Deception's Playbook

Bianca’s POV The sky over Milan was the color of cold steel. I stood at the gates of the De Luca estate, clutching my small black bag, waiting for the guards to wave me through. They did, with the usual bored faces and eyes that missed nothing. The iron gates groaned open like the jaws of some ancient beast. I stepped inside. The air smelled of wet stone and roses. The driveway curled around fountains and trimmed hedges until it ended at the front steps. The house—no, the palace—looked like it had been dropped here from another century. Marble, gold, tall windows with red drapes. Too much of everything, the way my father liked it. I walked fast. I didn’t want to give him time to think I was late. The front doors swung open before I touched them. A maid I didn’t know bowed her head. “Signorina Bianca,” she said, nervous. “Your father is waiting.” He always was. The hallway was all black-and-white marble, lined with portraits of dead De Lucas. Every step I took echoed, like I was walking into a courtroom. When I reached the study, the doors were already open. My father sat behind his desk, jacket off, tie loose. He looked like a man who had been winning all his life and planned to keep it that way. His hair was more silver than I remembered, but his eyes were the same—sharp, pale, dangerous. “Bianca,” he said. His voice was calm. It was never good when he was calm. “Papa.” “Sit.” I sat in the leather chair across from him. The smell of his cigar smoke wrapped around me. He tapped ash into a silver tray shaped like a lion’s head. “You’ve been enjoying yourself in Milan,” he said. “I’ve been working.” “Public relations for the opera. Charming work.” “I like it.” “Too small for you.” He leaned back, studying me. “You’re my daughter. You should be in New York.” There it was. The summons. “What’s in New York?” I asked, though I knew he would tell me whether I wanted to hear it or not. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “A job. A test. A chance to earn your place.” “I thought I already had a place.” “You have my name. That is not the same thing.” The words hit like a slap. I didn’t flinch. He reached into a drawer and slid a thin file across the desk. I didn’t touch it yet. “You know the name Luca Romano?” I did. Everyone did. Empire FC’s star striker. Fast, ruthless on the field. The kind of man magazines loved and mothers warned their daughters about. “I’ve heard of him.” “You’ve heard lies,” my father said. His voice sharpened. “Five years ago, your brother Ricardo died. You were told it was a street war gone wrong. But it was worse than that. Romano betrayed us. He betrayed me. Ricardo trusted him. Paid with his life.” I stared at him. “Why would Luca Romano be involved with us at all?” “His father was my blood,” my father said, voice tight. “My brother. He turned his back. Romano is the son of that betrayal. And now—now he walks like a king. He thinks he’s untouchable.” “And you want me to… what?” “Get close to him. He will not trust men I send. He will trust you.” “You want me to sleep with him?” My voice was flat. “I want you to destroy him,” my father said. “Use whatever you have to. Make him trust you, make him fall, then take everything. His career. His name. His peace.” I finally touched the file. It was warm from his hands. Inside—photos, schedules, tabloid clippings. One shot stopped me. Luca at a press conference, laughing. Broad shoulders, grey eyes, a smirk like he owned the air. “You’ll be his new PR manager,” my father said. “Empire FC thinks they hired you to polish his image. I put you there for revenge.” “And if I say no?” He didn’t blink. “You won’t. You owe your brother that much.” Ricardo’s face flashed in my mind. His laugh. The way he used to spin me around when I was a little girl. “When do I leave?” I asked. “Tomorrow.” It was not a request. That night, I packed in silence. Black dresses, red heels, nothing that said soft. My passport lay on the bed beside the file. Every time I glanced at it, Luca’s smirk stared back. A storm hit after midnight. Rain slammed against the windows. I poured myself a glass of red wine and stood in the dark, looking out at the garden. The roses bent in the wind, but didn’t break. My mother used to say they were the only honest thing in this house. She had been gone a long time. I wondered what she would say if she knew I was being sent to ruin a man. Maybe she wouldn’t say anything. The storm didn’t stop until dawn. The flight to New York was long, but my father’s men made sure I had the best seat and the quietest company. I read the file twice. The facts were one thing. The photos were another. Action shots from games, charity events, parties. Always that same intensity in his eyes. Like he knew something you didn’t. When we landed, the city smelled like rain and gasoline. I loved it immediately. A black car waited at the curb. Camilla was inside. My cousin. Alessandro’s shadow. Her lipstick was the same blood-red as her nails. “Bianca,” she said, kissing the air near my cheek. “Welcome home.” “This isn’t home.” “It will be. Your apartment is ready. And tomorrow, you meet Romano.” She handed me a sleek black phone. “No calls to anyone but me and your father. No messages we can’t read.” I slid it into my bag. Camilla smiled, all teeth. “Be careful. He’s dangerous.” “So am I.” The apartment was high up, glass walls looking out over the skyline. I unpacked and tried not to think about tomorrow. Tried not to think about the fact that I was going to walk into Empire FC’s press room and shake hands with a man I was supposed to destroy. But the thing about thinking—once you start, you can’t stop. I made coffee. I stood barefoot on the balcony. Somewhere in this city, Luca Romano was living his perfect life. Somewhere in this city, he didn’t know I was coming. The wind shifted, and for no reason I could name, I felt like someone was watching me. I turned fast. There, on the table inside, was a single white envelope that had not been there before. My name was written on it in ink I recognized. Ricardo’s handwriting.