LXXXVI. ENZO BIANCHI (POV)

LXXXVI. ENZO BIANCHI (POV)
“You’re especially unbearable today.” I lean back in my chair, restraining my expression before it reveals more than just coldness.
“Do not be like that...” She lifts the glass to her lips with the calm of someone who has just touched a wound, only to confirm it still hurts. “I’m not judging, brother. I’m fascinated.”
I hold her gaze a second longer, long enough to let her enjoy her own provocation, but not enough to give her what she wants. Elettra always mistakes my silence for surrender when it suits her. Maybe because, for most of our lives, she has managed to pull more out of me than anyone else.
Even so, there are things that belong only to me.
Thoughts that cannot be aired or spoken aloud.
“Fascinated?” I repeat, my voice low and casual, trying to hide the sudden, unfamiliar discomfort that comes from someone noticing what, for the first time, I can’t hide. “By the possibility of me losing my mind?”
“Well,” Elettra smiles over the rim of her glass. “The possibility of you finally seeming human is quite endearing.”
I let out a low, rough laugh, and she smiles, pleased with herself.
“She’s beautiful,” my sister continues, clearly enjoying herself by teasing me today. “Those are seriously the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. They look like emeralds, don’t they?”
“Yes.” I pick up my glass of water and take a quick, controlled sip, trying to soothe my suddenly dry mouth.
“Madonna!” She gasps, falsely sympathetic, looking at me as if I had just confessed to some unlikely crime. “You are lost.”
“Do not start.”
“I haven’t.” She raises her eyebrows, appearing too innocent to be convincing.
I tilt my head slightly to show her the warning in my eyes, and that only makes her more amused.
“C’mon, you never look at a woman like that, Enzo!”
“Like what?”
“As if you know the risk but decide to see it through anyway.”
I place the glass down carefully so as not to show irritation, though she still notices it. “Since when does my love life interest you?”
“Love life!” she smiles, pleased with herself, the smile widening. “Interesting choice of words.”
“Elettra.”
She raises both hands in theatrical surrender, but the gleam in her eyes reveals her true intentions.
“All right,” Elettra murmurs, far too sweetly. “But it’s hard to ignore the only subject capable of making Enzo Bianchi uncomfortable at eleven forty in the morning.”
The waiter returns with our dishes, breaking the teasing moment for a very welcome moment. The rich scent of the Fassona tartare rises between us, but it doesn’t spark my appetite.
I wait for him to step away before looking at her again and add, lower, more serious, “You should concern yourself with your own life.”
“I do care about my life very much,” she says, picking up her utensils without hurrying. “But you tore me away from a perfectly reasonable and peaceful life just to throw me into the middle of a party full of vultures, Enzo. So don’t blame me for seeking a little fun.”
“A perfectly reasonable life.” I raise an eyebrow. “Is that how you describe being banished to Spain after your stunt at the last Serata?”
“Compared to this?” She gestures vaguely around us, taking in the whole dining room, the men in suits, the crystal glasses, the voices that are too quiet now, and the eyes that don’t look directly at us but are, in a way, always watching. “Yes. Absolutely.”
The pianist switches pieces in the background. The notes drift through the restaurant, weightless and unable to touch what truly matters. Normally, I would enjoy the melody, but it sounds hollow to me now.
“So, are you going to tell me why you called me, or can I keep asking you more about Marina?” She lingers on the name, lifting a piece of white truffle to her lips and savoring both the food and the expression on my face that I cannot hide quickly enough.
I clean my throat and lower my eyes, setting the napkin beside my plate with the practiced calm I always use during meetings, funerals, and threats.
“You seem determined to annoy me today. Is that your punishment?”
“For starters,” she teases after taking a longer sip of wine. “But you can always change the subject, if the green-eyed goddess is too much for you.”
I breathe sharply through my nose and tilt my head just slightly, giving her the look that says she has had enough, and even so, it has never seemed to work. She has always been unbeatable, even as a child. Maybe that’s exactly why things turned out like this.
“Is this about Alessandro?” she asks at last, and just the mention of our father’s name is enough to make the air feel colder, even with her casual tone. It’s not that she’s pretending not to care—she genuinely doesn’t.
Elettra is the kind of reckless girl who dismisses danger and defies authority just because. Some might call it a wild spirit or a strong personality, but I see it as Oppositional Defiant Disorder that never matured.
“In a way,” I say at last, keeping my voice low. “He’s clearly not happy that I called you back.”
“Then you just made my week.” She lifts her glass in a mocking toast that hardens my eyes.
“I would appreciate it if, just for once in your life, you tried not to turn this into entertainment, Elettra.” I pick up my fork and knife and cut into the raw meat with mechanical precision, more for the motion than out of hunger. “Not even I will be able to save you a second time.”
“And who said I want to stay here?” she chews calmly and unhurriedly, wiping her mouth with the napkin afterward, not the least bit bothered by the indignation on my face. “I came back because you asked me to, not because I care what the hell Alessandro wants.”
I give up trying to take a bite and lower the fork again, not in an irritated gesture but with caution—and even that does not escape Elettra.
She looks at me so intensely that I have to resist the urge to look away. In the end, she’s right. I only invite her for a meal when the situation calls for better, more careful handling.
And realizing how I manipulate my own sister surprises and unsettles me just as much as suspecting the truth about Marina and still choosing to ignore it.
“Ah.” She lets out a short, humorless, disbelieving laugh and sets down her fork as well. But hers hit the plate with an annoyed clatter, much too loud. “I cannot go, can I?”
Elettra’s eyes stay fixed on mine. Brown, bright, growing more intense with each second of silence I allow... Then she exhales through her nose.
“You really brought me back for this.” She leans back in her chair, slowly. “For nothing.”
I sigh and lean back as well, and once again, silence falls between us. Elettra waits for me to say something, but she knows it’s not really necessary. She understands exactly why I can’t take her with me, even after bringing her back to Italy. She knows it isn’t up to me.
And I know that’s what truly frustrates her. Because even though she wants to fight and be a proud resistor, in the end, Alessandro Bianchi is like a monarch, and we, his children, are nothing more than pawns—political pieces that are more valuable than others, but not much more than that.
Elettra doesn’t care about Gran Serata. She hates it just as much as I do. And what made it bearable all these years was knowing that someone who shared my secret disgust would be standing beside me. She’s not angry. She’s worried. And that saddens me.
There aren’t many people foolish enough to hold such naive feelings for a man like me.
My eyes soften.
“Not for nothing,” I say at last, slowly, making sure the words sink into her and reignite that mischievous spark again, which, even if I hate to admit it, is better than emptiness. “I still have a mission for you.”
The light doesn’t return to her eyes immediately. First, it’s suspicion... then, very slowly, curiosity follows.
Elettra tilts her head, watching me, trying to figure out whether that’s a genuine effort to give her some purpose again or just another elegant way of putting her where I need.
And honestly, it’s both.
Either way, even if things don’t turn out how I first expected, we both get exactly what we want—and after tonight, nothing will be the same.