XXX. ENZO BIANCHI (POV)
“You sure Massimo can handle it?” I ask, letting the question hang between us with that same polite venom he likes to use. Nothing overt, nothing direct, just enough to make the blood heat under the skin, just to suggest.
Alessandro doesn’t react right away. His silence is a weapon, and he wields it with decades of practice. The tips of his fingers brush against the surface of the desk in a light, almost absent gesture, but I know that move too well. For him, it’s the equivalent of a muscle tightening.
“Massimo is competent,” he says flatly, as if he’s reiterating a known fact. “Besides, your brother is busy with more important things.”
“More important?” I raise an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. “What could possibly be more important than Ventresca?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
My laugh comes out short, dry, almost a breath, not because I find it funny, but because I’m impressed by his audacity. Nothing that concerns you. As if anything in this house, this family, this rotten structure ever escaped my concern.
I turn my head just slightly, studying his profile—the sharp angle of his jaw, the way the muscles around his mouth stay tense and unmoving. But I see what others don’t: I notice the small twitch in the muscle near his temple.
He’s hiding something.
And that… that gives me a dangerous sense of calm.
“Interesting,” I say slowly, like I’m just making a passing comment. “Because Massimo replaces me without blinking, Raffaele disappears without a word… and all you give me is ‘don’t worry about it.’”
Alessandro stays still, but his silence grows heavier. That’s how he shows his discomfort, by shifting the weight of the room.
“Papà…” I take a step forward, slow, deliberate. “If Raffaele were doing something that couldn’t be said out loud… you’d at least have come up with a better excuse.”
His pale blue eyes burn, not with emotion, but with tightly controlled irritation. He hates being read to, especially when it’s by his own son.
“You’re crossing the line, Enzo.”
“I was born without them,” I shoot back, emotionless. “You made sure of that.”
Alessandro lets out a quiet sound through his nose—barely audible, but enough to let me know I’m pushing too hard, getting too close.
“Your brother,” he starts, voice as artificially calm as my fake smiles, “has assignments you don’t need to know about. You think you’re the only useful heir? The only one doing what needs to be done? Your brothers have grown in the shadows, Enzo. And some of them have learned to use those shadows better than you think.”
“So you admit you know where he is.”
“I admit,” he snaps back with cutting coldness, “that you ask too many questions when you should be recovering.”
“Oh, now you care about me?” I lift an eyebrow, not even bothering to hide the irony.
“I care about your usefulness,” he says flatly. “And how you’re wasting energy chasing ghosts while real problems are knocking at our door.”
“Ghosts?” I let out a short laugh. “No, Papà. Ghosts don’t leave bullet holes in my ribs.”
“Then why not use that pain to fuel your search for whoever pulled the trigger, instead of worrying about things beyond your reach?”
“Because first I need to find out who handed them the fucking gun,” I snap, my voice rising just a notch before I reel it back in. I tighten my arms, clinging to the physical pain. I can feel blood soaking through the bandage, but I don’t care. Right now, it’s welcome.
“It’s not someone in this house, Enzo.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Alessandro’s eyes narrow briefly. It’s subtle, but I see it. The thought that someone inside these walls, under his command, could have been the weak link, the breach… it affects him more than any insult I’ve ever delivered. Because the only thing he despises more than betrayal is incompetence.
I think he’s going to say something else, insist I’m just wounded, tired, maybe even paranoid. But he doesn’t. Instead, he leans back slightly against the desk, letting silence settle between us for a moment that feels longer than it is.
Ten seconds.
As always.
“A trusted man died today, Enzo,” he says at last, as if one more name added to the long list of those who’ve died for the Bianchi family matters. “The dinner with Calvetti was nearly ruined. Believe me when I say handling this, and everything involving Ventresca, is my top priority.”
I blink slowly, relaxing my arms.
“One?” I echo, my expression darkening before I can—or care to—stop it. “Savio made it out?”
“Savio was with you?” Alessandro asks, with something dangerously close to surprise, so subtle that it has to be real.
“He stayed behind to cover me,” I say coldly, the taste in my mouth turning bitter.
“Our men found only Tiziano’s body, in the driver’s seat,” Alessandro says, running a hand across his lips, thinking. “No one else. Not nearby, not at all.”
Tiziano and Savio aren’t blood, but raised by the same doctrine, the same rules. Loyal men. Disciplined. They’ve bled for the Bianchi name more times than Alessandro could count. And now, one’s dead, and the other…
I don’t like the possibilities.
If Savio’s alive, that means he was taken…
Or that he betrayed me.
“Did anything unusual happen, Enzo?” Alessandro asks, a renewed interest flickering beneath his mask of indifference. “Anything I should know about?”
I blink slowly, holding his gaze.
Her image—Marina, stupidly beautiful—slams into my mind. My breath nearly catches in my throat. Those green eyes, looking up at me. The way she sat back on her heels between my legs…
My wound throbs.
My gut twists.
“Nothing.” The word comes out rough, scraping my throat. I blink faster, my eyes burning with a raw tension that’s far too real for someone as detached as me. “Nothing worth mentioning.”
Alessandro narrows his eyes. He smells lies like an old dog smells rotting meat, and he knows when the stench is too personal to be shared. He doesn’t push. At least, not yet. He knows he’ll drag it out of me eventually, even if it takes a blade.
Old habits die hard.
“Then start with Savio,” he says, finally sitting down, signaling the end of this father-son moment. “If he’s alive, and reeks of betrayal…”
“I’ll end it. Like always,” I finish for him, my voice cold, carrying no loyalty, just conviction. Because, unlike my father, there’s nothing I hate more than betrayal.
“Good. Then go rest,” he says, though it sounds more like an order disguised as advice. “Your report can wait until morning.”
I give a half-smile, one that doesn’t really touch any part of my face. “Whatever you say, Papà.”
I turn to leave, but before I can take more than a step, Alessandro’s voice stops me in my tracks, his words slicing through the room:
“And Enzo, I don’t care if your wound hurts. You will attend the Gran Serata. Make sure you bring your fiancée.”
“Sofia’s not my fiancée,” I say simply, just stating a fact.
“Not yet,” Alessandro shrugs with a smile. “But she will be soon enough.”