She sounds like a forty-year-old woman.
She’s nineteen and furious and using every weapon in her arsenal to protect herself from being hurt again.
I understand what she’s doing, but watching it play out is fuckingexcruciating.
The words hit their target perfectly, and the only reaction from Matteo is the tightening of his hand on his fork.
My hands clench under the table.
Part of me wants to tell her to stop.
Doesn’t she see that she’s going too far and hurting people who genuinely love her?
But another part of me recognizes that this is her way of processing devastating betrayal—by rejecting them before they can reject her, by establishing control when everything else in her life has been revealed as manipulation.
The remainder of the meal passes in increasingly uncomfortable silence.
Bianca answers direct questions with minimal responses, ignores attempts at warmth, and maintains the kind of polite distance that’s somehow more devastating than open hostility would be.
I barely taste my food, too focused on the emotional carnage playing out around the table.
Every careful question from Matteo, every gentle attempt from Bella, every confused look from the twins—it all feels like watching the DeLuca family fracture before my very eyes.
When dessert is served—tiramisu, which I know is actually her favorite—she takes a single bite before setting down her spoon.
“Thank you for dinner,” she says, standing gracefully. “Alessandro and I should be going.”
“You barely touched your food,” Bella protests, hazel eyes pleading. “And we haven’t really had a chance to talk?—”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” Bianca replies with cold finality. “I appreciate the hospitality, but I think it’s best if we maintain some distance while everyone adjusts to the new family dynamics.”
She bends down to brush a kiss across each twin’s forehead in a gesture that looks affectionate but feels perfunctory, then she straightens without making eye contact with Matteo.
“Good evening, Matteo. Bella.”
And then she’s gone, leaving behind a family dinner that feels like a funeral.
The silence that follows her departure is deafening and I’m frozen in my seat.
Bella stares at the doorway with tears in her eyes, clearly shaken by the complete transformation of Bianca.
The twins sense the tension and begin to fuss, picking up on emotions they can’t understand.
“I’m-I’m going to go,” I say lamely as I get up from my chair, the legs screeching against the hardwood floors, and rush to the door.
But it’s Matteo’s reaction that stops me cold a few feet away from freedom.
The man who commands fear and respect from the most dangerous people in New York, who’s faced down rivals and federal investigators with unwavering composure, who’s made life-and-death decisions at the drop of a hat—this man slowly covers his face and breaks down completely.
The sound that escapes him isn’t quite a sob, but it’s close.
His shoulders shake as nineteen years of love and protection and careful choices crash against the reality that he’s lost the daughter who meant everything to him.
Not to death, not to violence, but to his own well-intentioned deceptions.
“She’s gone,” he whispers, and his voice breaks on the words. “She’s really gone.”
“Oh Matteo.” Bella moves to him immediately, her own tears forgotten as she wraps her arms around her husband.
