He’s myfather.
Which means the man who raised me isn’t my father at all. He’s my…
“You’re mybrother,” I whisper, the words feeling foreign and wrong in my mouth. I’m going to be sick. “Oh my god. You’re not my dad. You’re mybrother.”
Dad—Matteo—my brother—flinches like I’ve slapped him. “Bianca, please?—”
But I can’t hear whatever he’s about to say over the roaring in my ears.
Everything I’ve ever believed about myself, about my identity, about my place in this family—it’s all been alie.
Giuseppe DeLuca, the man whose picture is turned over in Dad’s study, the man whose legacy I’m supposed to inherit, the man I’ve spent my life trying to understand and live up to—he’s not the grandfather who built an empire for his family’s future.
He’s the monster who raped my mother and created me.
And Matteo—the man who raised me, who taught me everything I know, who I’ve called Dad for nineteen years—he didn’t just lie about who my biological father was.
He lied about everything.
The story about Sophia being with someone else, the casual explanation about genetics not always adding up—all of it was designed to hide the truth that my mother was raped by his own father.
I’m not Matteo DeLuca’s oldest daughter.
I’m Giuseppe DeLuca’s victim’s child, and Matteo’s half-sister, and everything I thought I knew about love and family and who Iam has just been revealed as an elaborate construction designed to protect me from a truth that changes everything.
The room spins, and I have to grab the back of a chair to keep from falling.
“Nineteen years,” I manage to say, my voice sounding like it’s coming from very far away. “You’ve lied to me fornineteenyears.”
4
ALESSANDRO
The calls start before I’ve even left the DeLuca compound.
“Alessandro.” I answer the first one while sitting in my car in the circular driveway, already knowing this is going to be a long night.
“We need to talk.” Vincent Aguilera’s voice carries that careful neutrality that means he’s fishing for information. “This Giuseppe situation—it’s causing ripples.”
Ripples.
Like the systematic exposure of decades-old federal evidence is some minor inconvenience rather than a potential war declaration against every family that’s maintained the delicate balance of power in New York.
“I’m aware of the situation,” I reply, keeping my own voice equally neutral.
Vincent’s been testing the boundaries of our alliance for months, looking for any sign of weakness he can exploit.
“My concern is how this affects our business arrangements. If the DeLuca name becomes too…visible…it could complicate things for all of us.”
Translation: he’s wondering if this is the moment to distance himself from the DeLucas and align with someone less exposed.
The vultures are already circling, and the story hasn’t even been public for two hours.
“The DeLuca family has weathered worse storms than this,” I say, watching security personnel move across the compound grounds. “The DeLucas didn’t build their empire by accident.”
“Of course not. But public scrutiny changes things. Federal attention has a way of making everyone nervous.”
I end the call without committing to anything, but Vincent’s already made his position clear.
