Chapter 4 Betrayal

Bianca

The next morning, I wake to find Alesso already up, standing on the balcony with his phone to his ear. His voice is low and tense, and even though I can't make out the words, I can hear the frustration in his tone.

I slip out of bed and wrap myself in the sheet, padding quietly to the doorway. He's pacing, running his free hand through his hair in agitation.

"No, I told you I need more time... I don't care what Father says... This isn't just business, Marco. This is" He stops abruptly, perhaps realizing how loud he's gotten. "Look, I'll handle it. Just give me a few more days."

He ends the call and stands there for a moment, his shoulders tight with tension. Then he seems to sense my presence and turns.

"Sorry," he says. "Did I wake you?"

"Is everything okay?"

"Fine. Just work stuff." the lie is obvious in his voice.

I move closer, letting the sheet trail behind me. "Alesso. What's wrong?"

For a moment, I think he's going to brush me off again. But then something in his expression crumbles, and he looks almost defeated.

"I can't stay," he says quietly. "I have to go back to Milan. Today."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "Today? I thought..."

"I know. I wanted more time too." He pulls me into his arms, holding me tight. "But there's a situation I have to handle. Family business. It's complicated."

"Will I see you again?" I hate how small my voice sounds.

He pulls back to look at me, cupping my face in his hands. "Yes. I promise. This isn't goodbye, Bianca. It's just... a pause."

"How will I find you? You haven't even given me your number."

Something flickers in his eyes—guilt, maybe—but he pulls out his phone. "Here. Give me yours."

I recite my number, watching as he types it in. Then his phone buzzes in his hand, and I save his contact information when mine lights up.

"There," he says. "Now you have me."

But as I look at the simple "Alesso S." in my contacts, I realize how little I actually know about him. No last name—well, Santi, but that could be anything. No address. No social media handles. Just a phone number and two days of memories that already feel like they might have been a dream.

"When will you call?" I ask.

"Soon. I promise." He kisses me, and it tastes like goodbye despite his words. "Bianca, I need you to know something. These last two days—they've meant everything to me. You've meant everything."

"But?"

"But my life is complicated. More complicated than I can explain right now. And I need to figure some things out before I can..." He stops, shaking his head. "Just trust me, okay? Trust that what we have is real, even if everything else is a mess."

I want to demand answers. I want to know what he's not telling me. But something in his eyes stops me. Whatever he's dealing with, it's serious. And pushing him now will only drive him away.

"Okay," I say softly. "I trust you."

The relief on his face is palpable. He kisses me again, deeper this time, like he's trying to pour everything he can't say into the contact. And then he's pulling away, grabbing his clothes, throwing them on with an urgency that makes my chest ache.

"I have to go," he says, already halfway to the door. "I'll call you. I promise."

And then he's gone.

I stood there in my sheet, staring at the closed door, wondering what just happened. Wondering if I'll ever see him again. Wondering if the last two days were real or just a beautiful fantasy that's already slipping away.

My phone buzzes. A text from Alesso: I meant what I said. Every word. You're extraordinary, Bianca Morena. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Especially not yourself.

I clutch the phone to my chest and try not to cry.

The next few days pass in a blur. I return to Palermo, to my apartment that suddenly feels too empty, too quiet. I throw myself into work, coordinating new programs, meeting with sponsors, doing everything I can to avoid thinking about Alesso and the way he made me feel.

But at night, alone in my bed, I can't help but remember. The way he touched me. The way he looked at me. The way he saw me—really saw me—in a way no one else ever has.

He hasn't called.

Five days. Five days of silence except for that one text. I tell myself he's busy, that he'll reach out when he can, that I need to be patient. But doubt creeps in. What if it was just a fling for him? What if I was just a convenient distraction, and now that he's back in his real life, I'm forgotten?

The thought makes me sick.

Meanwhile, my family's pressure intensifies. My mother calls daily, asking if I've "come to my senses." My father sends increasingly stern emails about duty and responsibility. My brothers, who usually stay out of family drama, even weigh in, talking about the business opportunities this marriage would create.

And then there's the man himself.

"Alessandro DeSanti has agreed to meet you," my mother announces when she corners me at Sunday dinner. "Next week. He's flying in from Milan specifically to meet you."

"I didn't agree to that," I say, pushing food around my plate.

"Bianca." My father's voice carries that tone—the one that says he's done being patient. "This has gone on long enough. You will meet Alessandro DeSanti. You will give him a fair chance. And then you will make a decision."

"A decision you've already made for me," I mutter.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, Papa."

My mother reaches across the table to pat my hand. "You're just nervous, cara. That's normal. But once you meet him, you'll see. He's a good man. Successful. Responsible. And he's committed to supporting your work with the youth programs. Think of all the good you could do with the DeSanti resources behind you."

There it is again. The practical argument. The one I can't really refute because it's true. With the DeSanti club's infrastructure and funding, I could expand my programs tenfold. I could help hundreds, maybe thousands more kids.

But at what cost?

That night, alone in my apartment, I finally do what I've been avoiding. I search for Alessandro DeSanti online.

There are surprisingly few photos. He's not on social media—at least not publicly. But there are corporate shots, pictures from charity galas and business events. I click on one, zooming in.

And my heart stops.

No. It can't be.

But the more I look, the more certain I become. The bone structure. The set of his jaw. The way he holds himself.

Alessandro DeSanti looks exactly like Alesso Santi.

No. Not exactly like him.

He is him.

The room spins. I grip the edge of my desk, trying to process what I'm seeing. All this time, I've been running from Alessandro DeSanti, dreading meeting him, while simultaneously falling for Alesso Santi—who doesn't exist.

He lied to me.

Everything—the beach festival, the hotel room, the intimate conversations, the promises—all of it built on a lie. He knew who I was. He must have known. My family owns shares in his club. This marriage has been in the works for months.

He knew, and he didn't tell me.

The betrayal cuts deeper than anything I've ever felt. I trusted him. I opened up to him. I gave him my body, my vulnerability, my hope. And the whole time, he was playing some kind of sick game.

My phone buzzes.

A text from an unknown number, but I know it's him: I know you're angry. Let me explain. Please.

I delete it without responding.

Another text: Bianca, please. I can explain everything. It's not what you think.

I block the number.

I spend the rest of the night crying—angry tears, hurt tears, tears of humiliation. How could I have been so stupid? How could I not have seen it?

But in the morning, when I look at myself in the mirror, red-eyed and exhausted, I make a decision. Alessandro DeSanti wanted to play games? Fine. Two can play.

He thinks he knows me? He has no idea.

Next week, when we have our official meeting, I'm going to show him exactly what he threw away when he decided to lie to Bianca Morena.