LXXV. ENZO BIANCHI (POV)

LXXV. ENZO BIANCHI (POV)
My muscles are so heavy that not even a shower—something that should’ve been relaxing—had any effect. But how could it, when every damn inch of me is buzzing with barely contained tension?
Even now, I can still feel Marina’s presence, the chills that ran down my skin from her warm breath.
Chills.
When was the last time I had such a genuine reaction? When I actually felt interested in something—in someone? When I wasn’t numbed by the dull haze of boredom?
I take a deep breath, filling my lungs, but her scent is still mixed with mine, soaked into me, into my lungs. So much so that not even the sharp, unpleasant smell of my father’s office can clear my head.
It’s a new and unsettling feeling…
But also, exciting.
Addictive, I’d say.
“You’re quiet.”
I lift my gaze, slow and almost lazy. I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at the floor or exactly how many minutes my father’s made me wait. But his voice finally pulls me back to reality—not like a punch, sudden and jarring, but with a cold, inevitable calm.
“Letting your mind wander isn’t like you.”
Alessandro walks straight to the small bar on the other side of the room, not giving me more than a brief glance. He probably expects me to straighten up the moment he’s in the room, like everyone does without even realizing it. But I don’t move a single muscle. In fact, the only thing that stirs is my thumb brushing along the line of my jaw, tracing the beard that’s just slightly longer than usual.
“It’s been a long day.” That’s been my best excuse lately, mostly because it’s true. My days always drag—hours stretching longer than sixty minutes, more than thirty-six hundred seconds.
But not today.
Today flew by.
Maybe that’s why my response feels limp on my tongue.
And I don’t even bother trying to sound convincing.
“I bet it has,” he says, still focused on the wine bottle with an almost obsessive attention, as it matters more than my presence. “Bringing Elettra back must’ve kept you busy, after all.”
I watch the calm, calculated way Alessandro pours himself a glass of wine, as if he’s just making small talk. But men like my father don’t make small talk. Every word is a landmine, and you never know which step will blow everything up.
The yellowish lamp light glints off the crystal, and for a moment, the silence between us almost feels comfortable. Almost. Because I know what’s coming.
Alessandro doesn’t waste expensive wine—or his precious time.
“I know what you’re doing, Enzo.” He swirls the wine in the glass with slow, circular motions, like he’s hypnotized by the deep red liquid.
“What am I doing?” I echo, still sounding casual, crossing one leg over the other, deliberately relaxed—though my fingers keep drumming against the top of the sofa back.
“You know, of all my children, you’re the one most like me.” He finally turns, still holding the glass far from his lips. But now, his eyes meet mine across the room. “I know how you think. I know how you operate. Because we’re the same.”
My mouth tastes bitter at the compliment, and my eyes narrow a little more, suddenly feeling heavier.
I should be on guard, or at least more defensive. Because, again, that’s what he expects. He’s pressing the right buttons, trying to provoke a reaction. And you don’t have to spend a lifetime around this man to recognize the gleam of malice in his glacial blue eyes.
Truth is, maybe we are alike.
Because I know exactly what’s going through his head right now.
“You think that bringing Elettra to the Gran Serata as your date will change something…” Alessandro straightens, shoulders spreading impossibly wide, taking up more space. “But your engagement to Sofia is happening, Enzo. And the two of you will make a public appearance tomorrow night.”
I sink deeper into the cold couch cushion, and I laugh—low, joyless, soaked in cynicism. My fingers stop drumming and curl into a loose fist against the sofa arm.
“Maybe I just missed my little sister…” I tilt my head slightly, staring at Alessandro with a look bordering on boredom. “After all, she’s always been at my side during events like this.”
Alessandro raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching into the start of a smile that never fully forms.
“Oh, yes…” he murmurs, voice slow and laced with refined irony. “The touching sibling concern. I didn’t know you had that in you.”
“You sound doubtful.”
“Not at all. I’m relieved, actually. Considering your relationship with your siblings.” He takes a step forward at last, lifting the glass to take a sip so brief, so small, it barely wets his lips. “Bianchis were born to take care of their family—of their legacy. You need to understand that. We always have each other’s backs, even if it’s against the whole damn world.”
“Sentimentality’s not exactly your strong suit, Father.”
Alessandro lets out a dry, humorless chuckle before placing the still-full glass precisely on the nearest console. He turns his wrist slightly as he sets it down, like even that pointless gesture has to be elegant.
Then, he crosses his arms, and the room fills with that familiar weight it always holds when he decides to stare someone down—the feeling that the air itself is heavier, that any word spoken could be a sentence.
“It’s not sentimentality, Enzo. It’s pragmatism.” He tilts his head slightly, eyes never leaving mine. “Emotions are tools. They’re only useful when they’re under control. Otherwise, they become weaknesses. You understand that.”
It’s not a question—it’s a statement. A reminder. A command disguised as advice.
But what he doesn’t understand is that what’s pulsing under my skin, what’s kept me so restless even now, isn’t weakness… it’s pure desire. As real as her hands gripping my hips this afternoon, as clear as the sound of her breath speeding up near my stomach. The way I close my eyes and imagine what it would’ve been like if she hadn’t left.
“Tomorrow, you’re going to the Gran Serata with Sofia,” he says again, this time lower, but somehow even more final. “Your sister will return to Spain, and you’ll do what’s best for all of us.”
“I’m not sending Elettra back.” My tone is no longer lazy or indifferent. Now, my words carry weight, seriousness—that same cold resolve he taught me to have. “She’s family. She should be here, with us.”
Alessandro grinds his teeth, and even from a few steps away, I can hear them grating. He lifts a hand, index and middle fingers lazily pointed in my direction, a gesture that says both “you got me” and “I should rip your tongue out.”
Then, after a moment that stretches longer than it should, he lowers his hand slowly. His expression is carefully neutral, but I catch the cracks in his mask—the subtle signs of irritation leaking through, like a small wound that bleeds too much.
He’s pissed. And not just about Elettra being back—though that, too, is enough to make the vein in his temple throb harder.
My father is furious because I made a decision without asking him.
Because I crossed a line he didn’t expect me to.
Because right now, I’m no longer predictable. I’m a wild card.