Page 27 of The Billionaire's Destiny

“You already know he won’t, and now it’s my turn,” Bianca said in a light tone as she sauntered up to me. “Let me have a good look at you, darling.” She clasped my arms, holding me at length. “You’re bursting with such a strong, sensual vitality. It would be tragic to cage, Rocco. You should have brought her.”

“Indeed, my lover,” Lorenzo said. “She needs to be untamed.”

“She needs you to stop telling her what she needs,” Rocco said, and I loved him more.

How do I answer her?“Thank you for the compliment, Bianca. Very nice to meet you.”

She let me go, smiling. “Likewise, my dear.”

A woman and a man approached our group. “I’m sorry to interrupt. Bianca, Lorenzo, we are waiting for you to start.”

Bianca huffed. “Of course; just when things are turning interesting.”

“Too bad,” Rocco quipped. “They have you working, too?”

Lorenzo shrugged and trailed his fingers in the air. “When in Florence. I’m conducting, for my passion.” He came over and tugged Bianca into a kiss with lots of tongue.Oh, my. Rocconudged me, and I stopped gaping. Then, the Rossis linked arms and walked ahead, stopping in front of Isla. “You’ll play me in my biopic,” Bianca mused. “So lovely.”

Isla giggled.

“One day, Rocco will let us steal you away,” Lorenzo told her and gave her a peck on the cheek, and Isla blushed! Bianca seemed unfazed by Lorenzo’s flirtations. They kissed each other again and walked off ahead of us.

Rocco came to my side and placed his hand low on my back, and we followed them at a slower pace. On the way, I stopped a roaming hostess with a plate of fried dough.

“We’ll have dinner after the event.”

“I have room for both,” I half-joked, quickly eating two.

“Hmm. All right…you’re in for a treat. Bianca and Lorenzo love to poke fun, but they are harmless.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“Watch them blow you away.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” The anticipation of hearing Bianca sing, after all of Isla’s glowing praise, made me giddy. I’d resisted the urge to search for her online, wanting to savor the surprise.

We navigated past cascading crystal chandeliers and antique furnishings to the grand ballroom and its continued elaborate rococo stylings. Before us, the intimate setting featured a chamber orchestra and a piano, with rows of cushioned seats, which we took in front, and we waited for Bianca to take her place at the microphone stand.

Lorenzo stepped up to the podium to loud applause. He bowed, then held his hand out toward the seated musicians, who continued to clap for him. Then came Bianca, and cheers erupted behind us as we continued to applaud. She stood with such a commanding presence that I couldn’t look away from her if I tried.

Lorenzo tapped his small podium, and all the musicians were poised and ready. He glanced over at Bianca and extended his hand, and we all applauded again. Then we all went quiet as the orchestra started the beginning notes of Puccini’s “O mio babbino caro.” Bianca didn’t just sing; her whole body moved, her expression full of emotion, as she pleaded with her father to let her marry the man she loved. Her voice flawlessly rose to the high notes of the aria, and it was so intense that it vibrated through my body. I rubbed the chills on my arms, and we applauded for a full minute until Lorenzo tapped on his podium. “You must stop, or we won’t get through the next songs.”

We all laughed and did as he asked.

Bianca started to sing Puccini’s “Vissi d’arte” fromTosca. This particular opera was always a hard one for me to watch. Tosca, tortured and overwhelmed, was forced to give in to the advances of a man who wanted her in order to save her true love. Bianca’s countenance matched Tosca’s sorrow perfectly, her voice rich with despair. She became Tosca’s anguish, her pleas for understanding.

A pin could be heard in the room when she finished. Everyone was so moved they didn’t want to break the spell. Then someone started to clap, and the whole ballroom erupted into loud applause.

Rocco squeezed my shoulder. “You okay?”

I nodded. “I am. She’s a goddess.”

Once we quieted down, Bianca spoke into the microphone. “The next song is for Prime Minister Riccardo. Happy birthday.” She blew a kiss. He stood, and we all clapped for him, and then she started to sing, “Quando m’en vo.” It was more Puccini, his “Musetta’s Waltz,” an enticing, sensual song that I’d seen performed before but not like Bianca. She transformed before our eyes into Musetta, trying to recapture the attention of her lover. She swayed her hips as she sang over to Lorenzo, runningher hand across his arm, and he turned his head away from her. Her agony at his rejection, her longing gaze, the strain in her expression, her passion as blatant as the nakedDavidwe had seen earlier.

I perched at the edge of my seat, utterly spellbound, unwilling to miss a single note as Bianca poured her soul into the music. Her sorrow seeped into every phrase. I reached for Rocco’s hand, pressing my other palm to my racing heart, tears pricking my eyes as I felt every ache and the longing she unleashed. When Rocco squeezed my thigh at the cadenza, I knew he felt it, too. This was a performance people would remember for years.

Bianca’s’ eyes poured with tears; her despair had shattered her, and she dropped to her knees.

We all jumped to our feet, cheering, clapping, and chanting, “La Voce,” The Voice. Baskets of roses came around, and the crowd collected some and left their seats to throw them at Bianca’s feet. She laughed, blowing kisses.