MARRIED TO MY ENEMY

Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10: THREE Bianchi SONS

Isabella Bianchi lay on her bed at four in the morning, wearing her silk pajamas and trying not to finish the wine. She could not sleep. She kept glancing at her phone on the nightstand, waiting for a message from Anthony.

The villa outside Milan was finally quiet. No staff moved through the halls. No television murmured in the background. Only the low hum of the air conditioning and the steady ticking of the small clock beside her. She had not slept in three days. Not since she had known Ximena had run. The moment she found the folded cream note on her daughter’s pillow, the truth had hit her like a blow: her daughter was gone.

The Barolo was now half-full and warm. Isabella stared at her reflection in the dark window across from the bed. She looked tired. Older than her forty- nine years. The lines around her mouth had deepened. Lorenzo would notice the moment he walked in. Lorenzo noticed everything, especially weakness.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, making her jump. Wine sloshed over the rim onto her fingers.

It was a message from Anthony.

Anthony: Mamma. Don’s flight landed in Malpensa 20 mins ago. Driver says ETA 40 mins to the house. He’s early.

Isabella’s stomach dropped.

She was on her feet before she finished reading. She set the wine glass down hard on the marble top, wiped her hand on her pajama pants, and pulled the silk top off over her head. All traces of the drink had to vanish. Lorenzo could smell a lie from across a room, and he could smell alcohol even better.

She yanked on the navy day dress she had worn the day before, zipped it with shaking fingers, splashed cold water on her face, brushed her teeth twice until her gums stung, and sprayed perfume on her neck and wrists. When she looked in the mirror again, she was not rested, but she was presentable. Sober. Like a Don’s wife, not a mother drinking alone because her daughter had run away three nights earlier.

Barefoot, Isabella rushed into the hallway and nearly collided with Franco, the night butler, who was carrying a tray of clean espresso cups.

“Signora,” he said, startled. “Are you alright?”

“Where are my sons?” she asked, her voice low and urgent. “Right now.”

Franco set the tray down on the hall table. “Signora, Leo and Alexander are up. I saw the light under Leo’s door an hour ago, and Alexander never sleeps. I do not know about Master Carlos. He did not come home for dinner.”

“Arrange the house,” Isabella ordered, already moving past him toward the east wing. “Fresh flowers in the foyer, espresso on, all staff in full uniform. The Don is coming home in thirty minutes. No one, Franco. No one mentions Ximena’s name. Do you understand?”

“Sì, signora,” he replied, and disappeared down the back stairs at a run.

Isabella went to Leo’s room first. The oldest. The responsible one. She knocked twice, hard, with the side of her fist.

The door opened after a few seconds. Leo stood there in a grey t-shirt and sweatpants, his dark hair messy, his eyes tired and red. He looked like he had been working all night. He probably had.

“What, Mamma?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

She looked up at her firstborn. Thirty old and already carrying his father’s weight on his shoulders. “C’è un’emergenza,” she said in quick, quiet Italian. “Ufficio. Tra cinque minuti.”

Leo did not ask questions. He simply nodded once, serious. “Vado.”

She was already moving down the hall to Anthony’s door. She still called him Anthony when she was scared, even though he had hated the name since he was twelve and he preferred Tony.

She did not even have to knock. The door was open a crack, and the blue light of his monitors spilled into the hallway.

Anthony sat at his desk surrounded by four screens. Flight trackers, bank alerts, CCTV feeds. He turned when he saw her and pushed his glasses up his nose.

“Mamma, I got the alert too,” he said before she could speak. “Papa’s jet landed. I’m already wiping the.”

“Ufficio,” she cut him off. “Cinque minuti. It’s about your sister.”

His face changed instantly. The tech-bro calm vanished. “Ximena?”

“Five minutes,” she repeated, and left him typing furiously.

The last door was at the very end of the hall. Carlos’s room. The bass from inside still thumped faintly, even at four-thirty in the morning.

Isabella knocked once. No answer. She knocked again, harder. “Carlos! Apri la porta!”

Nothing. Just a girl’s sleepy giggle from inside, and then another.

She closed her eyes for one second, prayed for patience, and turned the handle.

The room smelled of expensive cologne, spilled vodka, and sweet perfume. The curtains were drawn tight. The king-size bed was a tangle of white sheets and tan skin.

Carlos lay sprawled in the middle on his back, completely naked, one arm thrown over his eyes, snoring softly. Draped over him on both sides were three blonde girls. All very young, all also completely naked, tangled together like puppies.

An empty bottle of Dom Perignon lay on its side on the nightstand next to a small mirror with white residue Isabella pretended not to see.

She screamed.

It was not a ladylike scream. It was the full, furious scream of an Italian mother who had found her youngest son in sin.

The three girls woke shrieking, scrambling for sheets, trying to cover themselves. Carlos jolted awake, confused, then saw his mother in the doorway and actually smiled.

“Mamma! Buongiorno,” he drawled, completely unbothered by his nakedness. “You want to join? We have room.”

“Fuori!” Isabella shouted, pointing a shaking finger at the door. “Out! All of you! Out of my house right now!”

The girls did not need to be told twice. They grabbed dresses, heels, and tiny purses from the floor, stumbling over each other, half-dressed, and ran past her whispering “scusi, signora, scusi, signora” over and over.

When the door slammed, Isabella turned back to Carlos, who was now sitting up with the sheet pooled around his waist, still grinning.

“Get dressed,” she hissed. “Come to the office. Now. If you are not there in three minutes I will tell your father exactly what I found in here and he will cut off your trust fund and your hands.”

The grin vanished. “Okay, okay, jeez. I’m coming.”

Isabella returned to her room, locked the door, and changed again. She replaced the navy dress with a fresh cream blouse and tailored trousers, brushed her hair smooth, and put on lipstick. She looked like the wife of a Don, not a woman who had been drinking alone at four a.m. because she had known for three nights that her daughter was gone.

By the time she walked into Lorenzo’s study on the ground floor, her three sons were already there. Franco stood by the sideboard pouring espresso into three small white cups. The room smelled of dark roast, leather, and old cigars.

Leo stood by the fireplace, arms crossed, dressed in a black sweater. Anthony sat on the leather couch with his laptop open, typing fast. Carlos slouched in the armchair in sweatpants and a backwards t-shirt, his hair still wet from a hasty shower, sipping coffee as if nothing had happened.

They all looked up when she closed the door behind her and locked it with a soft click.

Isabella took a breath. She had rehearsed this speech for three days. It still felt like swallowing broken glass.

“Ximena is missing,” she said. “I have known she ran for three nights now.”

Carlos choked on his espresso. He spat it back into the cup, coughing. “The fuck.”

“Linguaggio, Carlos!” Isabella snapped, pointing at him with a shaking finger.

He held up both hands. “Sorry, Ma. What do you mean she ran? You’ve known for three days?”

Isabella sank into her husband’s leather chair because her legs would no longer hold her. “Yes. Three days ago. I found a note on her pillow after the dress fitting. She said she was going to Chloe’s house in Como for a few days to think. I called Chloe the next morning. Chloe said she never arrived. I thought she would come back on her own. I thought I could fix it before your father found out.”

She looked at Leo, who had not said a word. He stared at the floor, jaw tight, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“Leo,” she said softly. “Why are you silent? Say something.”

He finally looked up, eyes dark and tired. “Nothing, Mamma.”

“Nothing?” Her voice rose. “This is not nothing! She is missing one month before her wedding to Matteo Moretti!”

At the name Moretti, the room went cold.

Carlos set his coffee down hard. “Dad will kill us if he finds out. He promised the Morettis the ports in Gioia Tauro as her dowry. You know what Matteo’s father does to people who break promises.”

“Have you asked Chloe again?” Anthony asked quietly. “In person?”

Leo shook his head. “Chloe isn’t involved.”

Everyone turned to look at Leo.

Anthony frowned. “How do you know that?”

Leo shrugged, face unreadable. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, suddenly looking older than thirty. “Simple. Ximena won’t put Chloe in trouble. She loves her too much. That’s how Ximena thinks. She protects the people she loves.”

Silence fell. He was right, and they all knew it.

Isabella felt a flicker of pride for her oldest son, buried beneath the terror rising in her throat.

Then Carlos leaned back, ran a hand through his wet hair, and looked at his older brothers. His face was pale now, the playboy bravado gone.

“And what about Matteo?” he asked quietly. “That devil?”