“Exactly.” She looks up at me, and for a moment we’re close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her blue eyes and can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. “The question is how public we want to make it.”
The moment stretches between us, loaded with more than just tactical considerations.
Then she steps back, putting professional distance between us, and I force myself to focus on the mission rather than how much I want to close that distance again.
“We need witnesses, but we also need to control the narrative,” I say, moving to the other side of the table. “Too public and we risk law enforcement response. Not public enough and the message doesn’t get delivered.”
“What about during the card game?” She points to the interior layout. “Main room, multiple witnesses, but contained environment. We control who sees what.”
The plan develops organically over the next several hours.
Entry strategy, positioning, contingencies for various scenarios.
Bianca’s mind works with a precision that both impresses and concerns me.
She thinks like Giuseppe.
But it’s when we move to practical preparations that things become truly dangerous.
My private shooting range is in the basement of a building I own in Midtown, soundproofed and equipped with everything from basic target practice to tactical scenarios.
I’ve brought Bianca here to test her accuracy under pressure, to make sure she can actually follow through when the moment comes.
“Have you ever killed anyone before?” I ask as she examines the glock I’ve selected for the operation.
“No.” Her voice is steady, matter-of-fact. “But I’ve thought about it. More than I probably should.”
The honesty in her admission sends heat through me in ways it shouldn’t.
She’s not trying to sound tough or impress me—she’s just stating a fact about herself that most people would find disturbing.
I find it intoxicating.
“Thinking about it and doing it are different things,” I warn, moving behind her to adjust her stance.
My hands settle on her shoulders, and when I guide her positioning, my chest brushes against her back.
I feel her sharp intake of breath, the way she goes perfectly still under my touch.
“I know.” Her voice comes out slightly breathless.
She leans back into the contact for just a moment—long enough for me to feel the warmth of her body against mine—before straightening with obvious effort.
The air between us crackles with energy as I reluctantly step back to the safety line, my hands still tingling from touching her.
I watch as she fires round after round into the target, each shot grouping tighter than the last.
Her hand is steady, her breathing controlled, her focus absolute.
The way she handles the weapon—confident, precise, unflinching—sends heat spiraling through me in ways it shouldn’t.
There’s no hesitation, no distress at the weapon’s recoil.
Instead, there’s a cold precision that makes my mouth go dry and my pulse race.
She’s inherited Giuseppe’s capacity for necessary violence, and watching her embrace that darkness makes her more irresistible than ever.
“How was that?” She sets down the weapon and turns to face me. There’s a flush in her cheeks—from adrenaline or our earlier contact, I can’t tell.
