Chapter 23: Bianca's Heart

Alessandro

I'd arranged everything perfectly. The tickets delivered with just enough notice. The private suite stocked with her favorite wine—the one she'd told me about in Positano, a small vineyard her family had connections to. The specific vintage was impossible to source on short notice, but my staff had managed it. The view of the pitch that would let her see every moment of the local derby she loved. The entire evening was a deliberate attempt to show her that I remembered the small, important details about the woman I loved, and that I could provide the space for her to simply be.

It was a peace offering. An olive branch extended across the tension I'd created between us. A connection that felt wider and deeper every day I spent in this city, knowing she was here, yet reachable. I was due to fly to Johannesburg tomorrow for a critical acquisition, a deal that had been pending for months, and I desperately needed to see her face, to hear her voice, before I left. I needed her to know that my departure was necessary, not a retreat.

My phone remained stubbornly silent.

I checked it compulsively as I dressed, as I drove to the stadium, as I made my way through the plush corridors to my suite. Nothing. No confirmation. No rejection. Just silence. The silence was worse than any angry text. It was the sound of indifference, the sound of a closing door.

Maybe she was making me wait. Maybe she was teaching me a lesson about assumptions and control. I deserved that and more. I walked through the opulent, echoing corridor, the rich carpet muffling my footsteps, and felt the immense, cold weight of my own wealth. This entire setup the suite, the vintage wine, the exclusive access,was exactly the kind of move the old Alessandro, the one consumed by the family empire, would make. It lacked the genuine, impulsive spirit of Sandro, the man who had simply enjoyed her company.

I entered the suite, expecting emptiness, and found Tiago instead.

The boy sat in one of the plush leather seats, wearing a team scarf that was clearly new, his eyes wide with wonder as he took in the view of the pitch below. He turned when he heard me enter, and his face split into a brilliant, uninhibited grin.

"Mr. DeSanti!" He jumped up, nearly tripping over his own feet. "I can't believe this is,thank you so much for the tickets! It's the best seat in the stadium!"

I stood frozen in the doorway. My mind struggled to process the unexpected occupant of my carefully prepared reconciliation space. "I didn't.." I started, the denial already tasting false. "How did you get those tickets, Tiago?"

"Bianca gave them to me," he said, his voice reverent. "The courier said they were from a friend who believes in dreams. But I know it was her. She remembered. She remembered I wanted to see this local derby more than anything. She even called the center just before the courier arrived, asking my coach to make sure I got them."

She had called the center. She had taken my calculated, expensive gesture and re-gifted it with simple, beautiful intention. Something in my chest cracked, the fragile barrier I’d built to protect myself from her rejection crumbling entirely. She'd given away my peace offering. She'd taken what I'd meant as a bridge between us and given it to someone who would appreciate it more purely, more honestly than I deserved.

She'd chosen his dream over my gesture. She had prioritized the simple happiness of a child she mentored over the complex demand for attention from the man who had lied to her. It was the clearest, most damning statement she could have made about the difference between my world and hers.

So heaven help me, it made me love her even more. This was the woman I’d fallen for: fiercely protective, unmaterialistic, and utterly authentic.

"She said dreams are more important than boxes," Tiago continued, settling back into his seat. He looked at me then, his young face suddenly serious, the wide-eyed wonder giving way to a startling, childlike wisdom. "She's sad, you know. I see it when she comes to the center. She smiles, but her eyes are sad." He paused, fidgeting with the scarf. "But when she talks about you—about Alesso, her eyes light up. Even when she's trying to pretend they don't."

The name hit me like a physical blow. Alesso. The man I'd been in Positano, the version of myself I'd thought I'd buried under layers of family obligation and corporate necessity. The name tasted like home and shame all at once.

"She talks about me?" The question emerged raw, desperate.

"Sometimes. To Max, mostly. She thinks I don't hear, but I do." Tiago shrugged with the casual wisdom of the young. "She's trying really hard not to love you. But I don't think it's working. She just doesn't want to get hurt again, especially with you flying away to Johannesburg tomorrow." He looked concerned. "She asked the coach if it was a long trip. She worries."

The mention of Johannesburg—the trip I hadn’t even told her about—confirmed her internal conflict. She was keeping tabs on me, yet still pushing me away. She worried, but she wouldn’t allow herself to acknowledge the worry to me. That small flicker of concern, filtered through a child, was the most precious confirmation of her lingering feelings I could have asked for.

The roar of the crowd building outside the suite suddenly felt very far away. I looked at this boy—this child who'd been given a gift not because of who he knew or what he could offer in return, but simply because he'd dared to dream—and saw everything I'd lost when I'd chosen to lie to Bianca.

Authenticity. Simplicity. The uncomplicated gift of making someone happy just because you could.

"Enjoy the local derby, Tiago," I said quietly, a genuine smile finally reaching my eyes. "And thank you. For telling me the truth." I pulled a small, silver credit card from my wallet. "Anything you want from the vendorsfood, drinks, another scarf it's on me. Don't be shy."

I left the suite, my chest tight with a mix of despair and newfound motivation, and made my way along the VIP level, scanning the boxes. I needed to see her. Needed to understand why she'd given away my olive branch and what she was doing instead. The thought of flying out tomorrow without confronting her became unbearable. The Johannesburg deal could wait five minutes.

That's when I saw her.

The Blackwell family box was impossible to miss—it was alive with noise and laughter and movement. It wasn't plush or minimalist like mine; it was decorated with faded team banners and sticky marks on the glass. And there, in the center of it all, was Bianca. She was laughing at something Max's younger sister had said, her head thrown back, genuine joy lighting her face in a way I hadn't seen since Amalfi. She held a plate of what looked like homemade food, and Max's mother was fussing over her, adding more to the pile. Her hair was slightly messy, her clothing casual, and her eyes were shining with a light I had desperately tried to reignite myself, only to fail.

She looked free. She looked happy. She looked like she belonged there in a way she'd never looked like she belonged anywhere in my world. She was simply Bianca, unburdened by expectations.

Max—Max stood beside her with an ease that made my blood run cold, his hand casually resting on the back of her chair, leaning down to whisper something that made her smile. A warm, uncomplicated smile that had nothing to do with expensive gifts or corporate power.

Jealousy, pure and visceral, ripped through me. It wasn't rational. It wasn't fair. But watching her shine in someone else's orbit, watching her give to that room the warmth she'd locked away from me, felt like being flayed alive. She was choosing his chaotic, honest family over my sterile, structured offer.

She'd rejected my world and chosen his. Chosen simplicity over luxury. Chosen authenticity over obligation.

Chosen Max's uncomplicated friendship over my complicated love. I could storm in there, I knew. I could remind her of the promises we'd made in Italy, the connection that Max could never replicate. But looking at her radiant face, I realized I had no right. I had to earn my way back to her, not conquer her.

I turned and walked away before I could do something stupid like storm into that box and stake a claim I'd forfeited the right to make. But the image of her laughing—radiant and unburdened—burned behind my eyes. I'd given her tickets to my world, and she'd given them away to share someone else's instead. The message couldn't have been clearer. I had to learn to build a home she wanted to walk into, not a gilded cage she wanted to escape