And that makes me exactly the kind of man who shouldn’t be trusted with her transformation.
Matteo nods, seeming to accept my promise even though we both know it’s meaningless. “The second trial instructions should arrive soon.”
“Any idea what they’ll ask for?” I ask, hoping to get some insider information.
“Something worse than execution. Something that will test whether she’s willing to cross lines even I wouldn’t cross.” His voice turns bitter. “Dominic Calabrese is designing these trials personally. He wants to break her, prove she’s unfit for leadership by pushing her past her breaking point.”
“And if she doesn’t break?”
“Then he’ll have created exactly the kind of monster that can destroy the DeLuca family.” Matteo stands, straightening his jacket with hands that still aren’t quite steady. “Either way, he wins.”
He moves toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the handle.
“Alessandro?”
I look up. “Yeah?”
“When this is over—when whatever’s going to happen has happened—I want you to remember that she was good once. Before Giuseppe’s blood took over, before the trials, before any of this. She was kind and intelligent and capable of love.” His voice breaks slightly. “Remember that person existed, even if no one else will.”
The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with the weight of his request and the uncomfortable truth about my own motivations.
The envelope arrives at my office the next morning, delivered by the same anonymous courier service the Families use for sensitive communications.
This time, the paper is heavier, more expensive—a signal that what’s inside carries significant weight.
I call Bianca immediately. “The instructions are here.”
“I’ll be right over.”
She arrives within forty-five minutes, wearing dark jeans and a Columbia sweatshirt.
Her hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and there’s something different in her posture—more confidence, more authority.
Like killing Vincent Torrino awakened something that was always there, waiting.
I hand her the envelope without preamble.
She breaks the wax seal with steady fingers, her expression neutral as she reads.
But I watch her eyes, see the moment when something shifts—not fear, but calculation.
“Multiple targets this time,” she says, settling into the chair across from my desk. “Seven soldiers who betrayed the Calabrese family by selling information to rival crews. They’re holed up in a warehouse complex in Red Hook, heavily armed and expecting trouble.”
“Coordinated operation,” I observe, taking the papers from her. The intelligence is detailed—floor plans, guard rotations, weapons inventory, escape routes. “This isn’t an execution. It’s a tactical assault.”
“Timeline is forty-eight hours. The warehouse is part of an active shipping operation, so civilian workers will be present during normal business hours. We need to eliminate the targets while avoiding collateral damage.” She leans back, and there’s something almost predatory in her stillness. “They want to see if I can handle complex operations, not just single kills.”
I study the documentation, noting the challenges.
The warehouse complex is massive—three connected buildings with multiple levels, dozens of potential hiding spots, and limited sightlines.
The targets aren’t sitting ducks like Torrino was; they’re armed, paranoid, and positioned defensively.
“This is going to require careful planning,” I say. “Precise timing, coordinated entry points, contingencies for when things go wrong.”
“Whenthings go wrong?” Bianca’s eyebrow arches. “You meanifthey go wrong.”
“In operations like this, something always goes wrong. That’s why successful crews plan for complications rather than hoping for perfect execution,” I remind her.
