And there’s Bianca.
She’s curled up in the chair beside my bed, completely absorbed in what appears to be a paperback novel. Her dark hair is piled in a messy bun atop her head as she reads, and her brow is furrowed in concentration. She’s wearing jeans and a Columbia sweatshirt that’s too big for her, looking more like her age and vulnerable than the dangerous woman who orchestrated the takedown of one of New York’s most notorious mob families.
The book in her hands has a shirtless man on the cover, muscled arms wrapped around a woman in a flowing dress. I have to blink several times to make sure I’m seeing it correctly.
“Seriously?” I croak, my voice rusty from disuse but audible. “Trashy romance novels?”
She jumps so hard the book flies out of her hands, landing on the floor with a soft thud. Her blue eyes are wide with shock for exactly one second before joy floods her face with such intensity it takes my breath away.
“Alessandro!” She launches herself toward me before immediately stopping, her hands hovering over my body as if she’s afraid I’ll break. “Oh god, you’re awake. You’re really awake.”
“Hey,” I whisper, reaching up with a hand that feels like it weighs a thousand pounds to touch her face. “Miss me?”
A wet laugh bubbles out of her. Tears spill out of her eyes, tracking down her cheeks as she carefully, gently, leans down to press her forehead against mine.
“I thought I lost you,” she breathes, her voice cracking. “When I saw you fall, when there was so much blood…I-I thought you were going to die in my arms.”
“Not that easy to get rid of me,” I tell her, though the memory of that moment—the burning in my chest, the taste of blood in my mouth, the way her face contorted with terror—makes my own eyes burn.
She laughs, but it’s shaky and wet. “The doctors said the bullet missed your heart by two centimeters. Two fucking centimeters, Alessandro.” Her eyes swim with tears and her lower lip trembles.
“But it did miss,” I point out, trying to lighten the mood despite the gravity of how close I came to dying. “And I’m here. We’re both here.”
She nods, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “We are. We made it.”
“The book,” I tease, nodding toward where it fell, wanting to change the subject to focus on something other than my near death. “Really?”
Her cheeks flush pink, and for a moment she looks exactly like the nineteen-year-old she is rather than the formidable leader she’s become. “Don’t you judge me. I couldn’t concentrate on anything serious, but I needed something to keep my hands busy while I sat here. The gift shop didn’t have a great selection.”
“What’s it about?” I ask curiously.
“A duke who falls in love with a governess,” she admits, her blush deepening. “It’s completely ridiculous.”
“Sounds perfect for recovery reading,” I tell her seriously, and she laughs—a real laugh this time, bright and genuine. It warms my heart hearing it.
“I missed you so much,” she whispers, carefully taking my hand in both of hers and pressing it to her cheek. “These past three days…I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
“What happened after I went down?” I assume it was a victory considering Bianca is alive.
Her expression shifts, her lips curving into averysmug smile. “We killed them all. Every Calabrese soldier in the compound, and then I put a bullet through Dominic’s forehead myself.”
The matter-of-fact way she says it should probably concern me. Instead, I feel nothing but pride and admiration. “How did you handle the federal response?”
“Carefully,” she replies, settling back into her chair but keeping hold of my hand. “The FBI showed up expecting to arrest a bunch of gang members after a turf war. Instead, they found the surviving members of a respected New York family who had defended themselves against an unprovoked assault.” She laughs delightedly.
“And they bought that?” I ask skeptically. It sounds hard to believe.
“They bought the narrative our lawyers constructed,” she corrects with a slight smile. “Dominic’s own evidence worked against him. All those recordings he made, all the documentation of his trials—it painted a perfect picture of a man obsessed with revenge who finally snapped and tried to commit mass murder.”
I study her face, noting the way her eyes light up when she talks about the political maneuvering. This isn’t just about survival anymore. It’s clear she genuinely enjoys the complex chess game of managing perception and controlling narratives.
“You did all that while I was unconscious?” I raise an eyebrow. Either they’re lying about how long I was out for, or DeLuca lawyers are worth every fucking cent.
“Matteo helped,” she admits. “But yeah, most of the strategy was mine. The voices were actually useful for once. Giuseppe provided insights into how law enforcement thinks, Sophia helped with the psychological manipulation aspects, and Matteo’s voice guided the long-term political considerations.”
“The voices,” I repeat, watching her face carefully. “How are they now?”
“Better. Much better.” She squeezes my hand. “What you taught me, about coordinating them instead of fighting them—it’s working. They’re not competing anymore, they’re collaborating. It’s like having a team of expert consultants in my head.”
