"What kind of family matter?"
Enzo's jaw tightens. "The kind you don't ask questions about. Get dressed. Something nice."
Something nice. That's strange. Our family emergencies usually involve hospitals or lawyers, not dress codes. I think about arguing—I have an exam, I need to study, I haven't spoken to Papa in months and prefer it that way—but something in Enzo's expression stops me.
He looks... guilty.
My brother Enzo, who I once watched kick a stray dog without flinching, looks like he can't quite meet my eyes.
"Five minutes," I say slowly, standing. "Then you explain what's happening."
He nods once. I retreat to my bedroom and close the door, leaning against it as my heart continues its frantic rhythm.
Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.
I choose a simple black dress—modest, professional, the kind I wear to research presentations. If this is some kind of family business meeting, I want to look competent. Untouchable. Like the doctor I'm going to become, not the Benedetti daughter they've always treated as an afterthought.
My hands tremble as I apply minimal makeup. Stupid. I'm a medical student. I've held a human heart in my palms, still and silent, while a professor explained the damage that atherosclerosis had wrought. I've watched surgeons crack open chest cavities and restart organs that had given up. I don't tremble.
But my brothers have never come for me before. Not once in twenty-one years.
The Benedetti family operates on a simple principle: the men handle business, and the women stay out of the way. My mother understood this, apparently, before she died giving birth to me. My aunts understand it. Even my cousins, sharp and ambitious as they are, know their place.
And I—I opted out entirely. Medical school in Los Angeles, far from the family's San Francisco operations. Holidays spent studying instead of attending family gatherings. A deliberate, careful distance that everyone seemed happy to maintain.
Until tonight.
I grab my phone and slip it into my clutch, then hesitate at my desk. My laptop is open to a half-finished research paper on cardiac regeneration. My exam notes are spread across the surface in organized chaos. I take a photo of my study materials. Silly, maybe. But something tells me I might not see them again for a while.
The car is black, expensive, and unfamiliar. Not Enzo's usual vehicle.
"Whose car is this?" I ask as Sal opens the back door for me.
"Get in, Bianca."
I get in. Enzo slides into the driver's seat while Sal takes the passenger side, and we pull away from my apartment building in silence. The streets of Los Angeles blur past the tinted windows—palm trees and neon signs and people living their normal lives, unaware that my heart is beating loud enough to drown out the engine.
"Someone needs to tell me what's happening," I say after ten minutes of silence. "I'm not a child. I deserve to know."
Enzo's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. "Papa will explain."
"Papa's there? Where are we going?"
No answer.
I try a different approach. "I have an exam tomorrow. Cardiovascular pathology. If I miss it—"
"You're not going to miss it," Sal says quietly. It's the first time he's spoken since they arrived at my apartment.
I lean forward. "Sal. Please. What's going on?"
He turns slightly, and I see something in his face that makes my stomach drop. Regret. Grief. The expression of a man attending a funeral.
"I'm sorry, Bianca," he says. "I really am."
Then he turns back around, and no one speaks for the rest of the drive.
I spend the remaining minutes cataloging everything I can. The route we're taking—heading east, away from the nicer parts of the city. The time on the dashboard clock—just past eleven. The way Enzo's knuckles whiten on the steering wheel every few minutes, the only sign that he's not as calm as he pretends to be.
