The sound of Bianca’s voice makes my knees weak with relief. I sink into my chair, pressing the phone against my ear like I can draw her through the connection.
“Jesus Christ, are you okay?’ The words tumble out before I can control them. “Where are you? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” But there’s something strange in her voice—not fear or trauma, but something else. Something I can’t quite identify. “Better than fine, actually.”
Better than fine. What the hell does that mean?
“What happened?” I ask urgently, my mouth dry. I lick my lips, desperate for any moisture. “What kind of test did they put you through?”
“Interrogation,” she says, and I can hear something like satisfaction in her tone. “They had this military guy, former intelligence. Needed information extracted.”
My blood chills.
They made her torture someone for information.
A nineteen-year-old girl, alone, with no backup or guidance.
The sick fucks probably enjoyed watching her struggle.
“Did you get what they needed?” My heart is pounding. She must have, right? She wouldn’t sound so…casual if she failed. Right?
“I got everything.” The pride in her voice is unmistakable and I want to collapse into my fucking chair. “Everything they wanted and more. Alessandro, I…I was good at it.Reallygood.”
Something in her tone makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Not distress or moral conflict, but genuine satisfaction.
Almost pleasure.
“Where are you now?” I’ll think about her tone later.
Right now, I just need her in front of me.
“Heading back to the city. Can I meet you at your office? I want to tell you about it.”
“Of course,” I say automatically as I sit back down to text Tony. “My men will pick you up.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary?—”
“It is necessary. I don’t fucking trust Dominic Calabrese. My men will pick you up and bring you here to me.” I finish my text to Tony. Not even a few seconds later, he lets me know that a car is on its way to get Bianca.
Bianca sighs but—thankfully—agrees.
The line then goes dead, and I lean back in my chair, trying to process what I just heard.
Bianca sounds exhilarated rather than traumatized.
Like she discovered something about herself that pleased her rather than disturbed her.
My email notification chimes, and I glance at the screen. New message from an encrypted address I recognize—the Families use it for official communications.
The subject line reads:Third Trial Documentation—B. DeLuca.
I click the attachment, and a video player opens.
Security camera footage from multiple angles, timestamp showing today’s date.
The file is labeled “Interrogation Assessment - Subject: Marcus Torres.”
