Chapter 3
1232words
Marco worked faster than I'd anticipated. Within forty-eight hours, he returned in the dead of night, carrying the invisible battle lines of our coming war.
"The landscape is complicated," he reported grimly. "About forty percent of the capos have already pledged to Vincent. Old-school types who can't stomach a woman in charge. Another forty percent are waiting to see which way the wind blows."
"And our side?" I asked, drumming my fingertips against the polished wood.
"The remaining twenty percent," Marco confirmed. "Old guard who respected your father and despise Vincent's naked ambition. They'll back us, but we're outnumbered."
I smiled—a cold, predatory curve of lips. Twenty percent. To most, it would seem like bringing a knife to a gunfight.
"It's enough," I rose and moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. "I don't need a majority. I just need a match to light the powder keg. When's the family meeting?"
"Tomorrow evening, Madam."
"Perfect," I gazed out at Chicago's glittering skyline. "Tomorrow, the Rossi Family learns what real leadership looks like."
The next day, tension hung in the great hall like a physical presence. Every capo and lieutenant had arrived, their dark suits and grave expressions reminiscent of circling vultures. Vincent had already claimed the seat beside the head chair—the position of heir apparent—wearing a smug smile that declared victory before the battle had begun.
He cleared his throat, ready to launch into what was undoubtedly a rehearsed speech about destiny and legacy.
At that moment, the massive double doors swung open.
Every head swiveled toward the entrance. In the heartbeat that followed, the room fell so silent you could hear the collective intake of breath.
I stepped into the room.
Gone was the grieving widow in black. Instead, I wore a razor-sharp black suit that hugged my frame with deadly precision. My stilettos struck the marble floor with each step—a metronome counting down to execution. My hair was swept up severely, exposing the clean lines of my neck and jaw. My makeup was flawless but unforgiving, and my blood-red lips provided the only color in the room—like an open wound, a declaration of war.
My entrance detonated like a bomb in the silent room. Every face registered shock, confusion, and—most satisfyingly—the first flickers of fear.
Ignoring their stares, I strode directly to the head of the table—to the chair that represented absolute power. Vincent's smile calcified on his face as he gaped at me like I'd lost my mind.
"Isabella?" he recovered first, false confidence dripping from his words. "This is family business. Not the place for a grieving widow to make a scene."
I didn't dignify him with a response. Instead, I let my gaze sweep the room, watching as hardened criminals squirmed under my scrutiny.
"I'm here to make one announcement," I declared, planting my hands on the table and leaning forward—a predator ready to strike. "By Rossi Family tradition and Dante's final directive, in the absence of children, I—his lawful wife—will assume leadership of this family."
My words crashed through the room like thunder.
"You've lost your damn mind!" Vincent leapt to his feet, jabbing a finger at me. "A woman running the Rossi Family? That's the best joke I've heard all year! What possible right do you have?"
"I have the right because I'm Dante's wife, and half this family's assets are legally mine." I fixed him with an arctic stare before addressing the room. "More importantly, because I'm the only one who can save this family from the disaster coming our way."
Without waiting for a response, I hurled a manila folder onto the table. Photos spilled across the polished surface.
Crystal-clear images showed my "dead" husband very much alive, locked in a passionate embrace with a raven-haired beauty aboard a luxury yacht. The woman—instantly recognizable to every veteran in the room—was Valentina Luciano, daughter of our most hated rival.
"What the hell?" someone gasped.
"Dante's alive?"
"Jesus Christ, that's Luciano's youngest daughter!"
Chaos erupted as men jumped to their feet, crowding around the damning evidence.
"Gentlemen," I didn't raise my voice, yet it sliced through the uproar. "Dante Rossi—the man you mourned and praised—isn't dead. He betrayed every person in this room."
I produced a second document—bank records with suspicious transfers highlighted in blood-red ink.
"He colluded with our enemies, stole twenty million in family funds, and staged his death—all to run off with the daughter of the man who's tried to destroy us for decades."
Finally, I pressed play on a digital recorder. Tony's voice—shaky but clear—filled the room. Marco's men had been persuasive in Miami. The recording detailed everything: Dante's bribes, the staged accident, the escape plan, all of it.
"Dante isn't just a coward who ran from his responsibilities," my voice rose with controlled fury. "He's a traitor who's been in bed with our enemies—literally and figuratively! He's made fools of every man in this room and brought disgrace to the Rossi name!"
I surveyed the stunned faces before fixing my gaze on Vincent's ashen countenance.
"So I ask you," my voice dropped to a deadly calm, "will you follow the brother of a traitor and watch our family become Chicago's punchline? Or will you stand with me—someone who will hunt down this betrayal and make it right?"
The hall fell into deathly silence, broken only by the sound of tense breathing. My challenge hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown.
Vincent's face had turned an ugly mottled purple, his mouth working soundlessly. His supporters exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions morphing from shock to outrage and humiliation.
After several heartbeats of silence, an elderly capo with silver hair—once my father's right hand—rose slowly to his feet. He inclined his head toward me with profound respect.
"Madam, you have my loyalty."
His declaration broke the dam. The fence-sitters and those who had always despised Vincent rose in succession.
"The lady has my guns! We'll make the traitor pay!"
"No one betrays the Rossi Family and lives!"
"The Rossi name will be feared again!"
In moments, the tide had turned. Over sixty percent of the room now stood with me, their expressions transformed from skepticism to fierce loyalty.
Vincent surveyed his crumbling power base, shaking with impotent rage. He shot me a look of pure venom, knowing he was beaten. With a violent shove that sent his chair crashing to the floor, he stormed from the hall as cheers for my leadership echoed behind him.
By meeting's end, I had secured my position as the undisputed head of the Rossi Family.
Later that night, Marco found me alone in the study. His stance before me carried a new level of deference.
"Madam," he presented a slim folder, "we've found them."
I opened it to find satellite images of a Caribbean island—a playground for the obscenely wealthy.
"Beachfront property on St. Barts," Marco said, his tone carrying deadly promise. "Living their dream life on our money."
I moved to the window, gazing out at Chicago's glittering skyline—my city now. A cold smile played at the corners of my mouth.
"Let them enjoy paradise a little longer," I said softly. "Soon enough, they'll learn that betraying the Rossi Family carries a price no amount of money can cover."
