Chapter 4 - The Woman in White
Bianca chose a quiet conservatory café near Central Park.
It was filled with winter plants, pale stone tables, and enough tourists that no one would notice two women meeting beneath the glass ceiling.
She was already there when I arrived.
Bianca Romano wore white.
Of course she did.
A white wool coat. White gloves. A silk scarf the color of snow. Her dark hair fell over one shoulder, and for one irrational second, I hated that she looked exactly like the woman I feared.
Then she stood.
And I saw exhaustion in her face.
Not victory.
Not pride.
Fear.
“You came,” she said.
“I did not come for you.”
“I know.”
I sat across from her.
“No guards?”
“None you can see.”
I almost smiled.
“At least you are honest.”
Bianca looked down at her hands.
“I am sorry about the photograph.”
“Were you supposed to be?”
“No. But my father arranged it.”
“Did Lucian know?”
“No.”
“Did he touch you?”
Bianca’s eyes lifted to mine.
“No.”
The answer came quickly.
Too quickly.
But there was something else in her face.
Shame.
“Did you want him to?” I asked.
She did not look away.
“Yes.”
The honesty hurt.
But it was cleaner than a lie.
“Years ago,” Bianca said, “our fathers talked about a marriage alliance. Lucian refused. He always refused. But I was stupid enough to believe that if I waited, he might change his mind.”
I stared at her.
“And now?”
“Now I know he never would.”
“Why did your father arrange the photograph?”
“Because he wanted you to leave Lucian.”
“Why?”
Bianca folded her hands tightly.
“Because he knows Lucian is different when it comes to you.”
I laughed without humor. “You have not seen him with me lately.”
“I have seen enough.” Her voice softened. “He does not fear losing territory. He does not fear prison. He does not fear death. But he fears losing you.”
The words meant nothing to me.
Or maybe I wanted them to mean nothing.
“Your father left a rose in my son’s nursery.”
Bianca’s face turned white.
“I did not know that.”
“You expect me to believe you?”
“No,” she said quietly. “But I am telling you anyway.”
She reached into her bag and placed a small phone on the table.
“This belongs to my father’s accountant. He gave it to me before disappearing.”
“What is on it?”
“Proof that my father and someone inside Lucian’s organization have been moving money through medical charities and shipping companies.”
I stared at her.
“Why give this to me?”
“Because the person helping him is named Marco Vitale.”
The world seemed to stop.
Marco.
Lucian’s closest adviser.
The man who called him in Sicily.
The man who told him I had given birth.
The man who had access to every detail of Lucian’s life.
Every detail of mine.
“Marco is like family to him,” I said.
Bianca’s expression tightened.
“That is why my father chose him.”
Then she looked toward the stroller beside my table.
Nico slept beneath a navy blanket, unaware that adults were deciding whether his future belonged to fear or freedom.
“My father wants Nico,” Bianca said.
My blood ran cold.
“What?”
“He does not want to raise him. He wants Lucian to become afraid enough to give him control over the Moretti shipping routes.”
“He will not touch my son.”
Bianca’s eyes filled.
“Then do not go home.”
I looked at her.
“Why are you helping me?”
“Because I know what it is like when your father turns your life into a weapon.”
For the first time, I believed her.
Not completely.
But enough.
Then my phone rang.
Lucian.
I answered.
“Serena, where are you?”
“Meeting Bianca.”
Silence.
Then his voice turned cold.
“Leave now.”
“Why?”
“Marco is gone.”
My stomach dropped.
Lucian continued.
“He emptied accounts, disappeared from the office, and took two of my men with him.”
I looked through the café windows.
Across the street, a black van had parked beside the curb.
May you like
Its engine was running.
And through the rain-streaked glass, I saw a man step out wearing the same gray coat Marco wore to every Moretti family dinner.
