LXXVI. ENZO BIANCHI (POV)

LXXVI. ENZO BIANCHI (POV)
“And you think I’ll just… allow that?” He gestures around the room this time, and I know he’s not just talking about letting her come home and reversing her punishment.
He’s talking about the control slipping through his fingers.
The control he’s always believed he had over everything and everyone.
My silence irritates him more than any answer ever could. It’s the kind of absence he doesn’t know how to manipulate, the kind of void that forces him to fill it with guesses—what I’m thinking, how far I’m willing to take this.
He tries to read something on my face but finds nothing that hasn’t been trained to stay hidden.
Then, not quite in defeat, but maybe in recognition—or maybe because a new idea just sparked in his mind—he hums low in his throat, turning his back to me again as his hands slide into the pockets of his dress pants, which, even at this late hour, are still immaculate.
“Fine… Maybe it’s not entirely a bad thing that Elettra’s back.”
His words sit heavy in my stomach, making my eyes narrow slightly this time.
“…With everything going on, it’s better to keep her close.” He adds, nodding to himself in agreement.
“You think they might retaliate?” My question comes out suddenly heavy, a tone I rarely allow myself to use.
“Anything’s possible when it comes to a Romano.” Alessandro stops by the balcony door, his eyes fixed on the cold, dark horizon, barely showing any stars. “They have a particular taste for hitting the weakest spot. And trust me, they sniff out weakness better than we do. That’s what dogs are good for, isn’t it?”
I feel the tension pulse like a throbbing vein at my temple, tightening my jaw. Very few things manage to get under my skin like this, but every damn member of that family seems born with the talent to twist my insides.
Some of them are more tolerable. Like the Don, who carries himself more civilly than his bloodline gives him credit for. My father considers him a pacifist, but I don’t see him as a coward, which, in our world, is basically the same thing. To me, he’s a man who knows how to pick his battles. Patient, not weak.
But not all of them are like him, and that’s what worries me. Because the most unstable one just landed in Milan, breaking agreements and peace treaties as if the rules written before he was born mean nothing.
“Very well,” Alessandro says at last. “I’ll allow Elettra to stay in Milan—but she will not accompany you tomorrow, Enzo. And that’s not up for negotiation.”
It’s rare for him to use such a firm tone. Usually, he doesn’t need to. People just follow his orders, either out of fear or admiration. It makes me hesitate, my breath catching in my chest before I force it out, rough and sharp.
“Yes, Father. As you wish.” That’s all I say. Not because I’m surrendering or blindly obeying, but because I know better. Alessandro’s word is law, and I have to follow it—even if I don’t agree.
If he doesn’t want Elettra at the Gran Serata, not even God Himself could put her there. There’s nothing I can say or do to make him change his mind.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll just follow his plans.
He turns slowly, facing me again with a carefully blank expression, but I can tell my sudden retreat caught him off guard. He was definitely expecting more resistance, more arguments—even knowing he’d win them all and get his way in the end.
But once again, I’m stepping off his script, doing the unexpected, cutting the strings that, until now, let him pull and turn me into his puppet.
“Good.” He nods once—short, measured, even in that simple gesture.
Finally, I rise, stretching my shoulders that had tensed without me noticing. I haven’t spent more than five minutes in his presence, and I already feel like I’ve had enough.
But before I can fully straighten up, Alessandro’s voice cuts through the room again:
“I didn’t call you here to talk about Elettra.”
“No?” I turn only my head, glancing back over my shoulder, my whole body alert but pretending otherwise. “Then why did you call me?”
He ignores my slip like I’m still just a boy, walking this time to the lit fireplace that makes the room warmer and more suffocating than comfortable.
Alessandro seems… impatient, I’d say. Usually, he’s content to sit back, arms crossed, watching everyone dance to his unspoken will, like perfectly aligned gears.
But now, there’s a quiet, simmering restlessness that doesn’t suit the man who raised me.
“I assume you already know Matteo Romano arrived in Milan this morning.”
Of course, I know Matteo’s in Milan. His instability already stinks up the city air. But hearing his name out of my father’s mouth leaves a sour taste on my tongue.
Alessandro stares at the flames a little too long, like he’s searching for answers even he can’t form. Or maybe he’s just deciding his next move.
The fire flickers in his eyes, but there’s no warmth there.
“He came alone.” He doesn’t wait for my reply. “My contacts confirmed he went straight from the airport to the Società di Milano base.”
“He went to see Bernardi?” I blink slowly. Another question that doesn’t really need an answer—I’ve already been informed. “Do you know why?”
Alessandro lets out a sound that could pass for a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. In fact, his shoulders seem weighed down by tightly coiled tension.
“I can guess.” He turns just enough for me to catch the side of his face, lit by the firelight, and the distant look in his eyes. “They’re digging.”
“Digging?” I repeat the word slowly, letting it sit heavy on my tongue. But again, he doesn’t need to answer. We always knew it was just a matter of time before one of the Romanos started looking for answers. They don’t play safe—and honestly, it’s a surprise it took them this long to act.
“By now, Gianni’s disappearance must’ve reached the main house.” Alessandro turns to face me fully now, and I can clearly see how tightly his lips are pressed—his jaw lined with one of the most tense expressions I’ve ever seen on his face. “It took longer than I expected, honestly. Which makes me think either the Società has gotten lazy and arrogant after all these years of peace—or they’re fracturing.”
“Why send Matteo instead of the others?” My question eases some of the tension in my father’s shoulders. He shrugs slightly, trying to recover that usual composure, the ease that comes with absolute authority and years of unchallenged control.
“Hierarchy-wise, he’s the least likely to threaten the peace treaty. Even if that boy has a brain the size of an almond.”
My head gives a small, instinctive nod.
Matteo Romano isn’t known for his intelligence.
But he is known for violence. And that makes him a dangerous wildcard. Which is why, even if he’s not the most influential of the brothers, Alessandro is acting more cautiously than usual. He knows what’s at stake. And he’s not willing to risk it.
“You think they’ve figured out the truth about Gianni?” My voice comes out rougher than I expected, heavy in the silence that settles between us. For a second, even the fire seems to forget how to crackle.
Alessandro watches me in silence, weighing every possibility, every flaw in the plan, every leak we didn’t seal tight enough. Then he takes a deep breath, so deep his shoulders rise before dropping again.
“Not yet,” he finally says, with a firmness that borders on denial—but I know him too well to believe it. “If they had… he wouldn’t have come alone. And he wouldn’t be asking questions. He’d already have killed someone.”
His words make me exhale hard because he’s right. If Matteo’s not already blowing everything up with his rabid-dog temper, it means he’s still looking. Still sniffing around.
“We lost a valuable informant, Enzo.” Alessandro’s voice is firm, sharp—leaving no room for sentiment or regret. “Gianni’s absence left a gaping hole in our intelligence network.”