Let him figure out how to explain to the Families that the daughter who was never really his has finally stopped pretending.
I have planning to do.
And for the first time in my life, I’m going to do it without asking permission from anyone.
Time to find out what happens when you stop fighting your nature and start embracing it.
Even if what you are might be something dark and dangerous and completely out of control.
Especially then.
8
ALESSANDRO
The silence that follows Bianca’s exit is deafening.
I stand in the wreckage of her study, glass crunching under my feet, trying to process what I just witnessed.
The fight between them was brutal enough, but it was more than that—it was a complete dismantling of nineteen years of love and protection.
And in those final moments, when Bianca’s voice turned cold and calculating, when she smiled with that particular brand of cruelty…
I saw Giuseppe DeLuca looking back at me.
Not just in her words or her actions, but in the set of her jaw, the way she tilted her head when she went in for the kill.
The satisfaction in her eyes when she watched Matteo crumble.
It was chilling and familiar in a way that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand.
Matteo is still standing where she left him, staring at the doorway like he’s seeing a ghost.
His face is ashen, his hands shaking slightly at his sides.
For a moment, he looks every one of his thirty-nine years and more—a man who’s just watched his greatest fear come to life.
Then his eyes find mine, and the devastation transforms into something far more dangerous.
“Get out.” His voice is quiet, deadly.
I don’t move. “Matteo?—”
Antonio clears his throat uncomfortably. “Maybe I should?—”
“You too.” Matteo’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. “Now.”
Antonio doesn’t need to be told twice.
He backs out of the room quickly, probably grateful to escape before the real violence starts.
The sound of his footsteps fading down the hallway leaves us alone with the wreckage and the fury crackling between us.
“You son of a bitch.” The words come out low, controlled, but I can hear the rage building underneath. “My daughter was falling apart, and you took advantage of her.”
“She’s not a child, Matteo,” I point out. It’s the wrong thing to say.
“She’s nineteen!” The composure snaps like a broken wire. “Nineteen years old and emotionally devastated, and you?—”
