Every family gathering has become an exercise in self-control.
Watching her debate politics with the sophistication of someone twice her age, catching glimpses of the woman she’s becoming—it’s like being slowly tortured by anticipation of something that can never happen.
And now I’m driving to pick her up from Columbia, knowing that crisis situations have a way of stripping away the careful boundaries we’ve both maintained.
When adrenaline runs high and danger feels imminent, people reach for whatever comfort they can find.
The thought of being alone with her in my car while her world potentially falls apart around her is both necessary and dangerous in ways I’m not sure I’m prepared to handle.
I take the turn toward Columbia’s campus, already spotting the news vans positioned strategically around the area.
They’re not at the gates yet.
They’re probably waiting for confirmation that the DeLuca princess actually attends classes here.
But it won’t be long before someone makes the connection.
Or someone leaks it.
My phone buzzes with a text from one of my media contacts:Giuseppe DeLuca story going live in thirty minutes. You might want to check the news.
Fuck. Goddammit.
Which confirms what Matteo already told me, but seeing it from an independent source makes it real. In half an hour, everything changes.
I pull out my phone and send Bianca a quick message:Car waiting outside. -AR
Direct contact instead of going through Matteo, which will signal to her that something’s seriously wrong.
She’s smart enough to read between the lines, but hopefully not smart enough to guess just how catastrophic this situation could become.
As I park outside the academic building where her seminar should be ending, I realize the news vans I spotted earlier are probably already positioning themselves around the city, waiting for the story to break.
Once it does, Bianca’s carefully constructed normal life will be over.
No more anonymous college experience, no more blending in with trust fund kids.
And there she is.
She’s wearing a fitted black sweater with a black leather jacket and dark jeans, her hair falling in those sleek waves that catch the light when she moves.
Even in casual clothes, there’s something about the way she carries herself that sets her apart from the other students.
A confidence that comes from knowing exactly who she is and what she’s capable of, even if her classmates remain blissfully unaware of the truth.
When she spots my car and starts walking toward me, I feel that familiar tension coil in my chest—part protective instinct, part inappropriate attraction, part dread at having to be the one to tell her that everything’s about to change.
Because this pickup isn’t just about getting her home safely.
It’s about managing a situation where her safety, the family’s stability, and my own carefully controlled feelings are all about to be tested in ways that could destroy everything we’ve built.
I open the passenger door for her, and Bianca slides into the seat.
When I sit beside her in the behind the wheel, I’m nearly overwhelmed by the scent of her perfume and that particular energy that always makes the air feel charged between us.
As we talk, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes search my face for clues about what’s wrong.
She knows something’s coming—she’s too smart not to—and part of me is already dreading the moment when I have to watch her world shatter and know that I’m powerless to protect her from this particular kind of pain.
