Chapter 7
1285words
"Marco, make the arrangements. I want a formal coronation ceremony." I gazed through the floor-to-ceiling windows at my estate below, my voice as casual as if ordering takeout.
Marco's reflection wavered briefly before steadying. "Madam, such a ceremony announces a new Rossi era to friends and enemies alike. Are you certain this is the right moment?"
"There will never be a better time," I turned to face him, my eyes burning with cold fire. "I want my name etched into the underworld map across Chicago—no, across all of North America. The Rossi Family needs its true leader, and I need the perfect stage for the final act of this revenge play."
Word spread like wildfire: the Rossi Family would crown its first female Godmother. Chicago's criminal elite buzzed with the news, all eyes fixed on our ancestral estate—some curious, some calculating, others seething with barely concealed resentment.
"Sister, are you sure about this?" Vincent burst into my study without knocking, his face a poor mask of concern. "A woman running the Rossi Family… it's unprecedented. People will talk. Our reputation will suffer."
I observed his pathetic performance with detached amusement, like watching an insect before crushing it. "Respect comes from strength, not chromosomes. As for gossip—I couldn't care less."
My bluntness caught him off-guard. He floundered before recovering with, "I'm only concerned for you. This burden might be too heavy for your shoulders."
"How thoughtful of you, Vincent," I smiled while lifting my coffee cup, though my eyes remained glacial. "But your concern would be better directed toward your own future."
He slunk away, seething but oblivious that his every move was being monitored by Marco's men. The fool believed his tracks well-covered as he reached out to disgruntled family elders, plotting his pathetic coup to disrupt my coronation. He vastly overestimated himself—and fatally underestimated me.
The night before my coronation, the manor's basement blazed with harsh light. The stench of blood and terror hung thick in the air. Vincent and his handful of co-conspirators knelt before me in chains, their former arrogance replaced by naked fear.
"Sister—no, my lady—please! I made a mistake! I wasn't thinking clearly!" Vincent blubbered, tears and snot streaming down his face as he repeatedly bowed his head to the floor.
I lounged in a high-backed chair, idly turning a silver letter opener between my fingers. "Vincent, do you know the traditional Rossi punishment for traitors?"
His body convulsed with terror as the sharp stench of urine filled the air. He'd pissed himself like a frightened child.
"I gave you chances—more than you deserved," my soft voice landed like hammer blows. "But you chose your path. You betrayed not just me, but the honor of the entire Rossi legacy."
I rose and approached him, using the letter opener's tip to lift his chin, forcing his terrified eyes to meet mine. "But I won't kill you like some common traitor. Death would be far too kind."
I withdrew the blade and turned to Marco, my voice leaving no room for discussion: "Strip him of everything—titles, money, dignity. Break both his legs and dump him in some border town hellhole. Let him beg for scraps until he dies in a ditch, forgotten by everyone who ever knew him."
"No! NO—!" Vincent's screams were cut short as my men gagged him and dragged him away like garbage.
With this final loose end tied up, everything was in place.
On coronation day, the great hall gleamed with somber magnificence, the massive Rossi crest dominating the space. Chicago's power players filled the room—crime family heads, underworld kingpins, even politicians and judges in expensive suits—all eyes fixed on the grand staircase.
As the clock struck twelve, I made my entrance. I wore a black velvet gown crafted by Paris's finest, its train sweeping behind me like the shadow of approaching death. I wore no jewels at my throat—only the Rossi family ring on my right hand, the ultimate symbol of power.
I descended one deliberate step at a time, each click of my heels against marble echoing like a death knell. Every eye tracked my movement, gazes filled with awe, fear, and naked calculation.
I took my place on the central dais, Marco standing at attention beside me. He addressed the assembly, his voice ringing clear: "Today, we witness history. By the ancient code of the Rossi Family and with the unanimous consent of the council, Isabella Rossi now takes her rightful place as the twelfth Don of the Rossi Family!"
I raised my ringed hand, the cold metal against my skin sharpening my senses. Surveying the crowd below, I spoke with quiet authority: "I, Isabella Rossi, swear this oath: I will defend our family's honor with my last breath and restore the Rossi name to its rightful glory. Those loyal to me will prosper. Those who betray me will wish for death long before I grant it."
The moment I finished, Marco dropped to one knee, fist pressed to his heart: "I, Marco Galliani, pledge my life and loyalty to you, my Godmother!"
The Rossi capos followed instantly, kneeling as one, their voices thundering through the hall: "We pledge our loyalty to you, our Godmother!"
After a moment's hesitation and exchanged glances, the allied family heads made their choice. One by one, they knelt before me until I alone remained standing in that vast hall.
I stood above them all, Chicago's entire criminal empire on its knees before me. The power was intoxicating, absolute. In that moment, I was more than a Godmother—I was a queen.
"Distribute photos and news of today's ceremony through every channel we control," I murmured to Marco with a cold smile. "And make damn sure they reach a certain corner of South America."
Halfway across the world in a South American slum, the air hung heavy with cheap tobacco, unwashed bodies, and rotting garbage. In a grimy internet café, Dante hunched before a flickering monitor, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the screen.
With his last few dollars, he'd purchased an hour online. Like a drowning man grasping at straws, he scoured news sites for any information that might offer escape from his living nightmare.
Then he saw it—the headline blazing across every underworld news site: "Rossi Family Crowns First Female Godmother; Isabella Vows to Restore Family's Glory."
The high-definition photo burned into his retinas. Isabella in a black gown he'd never seen, regal and commanding, standing where he once stood, wearing the ring that should have been his, accepting the loyalty of men who once answered to him. She looked radiant, her eyes cold and determined, devastatingly beautiful and terrifyingly powerful.
Behind her stood the great hall he knew intimately—his lost kingdom. Meanwhile, he sat in a sweat-stained, threadbare t-shirt, hiding in a roach-infested internet café like some sewer rat afraid of daylight.
Dante stared at the screen, at the woman he once thought was his possession, now transformed into an avenging goddess he himself had created. He'd lost everything—family, status, wealth, and his last shred of dignity—all ground to dust by the stark contrast captured in that single image.
The truth crashed down on him: there was no going back. He hadn't merely lost—he had been utterly, completely destroyed.
Valentina nagged about something beside him, but her words never reached his ears. His entire world had shrunk to that single photograph and the crushing weight of regret and despair threatening to explode in his chest. His hands trembled uncontrollably, fingernails gouging deep grooves into the sticky tabletop.
