It had been a week since Dante's death, but I barely noticed. I had been too busy, forcing the Capos back into line, especially the ones who bristled at taking orders from a woman. Despite living in the twenty-first century, sadly men like that still thrived in our world.
I stood beside Arturo as the casket was lowered into the ground.
Hands clasped neatly in front of me, face carved into something unreadable, I remained still beside my grandfather's right-hand man. The second most powerful figure in this Famiglia. His presence here spared me a trip to Italy. I took a quiet comfort in that.
I didn't think I was ready to face Camilla again. Not after what I had done. What I was forced to do to her.
"So," Arturo said once the priest declared that the ceremony was finished, "you've won."
I parted my lips, about to answer when they came, one by one. Men and women in dark suits and dresses, rehearsed grief carefully arranged on their faces. Condolences were offered first to Arturo, then to me, as protocol demanded.
We nodded, accepted their words, their hands and their pledges of loyalty. The sad part was, most of them weren't even here for Dante. They were here for us, for what we now controlled. The balance quietly shifting behind their eyes as they measured what my grief was worth.
"Your grandfather would have been proud," he continued, as we walked through the graveyard, heading towards our car. "Though I can't say how he'll react when he learns what happened."
"There are families far more powerful than the Bianchis," I said calmly.
Then I turned to him. This man, who had been my mentor, my almost-father, the one who had shaped me into what I had become. "Why is Nonno so insistent that it had to be them, zio?"
"Your grandfather owed them something," he said. "I don't know what, but he was adamant that the debt be paid. In the most...appropriate way."
I nodded once, absorbing it.
"I'll inform the relevant people of your ascension," Arturo continued, pausing beside the car as one of his men opened the door for him. "For now, focus on claiming New York."
"How is he?" I asked, stopping him just before he disappeared inside.
"The doctors say there's been some improvement," he replied. "But he hasn't woken yet."
I nodded again, watching as the door shut and the car pulled away.
As much as I'd imagine a world without my grandfather in it, I didn't want him gone. At least, not yet. I needed him awake. Needed him to see what I had done to his empire. What I had taken from him, just as he had taken from me. Only then, would this be complete.
"Signorina," a female voice called from behind me.
"Yes, Gianna?" I replied without turning.
She was Sandro's replacement, one of our best. Military-trained, lethal in close combat and personally vetted by Sandro himself. With her dark brown hair pulled into a severe bun and her black suit pressed to perfection, she stood with her hands clasped behind her back, posture rigid, eyes alert.
In another world, she would've been a supermodel.
"The car is ready," she said. "If we're to make the meeting in time, we need to leave now."
"Noted. Thank you."
I followed her toward the car parked where Arturo's had been moments earlier.
After years of men who believed they owned the ground they walked on, having a woman as my head of security felt...refreshing. Gianna was efficient, loyal to the bone, and most importantly, mine. And with Alex growing increasingly wary of men shadowing my every move, despite their being guards, she was the best choice.
The doors to the boardroom swung open when I stepped inside.
Every seat was already filled. Capos, lieutenants, accounts, men who had arrived early, not out of respect, but calculation. At the far end of the long table sat Arturo, occupying the seat opposite the head, his posture relaxed, hands folded neatly as if this were a chessboard.
All eyes turned to me.
"I apologize for the delay," I said calmly, moving toward my seat without breaking stride.
I took my place at the head of the table, pointedly ignoring the subtle shift of chairs, the collective clearing of throats. They weren't simply observing anymore. They were measuring.
My gaze locked with Arturo's as he cut the tip of his cigar with deliberate precision before lighting it, leaning back in his chair like a man settling in to watch a familiar game unfold.
"Zio," I greeted. Uncle.
He inclined his head in acknowledgement.
Behind him, the door opened without ceremony. Sergio stepped inside, followed by a man with a familiar build, the lower half of his face obscured by a mask. I didn't need to look twice to know who he was.
Alexandre Barinov.
No one else turned. They didn't even know their enemy was standing casually behind them.
"Let's not waste more time," I said, remaining on my feet. "The reason I called this meeting should be obvious. I'm here to formally declare my position as Underboss of New York. A position previously held by my late fiancé, Signor Dario Bianchi. As per the wishes of my grandfather, Lorenzo Ricci."
"Regardless," Arturo said, exhaling smoke as if the words amused him, "tradition still applies. In the absence of your beloved Nonno, we put it to a vote. It keeps things...fair."
I inclined my head once.
I had anticipated this. All week, I had arranged private meetings, made some promises even. With my grandfather still unconscious, I knew Arturo wouldn't allow my ascension to go unchallenged. While my grandfather ruled by blood, Arturo ruled by competence.
He lifted his chin slightly. "Very well. The motion stands."
Silence fell over the room.
"Motion to confirm Isolda Ricci as Underboss of New York," he said evenly. "All in favor."
Chairs creaked. Hands rose, measured and cautious, calculated. Men who understood where the tide was turning.
"Opposed."
More hands this time. Quicker and firmed. A forest of refusal.
The count was done without ceremony.
"More than half against," Arturo said at last, smoke curling from his lips. "The council has spoken. So it is decided."
Murmurs followed, approval layered with thinly veiled disdain.
"A woman," one of them had said.
"Too much blood follows her," another added.
"She's capable," a third conceded, "but capability isn't stability. Not after all these unnecessary attacks. Not after the...memory loss."
I drew a breath, ready to give them a piece of my mind, remind them who still stood tall, who had buried their dead and claimed their ground despite it all, when the sharp crack of gunfire shattered the silence.
Three brutal shots ripped through the backs of their heads. Then more, each bullet cruelly precise, merciless in its intent.
Bodies slumped onto the table, some toppling from their chairs, the thunderous thud drowning beneath the sickening spray of blood. All that red splattering beneath the polished wood, soaking their expensive suits, pooling onto the carpet like a dark, spreading stain of death.
And there, behind them all, stood Alexandre Barinov, my husband.
Smoke still blowing out of his gun, fingers steady. Those dark green eyes, fierce and steady, piercing through the darkness of his mask that covered the lower half of his face. His gaze locked on mine across the carnage, calm and resolute. Devastatingly intimate.
Arturo's eyes darted between him and I, wide with shock and raw betrayal, his cigar hanging loose from his mouth.
"Now," Alex drawled, his voice eerily calm, "the vote's concluded."
He let the words hang for a breath.
"Unanimously."