LXXXV. ENZO BIANCHI (POV)

LXXXV. ENZO BIANCHI (POV)
⋄ ENZO BIANCHI ⋄
The city woke up with the familiar smell of trouble. That’s usually how mornings in Gran Serata are, but today there’s something different. It’s thicker, stronger. Metallic. Almost sweet at the back of my throat, as if Milan had bitten its own tongue and was now swallowing the taste of blood without admitting it.
I wet my own lips, testing whether it’s not coming from me.
But ever since I opened my eyes, an uncomfortable restlessness has been spreading through my ribs. Even after training my body, the feeling remained. Even beneath expensive clothes, my mood weighs on me. Nothing relieves this tension.
At least, that’s what I thought.
Seeing Marina standing there at that moment, late, like a piece that doesn’t fit on my board, made everything stop for a second. It even interrupted my routine and forced me to act in ways I never would have.
Yet, I breathed normally for the first time that morning, instinctively, as if my lungs had just remembered how to do it.
Who truly is this woman, after all?
Around me, the sound of silverware clinking and casual conversation, set to soft classical music, feels worlds away from me. I look at the photos Alvise sent earlier, running a finger over my beard. Though my eyes are fixed on the man in the pictures, my mind isn’t really on him.
I honestly don't care that the Romano family’s Mad Dog is in town. What frustrates me is that men like him only show up when they catch the scent of the same rot that's bothering me—and I don't know how deep it runs.
“Let me guess...” Elettra’s voice suddenly cuts in, catching me off guard and making me pull my hand away from my face as I look up in surprise. “Is this an apology?”
I tilt my head slightly, taking a few seconds to understand her words, which makes her let out a quiet little laugh, almost amused.
“You only invite me to lunch when you are feeling guilty,” she says with that mischievous spark—that same one she has had since she was a troublemaking child—and leans in just enough to kiss my cheek.
“We had lunch yesterday.” I lock my phone screen before she can see Matteo Romano walking through streets not too far from here a few hours ago.
“Only because you felt guilty for making me return to Italy for your selfish reasons, Enzo.”
“Is that what you think of me?”
She narrows her eyes, drawing a faint smile out of me.
“Can I not simply want to enjoy a meal with my sister?” I pretend to be offended, feeling my shoulders relax when she laughs again, lighter this time, more genuine, and takes the seat across from me. She adjusts her blonde hair, more golden than mine, fully aware of the attention her presence attracts.
I don’t need to look around to know she’s attracting admiring glances from both women and men. Elettra has that same unmistakable kind of magnetism you just can’t ignore—the benefits of Bianchi blood. Or a curse. It’s a matter of perspective.
She picks up the menu without really looking at it, just to have something between her fingers, and crosses one leg over the other with the effortless elegance of someone who never had to ask for space to take it.
“So…” Her brown eyes finally settle on the menu, but I know her better. I know she’s not really reading any of those words and flavors. “Have you had that look on your face since this morning?”
I exhale a quick breath through my nose, nearly a laugh, and lean back in my chair. “What look?”
“The look of someone who wants to make half the city vanish.”
I raise an eyebrow, holding her gaze, and Elettra smiles over the menu in that annoyingly affectionate way only she can manage without sounding disrespectful.
The waiter approaches, and she orders wine before even deciding on a dish, testing my patience as a long-standing habit. She’s done that since she was little—pushes, watches, and gauges how far she can go before I show my teeth.
“I’m not drinking at lunch,” I say when the waiter looks at me. “Bring me the usual.”
“And that’s exactly why I am.” She closes the menu and sets it on the table. “You are making this entire place uncomfortable... besides, the night is going to be damn long.”
Elettra smiles at the waiter. “Thank you, dear.”
The waiter nods, far too stiffly, and leaves without another glance.
I sigh deeply, and her eyes drift downward over me with a seriousness and sudden focus too sharp to be casual, taking in the perfect knot of my tie, the watch, and the way my fingers rest beside the phone.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
She props an elbow on the table, leaning slightly forward, “You are too distracted for it to be nothing.”
Distracted.
The word hits a place I would rather leave untouched, and honestly, it surprises me. It’s not a word people usually use to describe me, but I’ve been hearing it a lot these past few days. More specifically, since a bullet went through my waist, green eyes lodged themselves in my thoughts.
Curiously, I do not hate that.
For the first time, I don’t dislike the idea of not being able to control my thoughts. I don’t feel the urge to pull the strings and rearrange the chaos to make it more entertaining.
For the first time, I don’t want to shape it.
My eyes flick to the phone for a second. The screen is off, but the image is still clear in my mind—Matteo Romano leaving a building in NoLo yesterday, the same one I ended up in when I got hurt the night before his arrival.
The coincidence would be offensive if I still believed in it.
“Ah, I see,” she murmurs, slowly leaning back in her chair. “It’s not something...”
Her fingers slide along the base of the wineglass the waiter just set in front of her, before he steps away so quickly I barely notice he was there.
“...It’s someone.”
I lift my eyes to her face, emotionless.
“You have been reading too many romances, Elettra.”
“And you used to lie better than this.” She tilts her head slightly, facing me as if she already knows exactly where to start with an old puzzle. “It’s your new maid, isn’t it? The one who finally messed up your nervous system.”
The way she casually says “your new maid” makes a small, yet powerful feeling tighten in the middle of my chest, enough to make me fall silent longer than usual—and to awake that quiet, irritating gleam of victory in Elettra’s eyes.