Deception's Playbook

Chapter 3

Bianca’s POV

The morning hit me fast. New York sunlight through glass walls, too bright, too sharp. My head was still thick from jet lag and last night’s rain, but there was no time to ease in. Today was the day I stepped into the lion’s den.

I drank my coffee standing, one heel already on, scrolling through the file again. Luca Romano. Pictures. Stats. Articles. Headlines like "Empire’s Dark Prince" and "The Storm in Cleats." I read the same quotes from him three times, looking for cracks. He didn’t give much away. Short answers. Closed face. A man who didn’t trust easy.

Good. I was counting on that.

Camilla texted at 8:02 a.m.:

Meeting confirmed. 11 a.m. Training ground. Play nice.

Play nice. Right.

I put on the black pencil skirt, the silk blouse, the red heels. No jewelry but the thin gold chain at my neck. Hair straight, dark as ink. Red lipstick, sharp enough to cut. I looked like every polished PR manager these men had ever underestimated.

That was the plan.

“Now boy, it’s time to play,” I grinned at the mirror and strutted out of the room.

The Empire FC training ground smelled of grass and sweat. Cameras flashed near the gates, but the security team cleared me through fast. My heels clicked on the concrete path.

Inside, the media director was waiting. A soft man in a too-tight suit. Sweat already beading at his hairline.

“Miss De Luca,” he said, shaking my hand like I was glass. “We’re excited to have you on board.”

“I’m excited too,” I lied.

“Romano’s finishing up on the field. He’ll meet you in the conference room.”

We walked past the glass wall that looked onto the training pitch. Out there, men in black and gold were running drills. And there he was—Luca Romano—shirt clinging to him, hair damp, moving like he owned every blade of grass.

He didn’t look at me. He didn’t need to. I could feel the heat of him from here.

The conference room was all clean lines and glass. A view of the skyline in the distance. I sat at the table, folder open, pen in hand. Playing the part.

The door opened.

He stepped in, bringing the smell of grass and cold air with him. Up close, he was worse—storm-grey eyes, jaw like stone, tattoos sliding up his forearms. He looked at me like he was already bored.

“Bianca De Luca,” I said, standing, offering my hand.

He took it, slow. His grip was warm, strong, but not too tight. He didn’t smile.

“PR manager,” he said. Not a question.

“That’s right.”

He dropped my hand. “I don’t need a PR manager.”

I tilted my head. “Everyone needs one.”

“Not me.”

I smiled like I was amused. “Then my job will be very easy.”

He didn’t smile back. He sat across from me, leaned back in his chair.

“What’s your plan, Miss De Luca?”

“Keep you out of trouble.”

“I’m not in trouble.”

“Not yet.”

That got the faintest twitch in his jaw. I pretended not to see it.

“But it’s that a way to introduce yourself?” he continued.

“Pardon?”

“The note?” he gestured, hands symbolizing. “Watch your back, bla, bla, bla.”

I didn’t remember doing any of that. But I still had to act the part, maybe it was part of the plan, so I blended in.

“Oh, that,” I smiled. “That’s my way of setting the mood for this business.” I smiled warmly at him, looking him straight in the eye and hoping he bought the idea.

He shrugged. Excellent.

For twenty minutes we went back and forth. I asked about his media schedule, his upcoming appearances, his sponsors. He gave answers like he was handing out rations during a famine. Bare minimum.

But I watched. The way his eyes sharpened when I mentioned the charity gala next week. The way his hand tapped once on the table when I asked about his Bronx roots. Little tells. Small cracks.

At the end, I slid a card across the table. “You can call me anytime.”

He didn’t touch it. “You’ll hear from me when I need you.”

“Fair enough.” I stood, gathering my folder. “It was good to meet you, Mr. Romano.”

He just watched me leave.

Camilla was waiting outside in the hall, leaning against the wall like a shadow.

“Well?” she asked.

“He’s guarded.”

“Then break through.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Her smile was sharp. “Just remember—every smile you give him, every touch, it’s not for you. It’s for us.”

I walked away before I said something that would get me locked in a trunk.

But before I could take a few more steps, I turned.

“Why the note?”

“What note?”

“He said someone kept a note in my name telling him to watch his back?” I said.

Camilla seemed confused. “Well, should be part of the plan, ask your papa.”

I rolled my eyes sarcastically, shaking my head at the same time, while turning to leave.

Back at my apartment, I poured a drink and went over the meeting in my head. His eyes. His voice. The way he didn’t shake when I said his name. I didn’t like that part.

I was supposed to be the one in control here.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

You looked different on paper.

I stared at the screen. Typed back:

You looked taller on TV.

Three dots blinked. Then:

See you at the gala. Wear something that lies.

I set the phone down, heartbeat quick.

Later that night, I opened my laptop. Dug deeper. Player stats, yes. But also—old photos. His father. Bronx news clippings. A shooting. No charges. I saved them all.

If I was going to destroy him, I needed to know every shadow he’d ever walked through.

Around midnight, I stepped onto the balcony. The city spread out below, all glitter and hum. Somewhere out there, he was. Somewhere out there, he was probably not thinking about me at all.

That wouldn’t last.

Behind me, inside the apartment, I heard the faintest scrape. A whisper of paper against glass.

I turned.

On the table, a single envelope. No return. No stamp.

Inside—one Polaroid. Me, from this afternoon, standing by the training ground glass, watching him.

On the back, in block letters:

Daddy is proud. Push harder.