Chapter 59: Taken
Bianca
The morning after Fabio’s death was steeped in a silence that felt like a held breath. The suite, usually a sanctuary, now felt under siege. Alessandro had been in his study most of the night, the low, dangerous rumble of his voice a constant through the walls. I knew he was mobilizing the full weight of the Desanti resources, calling in favors from shadowy corners of the city, trying to determine who would be bold—or foolish—enough to strike at the family now, on the eve of our public union.
Yet, life, or the cruel parody of it we were forced to maintain, demanded its due. Today was the final planning meeting with Olivia for the engagement party, now only days away. When Alessandro had emerged at dawn, his eyes shadowed with fatigue and a cold fury, he had insisted I keep the appointment.
“You need normalcy, mia amore,” he’d said, his voice gravelly as he kissed my forehead. The gesture was tender, but the tension in his body was a live wire. “ you will have Marco and two additional men with you at all times. You will be safe.”
I had reluctantly agreed, though every primal instinct screamed at me to stay within the radius of his protection, to not let him out of my sight.
Moving with a strange, careful quiet, as if loud noises might shatter the fragile peace, I dressed in a soft, cream-colored sweater and tailored trousers. Alessandro was in the shower when I was ready to leave, the sound of the water a steady hiss behind the closed door. I picked up the bedside tablet, my fingers hovering over the screen before I typed.
My love, didn't want to wake you. Meeting Olivia for breakfast to finalize the party details. I'll be back soon. Wait until you see the centerpieces she's designed. All my love, Bee.
I pressed send, the message vanishing into the digital ether, a mundane note in a world that was anything but. Slipping out of the suite, I found Marco and two other stone-faced guards waiting in the hallway. Marco gave me a curt nod, his usual easy smile absent.
The café Olivia had chosen was a chic, airy place a few blocks from the hotel, all gleaming marble and potted ferns. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, a stark contrast to the gloom clinging to me. Olivia was already there, a vision of composed elegance at a table near the window, her dark hair perfect, her posture impeccable.
“Bianca!” she said, her eyes sweeping over me with practiced sympathy. “You look wonderful, considering. I heard about Fabi. It’s just awful. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” I said quietly, sliding into the chair across from her. “Alessandro is handling it.” It was the only thing to say, a shield against further inquiry.
For the next hour, we dove into the details of the party, and I allowed myself to be swept into the current of her enthusiasm. She showed me exquisite sketches of the floral arrangements low, sprawling installations of white orchids and deep blue delphiniums designed to look like constellations against the dark greenery of the atrium.
“The lighting is key,” she explained, tapping a perfectly manicured nail on the sketch. “We’ll use soft, golden uplighting from beneath the foliage. It will be absolutely magical.”
For those sixty minutes, the shadow of Fabios murder receded. The talk of place settings, string quartets, and canapés was a potent anesthetic. I felt almost normal, almost like a woman simply planning her engagement party.
“I need to use the ladies’ room,” Olivia said finally, gathering her bag. “Order us another round of coffees? I won’t be a moment.”
I nodded, offering a small smile. But as she walked away, my phone, which lay face-down on the table, buzzed with a sharp, insistent vibration. Frowning, I flipped it over. A text from an unknown number.
Your security detail has been compromised. Leave through the kitchen. Now. Trust no one. —A friend
My blood turned to ice water in my veins. I slowly, carefully, looked toward the café’s entrance. Marco stood there, his back to me, speaking into his phone. His posture was wrong—too relaxed, too casual for a man on high alert. One of the other guards was staring directly at me, his expression unreadable.
My hands trembled as I stood, leaving a crumpled heap of cash on the table. I didn’t look at the guards again, my movements deliberately calm as I moved toward the back of the café, past the restrooms, toward the discreet door marked ‘Staff Only’ that I presumed led to the kitchen.
I pushed through the swinging door into the organized chaos of the kitchen. The air was thick with the scent of garlic and searing meat. A sous-chef looked up from his station, surprised, but I didn’t stop, my eyes locked on the heavy metal exit door at the far end, a sliver of daylight visible at its base. Freedom was three steps away.
A hand, hard and unyielding, clamped over my mouth from behind, stifling my gasp. An arm like a steel band wrapped around my waist, lifting me off my feet.
“Don’t scream, Miss Morena,” a cold, unfamiliar voice hissed in my ear. The scent of cheap cologne and sweat filled my nostrils. “Or the baby dies first.”
A sharp, stinging pain pierced the side of my neck. A fire, hot and immediate, spread through my veins, burning away the world.
“Alessandro…” I whispered, his name a final, desperate prayer on my lips as the kitchen lights swam and then vanished, the darkness rushing up to consume me.