From a Throne of Crime to the Sea

My remark seemed to prick Julian’s pride. The hint of a smirk that touched his lips was anything but pleasant.

So ambitious. She doesn't know how to bide her time. All that fire, no patience. She won't last in this city. Five years at my side and she thinks she can just leapfrog into the Consigliere’s seat? What does she think this is, a charity?

Success required real value, not just a warm bed next to the heir. The underworld was brutal, not a damn wishing well. Still, she should try again. Next time, if there was a next time, I’d cut the territory cleaner. Give her a piece.

With that thought, he tossed me a bone. "Scarlett, the after-party is in the cigar bar downstairs. You should come."

"No, thank you," I refused coolly. "I'm going home to rest."

Julian frowned. I wasn't the type to refuse a networking opportunity. It was the lifeblood of our business. Before he could dwell on it, Bianca had already taken his arm.

Meanwhile, I called a car. As I slid into the back seat, my gaze swept over Chicago’s glittering skyline with a cold, hollow detachment.

Before I even got home, encrypted notifications were already flooding the family's secure channel: "Julian Valachi," "Bianca Genovese," and "Chicago's New Order." Each entry blazed in blood-red, marking them as top-priority directives.

Julian had a three-year plan in motion—a smuggling network that would lock down the entire West Side docks. And he was eagerly appointing Bianca's brother to lead it. Had I stayed at that party, my expression would have surely twisted into something hideous.

When my phone screen went dark, my own reflection stared back. I looked tired, pale. A stranger.

The moment I closed the app, a text from Julian appeared.

"Don't be difficult. I'm going to be tied up for a while."

I didn't reply, just swiped the notification away. In the dim blue light illuminating my face, I remembered how he had bulldozed his way into my world.

"That Genovese Principessa is the key. I need to win her over. Don't listen to the rumors; it's all for the family. I'm just using her influence. We need this deal, Scarlett. It’s business. When are you going to grow up?"

…

At first, it was, "Who is she?"

Then, it became, "Why her?"

In the end, there was only silence.

As I scrolled through the long, detailed files on Bianca's family, I realized he hadn't even noticed I'd stopped feeding him intel weeks ago.

All that was left was the final, cold proof of his neglect: my last warning—"Target has moved." —left on 'read'.