He's not family anymore.
He's opposition.
And I know exactly how to handle opposition.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Bianca
The attacks start small.
An email blast from a gossip site I've never heard of, subject line: "Educator by Day, Service Provider by Night?" The blind item is vague enough to have plausible deniability but specific enough that anyone who knows me would recognize the details.A Manhattan schoolteacher with connections to organized crime has a past that might shock her students' parents. Sources say she worked in the "service industry" before landing her current position. How did she really afford that degree?
I delete it. Block the sender. Pretend my hands aren't shaking.
Two days later, I visit Mom at the clinic.
Something's wrong the moment I walk in.
The air feels heavier. Antiseptic smell mixed with something else—something like decay trying to hide beneath bleach and air freshener. The nurse—Patricia, who's been with Mom for months—moves with a carefulness that makes my stomach drop. Gentle touches. Quiet steps. The kind of movements you use around something breakable.
And Mom herself looks worse. Her skin has gone sallow, almost gray. The color of old newspapers left too long in the sun. Her breathing is shallow, each inhale a visible effort that makes her chest hitch. The bones in her hands stand out sharper than last week. Sharper than yesterday.
"Mom?" I pull a chair close to her bed, take her hand. It feels too light. Too fragile. Like I could snap her wrist with the wrong amount of pressure. "How are you feeling?"
"Tired." Her voice is barely a whisper. "But the new medication helps."
"New medication?"
"Dr. Kent changed my prescription last week. Something stronger for the pain. And they brought in a night nurse." She manages a weak smile. "I told them it wasn't necessary, but apparently someone authorized it. The nurse is very sweet. Reads to me when I can't sleep."
My chest tightens.
"Someone authorized it?"
Patricia appears at my elbow with a chart. "Miss Mancini, could I speak with you for a moment? Outside?"
I follow her into the hallway, dread coiling in my stomach.
"What's going on?"
"Your mother's condition has worsened. The cancer is progressing faster than we anticipated." She flips through the chart, shows me numbers and graphs that might as well be hieroglyphics. "Dr. Kent wanted to increase her comfort care, but the treatments she needed weren't covered under the original plan."
"So what happened?"
"The billing shifted this month. We received authorization for additional services—private night nursing, upgraded pain management, faster imaging schedules. Everything your mother needs to stay comfortable."
"From who?"
Patricia hesitates. "The coverage came through a different channel. A private benefactor updated the account."
I don't need her to say his name.
Dante.
He did this. Without asking me. Without consulting me. Just... handled it.
Understanding splits me down the middle.
