Matteo hasn’t moved from his position, hasn’t raised his voice, hasn’t even shifted his goddamn expression.
But something in his tone—cold, controlled, absolutely lethal—makes the air itself seem to thicken with danger.
“I’d hate for you to say something that requires a more…personal response.”
The threat has its intended effect. Don Vitelli straightens in his chair.
Marconi looks up from his phone for the first time all evening.
Even the other family heads seem to recognize that they’ve just witnessed something significant.
Dominic’s face flushes slightly, but he maintains his composure. “Of course, Matteo. We’re all family here, after all.”
“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 themtoowell.
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?—”
