I move down the hallway toward Bianca’s study, each step feeling weighted with the understanding that whatever happensin the next few minutes will determine whether Bianca will open up to me.
The door to her study is ajar, and I can hear something that makes my chest tighten—the sound of breaking glass, followed by what might be a sob or a curse. I pause outside, listening.
“Fucking liar.” Her voice is raw, broken. “Nineteen years of fucking lies.”
More breaking glass.
The sharp crack of picture frames being destroyed.
I push the door open carefully and find her in the center of what can only be described as devastation.
Her study is normally a chaotic mix of college textbooks stacked haphazardly on every surface, empty energy drink cans lying about and fairy lights strung around the window that she insisted on despite Matteo’s eye-rolling.
Today, it looks like a hurricane hit it.
The air smells like her favorite Bath & Body Works candle—some sickeningly sweet vanilla scent—stale coffee, and that particular smell of stress-eating junk food.
Her laptop is still open on the desk, probably with seventeen different tabs open for some paper she’s procrastinating on.
There are clothes everywhere—a Columbia hoodie thrown over her chair, jeans crumpled in the corner, and what looks like a dress she wore to some party last weekend hanging off her bookshelf.
Family photos are scattered across the hardwood floor, their frames shattered, glass glinting like stars under the string lights.
Books have been swept off shelves—mostly textbooks she probably never opens, a few romance novels with shirtless guys on the covers, and what looks like her high school yearbook.
Her bulletin board is hanging crooked, covered with photos of her and her college friends making duck faces, ticket stubs from movies, and a Columbia parking permit.
She’s holding another framed photo—this one of her and Matteo at her high school graduation, both of them smiling at the camera with obvious love and pride.
As I watch, she hurls it against the far wall with enough force to shatter the glass in the frame and leave a mark on the wallpaper.
I have to stop her before she completely destroys everything. “Bianca.”
She spins toward me, and the sight of her face leaves me breathless.
Tears have left tracks through her makeup, her hair is disheveled from running her hands through it, and her eyes are red and swollen from crying.
But it’s the raw fury in her expression that makes me pause—the kind of rage that burns so hot it’s almost incandescent.
“Alessandro.” Her voice cracks on my name. “Did you know?”
The question hangs between us like a loaded weapon.
I could lie, could pretend ignorance to spare her the additional betrayal of knowing that one more person in her life has been keeping secrets.
But looking at her now, seeing the desperate need for honesty in her eyes, I know that anything less than the truth will destroy whatever trust might exist between us.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “I’ve known since the beginning.”
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it—just a bitter sound that seems to scrape her throat raw. “Of course you did. Ofcoursethe one person I thought might be different, might be honest with me, has been lying too.”
“I wasn’t lying to you,” I say carefully, taking a step into the room. “I was keeping Matteo’s secret. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” She picks up another photo—this one of the whole family at Christmas last year, Bella and Matteo with the twins, Bianca laughing at something Giovanni was doing while Arianna sneezes into Matteo’s face. “Because from where I’m standing, it feels like everyone I’ve ever trusted has been playing some elaborate game where I’m the only one who doesn’t know the fucking rules.”
She throws the photo, and I watch it shatter against the bookshelf, family happiness reduced to fragments.
“He’s not my father,” she says, her voice empty now. “Matteo’s not my father, he’s my brother. My half-brother—whatever it is. And Giuseppe—Giuseppe is my father. The monster who built this empire on blood and violence and rape, he’s myactualfather.”
