XXIX. ENZO BIANCHI (POV)
⋄ Enzo Bianchi ⋄
I walk through the mansion with steady, firm steps, without a hint of the man who had let a woman half his size carry him like he was a fragile thing.
Inside these walls, my chin never dips. My gaze never drifts. The only direction is forward, because even the slightest hesitation, the smallest flicker of doubt or second thought, is an open wound. A vulnerability too tempting to be ignored, not even by my own blood. Especially not by them.
The staff lowers their heads when they see me, staring at the floor as if it might save them, as if it could make them invisible. They don’t realize it doesn’t take that much. There’s no need to fear me. I wouldn’t see them even if I looked them straight in the face.
Because all I can see are ghosts.
They’re everywhere. In the luxurious, centuries-old furniture. In the ancient books of our dynasty. In the portraits that line the dark walls.
In the depths of my veins.
I offer a shallow, gentle smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. It never does. Still, I’m good at pretending. I’m good at putting on the mask, the perfect façade.
I’m good at seeming human.
And if I try hard enough, like a decent man.
The sound of my footsteps echoes through the tall corridors, sinking into the thick carpet, muffled enough to hide any approach. Probably an architectural detail designed by my grandfather. Not for comfort, of course. Nothing here is built for comfort. Everything around me is intentionally constructed to show power, control, and superiority.
Finally, I stop in front of the double doors at the end of the hall.
My wound throbs beneath the dark shirt now hiding the bandage, and I clench my teeth, but not from the pain. That no longer makes me flinch. It’s because whenever I’m here, on this side of the door, I feel like a damn boy again.
But the loss of innocence left a hole much deeper than the one in my ribs, and every knock on the wood echoes in that void. Until his voice comes exactly ten seconds later. Never eight. Never eleven. Exactly ten.
Ten precise seconds that one might think he counts in his head, but I know better.
“Come in.” The same muffled word, perfectly timed, in that cold, limp voice, unhurried and free of any urgency, like he already knows what’s coming. Like the world has always been forced to wait for him.
I open the door with my good hand and see the same office, frozen in time like an old photograph. The Persian rug that’s never been walked on in a rush, and the fireplace unlit, as if even fire was a weakness, even though this winter’s colder than usual.
Alessandro sits behind the dark mahogany desk, hands resting on its polished surface, fingers laced with surgical precision. The charcoal-gray suit fits his shoulders like a second skin—not a garment, not armor, like mine often seem to be.
His eyes, blue, pale, and icy, slowly rise, watching me, inspecting me, and there’s something in them that always makes me think of empty graves, just waiting to be filled with a single word. One command away. That’s all it takes.
“You didn’t show up for the meeting, Enzo.” He says it plainly, low enough to carry the weight of an accusation, but with that usual cold tone always clinging to his words, like a tic.
“I had an unexpected situation.” My voice comes just as detached. I refuse to give him even a glimpse of what really happened out there. Especially the part that involved her.
Alessandro doesn’t reply right away. He just watches me, studying the cracks in my mask, looking for a new one to add to his collection. Then he rises with a controlled, almost lazy motion and walks to the window.
He no longer looks at me, but I can still sense his attention, even with his back turned, hands behind him like a king before a kingdom he could wipe out with a snap of his fingers.
“Unexpected situations are for the weak.” His voice is gentle, but each word sounds like an impenetrable sentence.
I cross my arms over my chest, feeling my muscles protest, but I just clench my jaw until the muscle in there twitches.
“Massimo went in your place. But remember what I say, Enzo… this was the first and last time you’ll miss a commitment.”
“Oh,” I say with a mocking smile. “So you’d rather send Corrado’s bastard adoptee than your own firstborn?”
“Careful, boy… you’re starting to talk like a man who’s forgotten where he stands.”
Alessandro doesn’t shout—he doesn’t need to. He has that damn ability to turn even a whisper into a deafening warning. And there, standing in his shadow, no matter how steady I am, every word spoken in that calm tone reaches deeper than any blade or bullet that’s ever pierced me.
“Sorry… It’s the pain.” I force a casual, teasing tone and an easy smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “It loosens my tongue. I got shot, Papà, in case you forgot.”
Alessandro lets out a dry, short laugh, as if I said something amusing, like pain to him is an old joke that lost its punch decades ago.
“Shot.” He repeats it like he’s tasting a bitter word. “And yet here you are, standing, with enough breath left to act like a smartass.”
He walks slowly back to the desk, but he doesn’t sit down. For Alessandro, sitting would mean the conversation is over.
And this is far from done.
“You think this proves something? That dragging yourself into this room with a hole in your shoulder is going to move me? Make me bend?” He scoffs, his eyes locked onto mine with something close to contempt. “All it proves is that you’re weaker than I thought… And still, somehow, you’re the best of my sons. Look how far we’ve fallen, huh?”
Funny. I’ve heard that so many times that those words have become a constant echo in my mind, so familiar they’re almost comforting now. They no longer spark anything. They don’t even scratch the surface.
My eyes remain fixed on his, even though I realize there’s no real emotion behind them—no weakness, no sign of the man who might have once hidden beneath that perfect armor. There’s only the mask, just as flawless as mine.
“Sorry to disappoint you this time.” My words are distant, lacking genuine remorse, though they sound light. “But it’s not my fault that, somehow, word got out about a secret dinner. One that only a few people knew—and yet, by sheer coincidence, I was ambushed and shot on the way there.”
Alessandro’s sharp eyes stay locked on mine, but there’s a small shift—a slight narrowing of his eyelids. Subtle. Nearly imperceptible. Almost.
“Maybe you were careless.”
“Maybe.”
But the seed of doubt is already planted. After all, I didn’t spend thirty-one years learning from the devil just not to become a demon myself.
He knows I’m not careless or incompetent. I don’t make mistakes. And if this mess isn’t mine to pay for, then…