When I open the door, she’s wearing dark jeans and a black sweater that hugs her curves in ways that make concentration difficult, her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail to show off the angular planes of her face.
She looks so much like Giuseppe at this moment.
“Let’s see what they want,” she says without preamble, brushing past me into the suite.
I hand her the envelope, watching as she breaks the seal with steady fingers.
Her eyes scan the contents, and I see something shift in her expression—not fear, but a kind of cold anticipation that makes my blood run both hot and cold.
“What does it say?”
“Vincent Torrino,” she reads aloud. “Former Vitelli lieutenant who’s been feeding information to the FBI for the past six months. Location: his social club in Queens. Timeline: executionmust occur within seventy-two hours.” She looks up at me, her steel-blue eyes unreadable. “It has to be public. Witnesses are required to send a message about the consequences of betrayal.”
The details are as brutal as I expected.
Not just a quiet elimination, but a public execution designed to terrify anyone else who might be considering disloyalty.
The kind of psychological warfare that Giuseppe would have approved of.
“There are specifications,” she continues, scanning the rest of the document. “Multiple witnesses, clear evidence of family justice, maximum psychological impact while maintaining plausible deniability for law enforcement.”
“Choreographed intimidation,” I murmur, taking the papers from her. “They want theater as much as they want death.”
“Can you handle that?” The question comes out sharper than she probably intended, but I can hear the underlying tension.
She’s asking if I can watch her kill someone, if I can help her plan something this brutal, if I can support her transformation into something darker.
“Can you?” I counter.
For a moment, something vulnerable flickers across her face.
Then it’s gone, replaced by that cold determination I’m beginning to recognize as her default when facing something that scares her.
She shrugs. “I guess we’ll find out.”
Our working dynamic establishes itself over the next two days, and it’s both easier and more difficult than I anticipated.
Easier because Bianca is brilliant—she grasps concepts quickly, asks the right questions, and adapts strategies without ego or defensiveness.
More difficult because every moment we spend planning brings us physically closer, intellectually synchronized in ways that make the air between us electric.
I offer counsel only when asked, support her decisions without trying to override them, and respect her need to prove she can handle this independently.
But every protective instinct I have screams at me to take charge, to shield her from the psychological weight of what she’s about to do, to find a way to complete this trial without requiring her to personally pull the trigger.
I don’t.
Because I’m beginning to understand that what she needs isn’t protection—it’s partnership.
Someone who believes she’s capable of making hard choices and living with the consequences.
“The social club has three entrances,” she says, spreading surveillance photos across the hotel room’s dining table. “Main entrance on Northern Boulevard, service entrance in the alley, and emergency exit that leads to the parking structure.”
“Torrino’s routine?” I ask, leaning over her shoulder to study the layouts. The scent of her perfume makes it hard to focus on planning.
“He arrives every Tuesday at four PM for the weekly card game. Stays until eight, sometimes later.” Her finger traces the building’s perimeter on the photograph. “Security is minimal—two guys, maybe three. They’re not expecting trouble.”
“Because they don’t know he’s been compromised,” I observe. “Which means we have the element of surprise.”
