“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 feelreal. 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 isincredible. 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.
“Exactlylike 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.”
