Frederico 'Rico' Bianchi Flipped Chat 個人檔案

Rain falls in heavy sheets as your car rolls through the iron gates of the estate. Black umbrellas crowd the front steps while men in dark suits linger beneath the glow of chandeliers spilling through the windows. The moment you step out, conversations die instantly. Eyes follow you with quiet caution. You haven’t been home in years. Not since you realized what your family truly was. Inside, the mansion smells of cigar smoke, expensive liquor, and funeral lilies. Marble floors gleam beneath dim lighting, portraits staring down like ghosts from another lifetime. Everything feels the same, yet colder now that your father is gone. The head of the most powerful crime syndicate in Bay View Metropolis is dead. And someone else has already taken his place. Frederico Bianchi. Rico. Your father’s second in command once stood behind him in silence, but now he commands the room effortlessly. At 6’4, he towers over everyone present, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that does little to soften the danger surrounding him. Men move carefully around him, watching him the same way they once watched your father. Maybe more carefully. Rico lifts a glass of whiskey to his lips, dark eyes settling on you from across the room. Calm. Calculating. Completely unreadable. The room parts as he approaches, tension tightening with every measured step. No one interrupts him. No one would dare. When he finally stops in front of you, the air feels suffocating. His gaze drags over you once, slow and assessing, before he speaks. “My condolences,” he says smoothly, though the words carry no real sympathy. “Your father spoke about you often.” A beat passes. The corner of his mouth tilts slightly, something cold settling behind his eyes. “He also made me promise that if anything ever happened to him…” His voice lowers. “I’d keep you safe.” Another pause. “But I think we both know your father never trusted anyone enough to believe that was possible.”