Chapter 9
1307words
"Gary," I said from the head of the table, fixing my gaze on the aging capo who'd once been Dante's right hand, "your dock operation showed half the profit it did under Dante last quarter, yet you somehow pocketed twenty percent more. You must be pleased with yourself."
Gary's weathered face drained of color. He half-rose from his chair, nearly stumbling in his haste, his voice quavering: "Madam, I… I can explain…"
"I'm not condemning you, Gary—I'm impressed by your initiative," I cut in with a smile. "You exploited a weak leader's blind spots, which shows real talent. Now, under someone who actually knows how to build an empire, I expect you'll redirect those skills toward our collective benefit."
I nodded to Marco, who slid a document across the table. "Starting now, grow your operation by ten percent, and your cut doubles. The Rossi Family doesn't carry deadweight—but we reward results handsomely."
Gary's eyes widened in disbelief. He stared at me, mouth working silently before dropping into a deep bow. "I swear my life and loyalty to you, Donna Isabella."
This balance of carrot and stick won hearts faster than any threat could. Family loyalty soared to unprecedented heights. The same men who'd sneered at a woman boss now showed more deference than altar boys at mass. They'd realized I offered not just stability but prosperity.
Soon, a golden opportunity landed in my lap. The Costa Family—East Coast heavyweights on par with the Rossis—wanted a piece of Chicago's booming logistics network. They proposed a partnership that would have been unthinkable during Dante's reign, when his petty pride and tunnel vision had squandered countless chances for growth.
We met in an exclusive club that didn't exist in any guidebook. Anthony Costa, their representative, was a hawk-eyed man in his fifties who sized me up like a horse at auction, his questions probing for weakness.
"Mrs. Isabella, your reputation precedes you," Anthony said, swirling amber whiskey in his tumbler. "The Rossi outfit seems to have found new life under your hand. But this deal will shape both our families for the next decade. I'm not convinced betting on a woman is sound business."
"Mr. Costa, your hesitation shows exactly the caution that made me choose you as a partner," I replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Dante treated our family like his personal playground. I run it like a business. Property gets wasted—businesses get managed. As for my gender—that only dictates who warms my bed, not how much profit I generate."
My bluntness caught him off-guard. After a moment's shock, he burst into genuine laughter. "Damn! You're a hell of a lot more direct than I expected."
"Let's get down to brass tacks," I said, sliding a folder toward him. "Your proposal suggests a fifty-fifty split. But since we're providing the infrastructure and local protection—assuming most of the risk—sixty-forty seems more appropriate. My sixty, your forty."
Anthony's smile vanished. "That's steep, Madam. We can't agree to those terms."
"Can't agree?" I smiled thinly, leaning forward to speak just above a whisper. "Word is the Costas are bleeding money on the West Coast. If you don't secure Chicago quickly, you'll lose far more than ten percent, won't you? And partnering with a stable Rossi operation saves you what in potential war costs? You can do that math better than I can."
Anthony's face cycled through a range of emotions as he studied me, searching for any hint of bluff. I met his gaze steadily, projecting nothing but absolute certainty. Finally, he exhaled heavily, sank back into his seat, and raised his glass in surrender.
"You win, Madam," he conceded with a rueful smile. "To the shrewdest woman in Chicago."
News of the deal ripped through the underworld like wildfire. Projections showed a thirty percent boost to the Rossi Family's annual revenue—a staggering figure. Those who'd dismissed me as riding my husband's coattails fell silent. They could no longer deny that Isabella Rossi had earned her crown through raw intelligence and ruthless competence.
As I basked in my triumph, Marco arrived with his regular update on Dante and Valentina.
"They've holed up in a Mexican border town they call 'Boca del Infierno,'" Marco said, laying several photos on my desk. "Working fourteen-hour shifts in a sweatshop making knockoff jeans."
I examined each photo carefully. The images were crystal clear. Valentina's once-porcelain complexion had turned sallow and rough, her eyes pools of bitterness and despair as she clutched a bottle of rotgut tequila on a filthy mattress. Another showed Dante in grease-stained coveralls, staring vacantly into the distance, his once-powerful frame whittled down to skin and bone.
"Interesting development," Marco continued. "Valentina tried reaching her father last week. Don Luciano hung up and blocked her number. The Lucianos have written her off completely—just another family disgrace."
I could picture Valentina's desperation. She'd gambled everything on daddy's forgiveness, only to be cut off without mercy. That rejection had clearly shattered her last hope, driving her deeper into the bottle. In one photo, Dante stood apart from her, his gaze icy with contempt. Their faces mirrored mutual loathing. Their "true love" had putrefied under the acid rain of poverty and despair, leaving two hollow shells who existed only to torment each other.
Studying their bitter faces, I smiled with deep satisfaction. This was precisely what I'd wanted. Letting them live—watching them tear each other apart in their private hell—brought me far more pleasure than a quick execution ever could.
Weeks later, I granted an exclusive interview to a prestigious business magazine. This classic move—burnishing one's image in legitimate circles—was straight from the crime family playbook. I wore a custom ivory gown for the photoshoot, positioned on the estate's terrace with our immaculate rose garden as backdrop.
The reporter, a keen-eyed young woman, didn't pull her punches: "Mrs. Rossi, they're calling you the most powerful woman in Chicago. Your thoughts on that title?"
"Power isn't a title—it's a responsibility," I replied, lifting my teacup with practiced grace. "I'm focused on creating prosperity for those who depend on me. As for 'most powerful,' I'm sure many of Chicago's business leaders and politicians have stronger claims to that distinction."
My answer struck the perfect note—humble on the surface while radiating quiet confidence. The interview flowed seamlessly as I crafted my public persona: the elegant, wise, and magnetic business matriarch.
When the magazine hit newsstands, I graced the cover—sunlight gilding my profile, my expression determined yet serene, a subtle smile playing on my lips. The headline proclaimed: "Chicago's Iron Lady: The Meteoric Rise of Isabella Rossi."
The issue saturated Chicago's newsstands and filtered through distribution channels to every corner of America—even reaching the lawless border towns of the southwest.
In the dusty hellhole of Boca del Infierno, a man froze outside a ramshackle bodega. Fresh from his shift at the sweatshop, reeking of sweat and machine oil, his eyes locked onto a magazine cover in the wire rack.
His filthy, scarred hand trembled as he reached for the magazine. On its cover, the woman he'd thought he'd discarded forever gazed out with regal confidence, as if surveying her kingdom. The face he'd once kissed each night now shone with a radiance he'd never witnessed during their marriage.
Dante stared at the image, his expression morphing from shock to disbelief to crushing humiliation. Finally, all emotion drained away, leaving nothing but hollow emptiness. He stood motionless on that filthy street, a soulless statue amid the chaos and stench of his new reality.
