Chapter 8: What Bianca Said
They found her in the venue's private dining room on the ground floor.
She was seated at the head of the long table, her wedding dress still perfectly arranged, a glass of champagne in front of her that she hadn't touched.
Her bag was on the table.
Her phone was in her hand.
When the two officers walked in, followed by Alessandro and the venue manager, she looked up with an expression of mild inconvenience — as though they had interrupted something.
"Bianca Ferrante?" the first officer said.
"Yes." She set her phone face-down on the table.
"I've been waiting for someone to come and speak with me.
This has all been a very unfortunate misunderstanding."
"We'd like to ask you a few questions."
"Of course." She gestured to the chairs around the table.
"Please sit."
Neither officer sat.
Alessandro stood near the door.
He didn't speak.
Bianca looked at him once, briefly, then returned her attention to the officers.
"I understand my fiancé has made some kind of complaint," she said.
"I want to be clear that I acted today out of concern for this family.
Livia's behavior before the ceremony was disruptive and I responded, perhaps too firmly, in a moment of stress.
I deeply regret any upset caused to the child."
"We're not here about the child," the officer said.
"We're here about two text messages sent from an unregistered number to Mr.
Alessandro Conti approximately forty minutes ago.
One of those messages contained a photograph taken through a window of a private room in this building."
Bianca's expression didn't change.
"I don't know anything about that."
"The photograph was taken within the last hour.
It shows a minor child asleep in a room on the second floor."
"That's very troubling," Bianca said.
"I hope you find whoever is responsible."
"Ms.
Ferrante." The officer's voice stayed level.
"We'll need to look at your phone."
A pause.
Small.
Controlled.
"I'd like to speak with my lawyer before I hand over any personal device," she said.
"That's your right." The officer nodded.
"We'll also need you to remain available.
We may have further questions."
"Naturally." She picked up her champagne glass, looked at it, and set it back down.
"Alessandro." She said his name without turning to face him directly — addressing the room, not the man.
"I want you to know that I understand you're upset.
I understand today didn't go the way either of us planned.
But what you're doing right now — involving the police, making accusations — you are going to look back on this and feel very foolish."
Alessandro said nothing.
"I loved you," she said.
"Whatever you think you've found, whatever your mother thinks she discovered in my bag — I loved you.
And you are throwing that away over a photograph and an old email."
"The email," Alessandro said, "has your name on it.
The payment has your account number.
And the document Carla signed has your signature." He kept his voice completely flat.
"So when you say whatever I think I've found — I want to be precise.
I know exactly what I found."
Bianca looked at him then.
Really looked at him.
The composure was still there, but something underneath it had shifted — the way ice shifts when the temperature changes.
Not broken.
Just no longer certain of itself.
"You'll regret this," she said.
"You said that already."
"I meant it both times."
The officer stepped forward.
"Ms.
Ferrante, we'll be in touch.
Please don't leave the city."
She smiled at the officer.
A full, practiced smile.
"Of course," she said.
"I have nowhere to be."
Alessandro left the room without looking back.
In the corridor, Marco was waiting.
He fell into step beside his brother without asking anything.
They walked back toward the stairs.
"She's going to try to make this about the photograph," Marco said quietly.
"Claim she doesn't know who sent it."
"I know."
"Can they prove it was her?"
"Carla's lawyer has the document.
The police have the messages.
Her phone will tell the rest of the story — if they get access to it." Alessandro stopped at the foot of the stairs.
"But even if they can't prove the messages today, the rest of it stands.
The coercion.
The fabricated evidence.
The payment."
"Is that enough?"
Alessandro looked up the staircase toward the room where his daughter was waiting.
May you like
"It's enough for me," he said.
"The rest is for the law to decide."
