The mahogany-paneled conference room in Torrino and Associates felt suffocating, its walls lined with leather-bound law books that seemed to judge Isabella with their silent presence. She sat rigidly in the burgundy leather chair, her black dress a stark contrast against the warm wood tones surrounding her. The funeral had been three days ago, yet the weight of grief still pressed against her chest like a physical thing, making each breath deliberate and labored.
Across from her, Jonathan Torrino adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and cleared his throat with the practiced solemnity of a man who had delivered life-altering news countless times before. His silver hair was perfectly groomed, his charcoal suit immaculate, but Isabella caught the slight tremor in his hands as he arranged the documents before him. Even seasoned attorneys, it seemed, were not immune to the gravity of reading Vincent Rossi's last will and testament.
"Miss Rossi," Torrino began, his voice carrying the weight of decades in legal practice, "your father was... a complex man with extensive holdings. This reading may take some time."
Isabella nodded, her fingers unconsciously twisting the thin gold chain around her neck a gift from her father on her eighteenth birthday. She had expected this to be straightforward: perhaps the family restaurant, maybe some savings, possibly a small apartment building or two. Her father had always been secretive about his business dealings, claiming he wanted to shield her from the "complications" of adult concerns.
Marco stood behind her chair like a sentinel, his presence both comforting and somehow ominous. She had known him her entire life her father's right hand, the man who drove her to school when she was young, who taught her to change a tire and throw a proper punch. Yet today, something felt different about him. There was a tension in his shoulders, a carefully controlled expression that suggested he knew far more about what was coming than she did.
Torrino began with the smaller bequests: charitable donations to local churches, modest sums to longtime employees, personal effects to old friends. Isabella half-listened, her mind still foggy with loss, until the attorney's tone shifted to something more formal, more significant.
"To my daughter, Isabella Marie Rossi, I leave the entirety of my remaining estate, including but not limited to..." Torrino's voice grew stronger as he read, but the words seemed to blur together in Isabella's mind. "Rossi Construction Company, Rossi Import/Export Services, Marina Bay Holdings, Eastside Development Corporation, Crimson Rose Entertainment..."
The list went on. And on. Company names she had never heard, properties in neighborhoods she'd never visited, investments in businesses that seemed to span half the city. With each item, Isabella's confusion deepened. Her father ran a modest construction business – or so she had thought. This sounded like an empire.
"Furthermore," Torrino continued, his voice now barely above a whisper, "all associated territories, contracts, and... obligations... transfer to Miss Rossi, along with full authority over all business operations and personnel decisions."
The word 'territories' stuck in Isabella's throat like a stone. Construction companies didn't have territories. Legitimate businesses didn't speak in such terms. She felt Marco shift behind her, his hand coming to rest gently on her shoulder – a gesture that felt more like preparation than comfort.
"I'm sorry," Isabella interrupted, her voice surprisingly steady despite the chaos in her mind. "Mr. Torrino, what exactly are you saying? What kind of businesses did my father run?"
The attorney's face went pale, and he glanced nervously at Marco before returning his attention to the documents. "Miss Rossi, perhaps it would be best if Mr. Santori explained the... operational aspects... of your inheritance."
Marco moved around to face her, his weathered hands clasped in front of him. The man who had pushed her on swings and helped her with algebra homework now looked like a stranger – or perhaps she was finally seeing him clearly for the first time.
"Isabella," he said, his voice gentler than his expression, "your father protected you from this world because he loved you. He wanted you to have a normal life, to go to college, to choose your own path. But he also knew that someday, you might need to understand the truth."
She stared at him, her heart beginning to race as pieces of a puzzle she hadn't known existed started forming a picture she didn't want to see. "What truth, Marco?"
"Your father wasn't just in construction, sweetheart. He was... he was the head of one of the most powerful families in the city. The Rossi family controlled shipping, construction, entertainment, protection services everything from the docks to downtown. Vincent Rossi was what some people might call..." Marco paused, seeming to weigh his words carefully, "a don."
The word hit Isabella like a physical blow. Don. Mafia. Crime family. The terms her father had always dismissed as Hollywood nonsense, relics of an older generation that had nothing to do with their quiet life in their modest house with its small garden and Sunday dinners.
"That's impossible," she whispered, but even as the words left her mouth, fragments of memory began reshaping themselves in this new light. The men who always stood when her father entered a room. The hushed phone calls that ended when she walked into a room. The way certain neighborhoods seemed to part before them like the Red Sea when they drove through. The envelope of cash that appeared on their kitchen table every month, which her father claimed came from "rent payments."
Torrino cleared his throat again. "Miss Rossi, there are also... financial considerations. Your father's estate includes approximately twelve million dollars in liquid assets, but there are also outstanding debts of nearly eight million, owed to various... parties. Some of these debts are to other families, some to government entities investigating certain business practices, and some to individuals who provided services that are... difficult to quantify legally."
"You're telling me my father was a criminal." Isabella's voice was flat, emotionless, but inside she felt as though she were falling through space.
"I'm telling you he was a businessman who operated in gray areas," Marco replied carefully. "He provided services people needed, he protected his neighborhood, he took care of families who had nowhere else to turn. But yes, Isabella, some of what he did was outside the law."
The room fell silent except for the ticking of an ornate clock on the mantel. Isabella stared at her hands, trying to reconcile the man who had read her bedtime stories with the criminal empire she had apparently inherited. Her father, who had insisted she get good grades and go to college, who had worried about her dating and made her promise to call if she was ever in trouble, had been living a double life for her entire existence.
"The associates expect a decision from you within the week," Marco continued, his tone becoming more businesslike. "You can walk away – liquidate what can be liquidated, pay what can be paid, and disappear. Change your name, move across the country, start over. Your father set aside clean money for exactly that possibility."
Isabella looked up at him. "And the other option?"
"You step up. You take your father's place. You learn the business, all of it, and you run the family." Marco's eyes were intense, searching her face. "But Isabella, you need to understand – if you choose that path, there's no going back. The people your father dealt with, the enemies he made, the obligations he had – they all become yours. And this world... it's not kind to women. You'll have to be stronger than your father ever was, more ruthless than he ever needed to be, just to survive."
Through the tall windows, Isabella could see the city skyline, the buildings and neighborhoods that apparently owed their allegiance to her family's name. Somewhere out there were people who would celebrate her father's death, who would see his passing as an opportunity to settle old scores or claim new territory. Somewhere else were men and women who had depended on Vincent Rossi's protection, who were now vulnerable without his influence.
"What happens to them?" she asked quietly. "The people my father... protected?"
Marco's expression softened slightly. "Without leadership? They become targets. Other families will move in, claim the territory, settle debts in ways that won't be pleasant for anyone involved."
Isabella closed her eyes, feeling the weight of hundreds of lives settling on her shoulders alongside the millions of dollars and the criminal legacy. Her father had kept her innocent, but in doing so, he had also kept her ignorant of the responsibility that would someday fall to her.
When she opened her eyes again, both men were watching her intently. Torrino looked hopeful that she would choose the safe path liquidation, escape, a clean start somewhere far from the complications of her father's world. But Marco's expression was more complex, mixing concern with something that might have been pride, as though he was seeing something in her that reminded him of her father.
"I need to see it," Isabella said finally, her voice stronger than she felt. "All of it. The businesses, the people, the problems. I can't make this decision based on what you tell me in a lawyer's office."
Marco nodded slowly. "That can be arranged. But Isabella, once you start down this path, even just to look, people will interpret that as a choice. Word will spread that Vincent Rossi's daughter is stepping up, and that will paint a target on your back before you even decide if you want to carry the gun."
Isabella stood, smoothing her black dress, and for the first time since entering the room, she felt like she could breathe properly. The decision terrified her, but sitting in ignorance while other people determined the fate of her father's legacy and the lives connected to it felt like a betrayal of everything he had built, regardless of whether it was legal or moral.
"Then we better make sure I'm ready for whatever comes next," she said, meeting Marco's eyes with a determination that surprised them both. "When do we start?"