I should be focused on the political implications and professional complications.
Instead, all I can think about is when I’ll have her underneath me again.
She’s like a fucking addiction.
One taste wasn’t enough—it just made me hungrier, more desperate for everything she’s willing to give me.
The rational part of my mind keeps insisting this was a mistake, that we should maintain distance now that the immediate crisis has passed.
But the rest of me is already planning ways to get her alone again.
My secure line rings, interrupting thoughts that have no place during business hours.
The display shows it’s coming from the front desk.
Someone’s here to see me without an appointment.
“Send them up,” I say without asking who it is. In our world, unannounced visits usually mean crisis management.
Five minutes later, Matteo DeLuca walks through my office door, and I immediately know this conversation is going to be difficult.
He looks like hell.
The man who’s always been unshakeable, who commands respect through sheer presence, appears haggard in ways I’ve never seen before.
His usually immaculate suits are wrinkled, his face is drawn with exhaustion, and there are shadows under his eyes that suggest he hasn’t been sleeping.
But it’s the defeat in his posture that catches me off guard.
Matteo DeLuca doesn’t know how to lose; he doesn’t understand surrender.
Seeing him like this—shoulders slightly hunched, movements lacking their usual predatory grace—isdeeplyunsettling.
“Matteo.” I stand, gesturing to the chair across from my desk. “You look like shit.”
“Feel like it too.” He settles into the chair with a weary sigh that ages him twenty years. “We need to talk.”
“About the trial results?” The official confirmation came yesterday morning—Bianca passed the first test with flying colors. The Families were impressed by her execution of Torrino, her composure under pressure, and her ability to send a clear message about the consequences of betrayal.
“Among other things.” His hands rest on his knees, and I notice they’re not completely steady. “How is she?”
The question comes out carefully neutral, but I can hear the desperation underneath.
The need to know that his daughter is okay, even if she won’t speak to him.
“She’s fine,” I say honestly. “Back to her normal routine, mostly. Classes, though they’re online now, assignments, complaining about her professors.”
“And the killing?” Matteo asks, leaning forward. “How did she handle it afterward?”
This is the question he really came here to ask, and it’s the one I’ve been dreading.
Because the honest answer is going to hurt him in ways he’s not prepared for.
“She handled it perfectly,” I say, choosing my words carefully.
“That’s not what I asked.” His blue-gray eyes fix on mine with laser intensity. “I asked how she’s handling it. The psychological impact. The moral weight of taking a life.”
I lean back in my chair, studying his face.
