The hard truth of it settles between us.
Bianca may want to handle this herself, may see it as her chance to prove she doesn’t need protection, but the stakes are bigger than her personal vendetta.
“You realize this could backfire completely,” I say. “She could see you showing up as the ultimate betrayal.”
“Maybe.” He limps toward the door, favoring his left leg. “But I’d rather have her hate me and alive than love me and dead. The Families don’t play games, Alessandro. If they smell weakness, they’ll move against us.Allof us.”
He pauses at the threshold, looking back at me with something that might be regret.
“You better pray you’re right about her. Because if she becomes what I think she’s becoming…” He looks back at me, his eyes haunted above the bruises. “God help us all.”
With that, he walks out, leaving me alone in the completely destroyed study with broken glass, blood on the walls, and the weight of what I’ve just committed to.
I’ve volunteered to love a woman who might be transforming into something monstrous.
I’ve promised to support her choices even if they lead to war and destruction.
I’ve agreed to stand beside Giuseppe’s daughter as she embraces the darkness in her blood.
And despite the terror that should be flooding through me, all I feel is anticipation.
Because tomorrow night, I’ll find out what Bianca DeLuca is capable of when she stops pretending to be something she’s not.
And I’ll be right there beside her when she does.
9
BIANCA
The private jet cuts through the sky toward Montreal, and I’m trying not to think about how this is the first time I’ve traveled anywhere without Dad’s—withoutMatteo’s—explicit approval.
The leather seat beneath me is buttery soft, the kind of luxury I’ve grown up with and never really appreciated until this moment when it represents my freedom to make my own choices.
I’m staring out the window at the clouds below, mentally rehearsing what I’m going to say to the Families, when footsteps echo down the aisle.
I don’t look up—probably just the flight attendant checking if I need anything—but then a familiar cologne hits me.
Cedar and something uniquely masculine that makes my stomach do this stupid little flip.
“Mind if I sit?”
I whip around so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
Alessandro stands in the aisle, and Jesus Christ, he looks good.
He’s wearing an expertly tailored charcoal suit, the fabric hugging his broad shoulders in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
His white dress shirt is crisp and expensive, open at the collar just enough to show the strong line of his throat.
Even his hair looks perfect—those dark waves styled just messy enough to make me want to run my fingers through them.
Which is exactly what I was doing last night when we?—
Stop.
Don’t think about the kiss.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” The words come out sharper than I intended, but I’m too shocked to care about politeness.
