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.
