “Even if I’m technically insane?”
“Especially then.” I stroke her face tenderly. “Besides, the most interesting people usually are a little crazy.”
Her laughter grows stronger, more genuine, and I grin.
This is the first time in days she’s sounded like herself rather than someone being pulled in three different directions.
Which…I guess she has been.
“Can I ask you something?” I venture, my voice taking on a teasing quality as an idea occurs to me.
She nods, still leaning into my hands.
“The voices,” I begin, trying to keep my expression innocent while my mind travels to distinctly non-innocent places. “Are they…there all the time? Even when we’re, you know…” I let my voice trail off suggestively.
Understanding dawns in her eyes, and her cheeks flush a delicate pink. “When we’re having sex?” she finishes, her voice carrying a note of amusement. “Bumping uglies?”
“That’s what I’m asking—although I’ve never heard the term ‘bumping uglies’ before and I’m not sure I like it,” I remark, my thumbs still tracing gentle patterns across her skin. “There’s nothing ugly about you.”
She bites her lower lip, a gesture that’s both thoughtful and incredibly fucking distracting. “Actually, no. They shut off completely when we’re…occupied like that. It’s the only time my head is completely quiet.”
My eyes darken at her admission, heat pooling low in my stomach.
The only time she finds peace from the chaos in her mind is when I have her pinned beneath me.
Or when she’s above me.
“That’s exactly what I was hoping to hear,” I growl, my voice roughening with desire.
Before she can respond, I capture her lips with mine, kissing her with all the passion and relief and love that’s been building inside me.
She melts against me immediately, her arms tightening around my neck as she kisses me back with equal fervor.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, and her eyes have taken on that dark, sultry look that never fails to make my pulse race.