Bianca’s POV
She had waited six years for this evening.
Six years of patience and precision and the particular discipline of a woman who understood that the difference between getting what you wanted and not getting it was simply a matter of how long you were willing to work and how little you were willing to show.
Six years.
And it had gone exactly as planned.
Santino Marchetti — her father, her predictable, honor-bound, legacy-obsessed father — had sat at Romano Virelli’s dinner table and heard the words union and peace and both our families and had looked like a man who had been handed something he had stopped believing was possible. She had watched his face across the table and felt the particular satisfaction of an architect surveying a completed structure.
She had built this.
