“You’re right. You won’t.” His eyes skim over my heaving chest, naked torso, and yoga pants-clad thighs. “But you will be a Bianchi, nonetheless.” He leans in closer, his lips nearly touching mine, and I have to swallow the bile that wants to rise at his closeness. He reeks of cigarettes and whores. The cheap kind. “And the Bianchis share everything they have.”
