He looks exhausted, like he’s Atlas holding the world on his shoulders.
But when he sees the details spread across the table, his entire demeanor shifts.
The exhausted father disappears, replaced by the sharp mind that’s kept the DeLuca family in power.
“May I?” he asks Bianca, who gives a sharp nod. I’m impressed that Matteo actually asked for permission to do anything. He’s usually an “seek permission later” type of person.
“Federal witness protection,” he says, scanning the documents. “High-profile target, multiple jurisdictions, political complications.” He hisses through his teeth as the conclusion hits him. “They want you to fail, but they want it to look like an honest attempt.”
“Can you provide additional backup?” I ask. I already have men who will be assisting, but it never hurts to have more—especially well trained DeLuca soldiers.
“I’ve already positioned men throughout the city,” he replies without hesitation. “Twenty-four-hour surveillance, rapid response teams, medical support. Whatever you need.”
I can see the fear lurking behind his professional mask—the terror of a father who’s sending his daughter into a situation designed to kill her.
But his voice remains steady and his thinking is as sharp as ever.
“The transport route has seventeen potential ambush points,” he continues, pulling out his own tablet and overlaying our intel with his team’s reconnaissance. “We can eliminate twelve of them with proper positioning. The other five…” He pauses, as if choosing his words. “Those will require active countermeasures.”
We spend the next three hours going over every detail, every contingency, every possible failure point.
Matteo’s insights are invaluable.
He knows the city, understands the Calabrese operational methods, and can anticipate decisions in ways that come from decades of experience.
But I can see the toll it’s taking on him.
The way he keeps glancing at Bianca as if memorizing her face.
The careful control that’s barely containing his desperation.
I consider pulling him to the side and mentioning the conversations I’ve observed and the signs that Bianca might be struggling with something beyond the normal stress of the trials.
But one look at Matteo’s face convinces me to keep quiet.
He’s already carrying more weight than any father should have to bear.
“I think that covers the tactical considerations,” he says finally, gathering his papers with movements that are just slightly too careful, too controlled. “You have good plans in place. Solid contingencies.”
It’s clear he’s preparing to leave, but he hesitates at the door, turning back to face Bianca with an expression that’s trying desperately to be encouraging.
“You’re ready for this,” he says, and even I can hear how forced it sounds. “You’ve proven yourself in every trial so far. This one is just…more complex.”
Bianca’s face softens slightly, and I can see she recognizes his attempt at a pep talk for what it is—a father’s desperate effort to provide comfort when he has no real comfort to offer.
“You have good instincts,” he continues, his voice gaining slightly more conviction. “Trust them. Trust your training. Trust your partners.” He glances at me briefly. “And remember that sometimes the best strategy is the one your enemies don’t expect.”
It’s not exactly inspirational, but it’s genuine.
And from Bianca’s expression, it’s clear that she appreciates the effort, even if the words themselves fall short.
But then Matteo does something that surprises me.
He crosses the room in three quick strides and pulls Bianca into a fierce embrace, his arms tight around her as if he can keep her safe through sheer force of will.
“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers against her hair, his voice thick with emotion he’s no longer trying to hide. “Not because of these trials, not because of what you can do or who you might become. I’m proud because you’re my daughter, and you’re everything I hoped you’d be and more.”
He pulls back slightly, his hands framing her face, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
