Bianca knows the truth.
After nineteen years of carefully constructed protection, she finally knows that Giuseppe wasn’t just her grandfather—he was her father.
That Matteo isn’t her father but her half-brother.
That everything she’s believed about her identity has been a lie designed to shield her from an unbearable truth.
I can’t imagine what that kind of revelation does to someone.
The complete destruction of your sense of self, the understanding that every relationship you’ve treasured is built on deception, the realization that you’re not just the heir to a criminal empire but the direct result of its founder’s violence.
And she’s alone with that knowledge probably feeling like she has no one left to trust.
The rational part of my mind knows I should maintain the professional boundaries that have kept our relationship functional for years.
But the irrational part—the part that’s been fighting inappropriate feelings since her sixteenth birthday—wants nothing more than to find her and offer whatever comfort I can provide.
To be the person she turns to when her world falls apart, regardless of the implications.
The question is whether I can find her and provide that support without crossing lines that can never be uncrossed.
But as I get out of my car, I realize I’m already past the point of caring about boundaries.
Bianca needs help, and I’m the one person who might be able to provide it without judgment or agenda.
Everything else—the political implications, the family dynamics, the inappropriate attraction I’ve been fighting for years—will have to wait until I know she’s safe.
5
BIANCA
I can’t breathe.
The words keep echoing in my head—he raped her, Giuseppe raped Sophia, nine months later you were born—and I feel like I’m drowning in them.
They’re filling my lungs and choking me from the inside out.
Giuseppe isn’t my grandfather. He’s myfather.
And my father is…a rapist.
A monster who forced himself on my mother and created me.
And Matteo…Jesus Christ, Matteo isn’t my father at all.
“You’re not my father.” The words feel like glass in my throat, sharp and wrong and impossible. “You’re my brother.”
Did I say that already? I have no idea. But I keep tasting the words. They’re so bitter.
Matteo—because that’s what he is now, isn’t he?
Not Dad, just Matteo—looks like I’ve stabbed him.
His face goes completely white except for two spots of color high on his cheekbones, and his hands are shaking.
“Bianca, please?—”
“Please what?” I’m screaming now, I think, but I can’t control the volume of my voice any more than I can control the thoughts spinning through my head. “Please pretend you didn’t just tell me that everything I’ve ever believed about myself is a fucking lie?”
