When The Mafia Queen Fights Back

The laughter in my headphones continued.

"But for real, Marco," another voice—Matteo, he ran smuggling operations—chimed in. "Thank God for Sofia. If you were counting on that selfish bitch Isabella, the Rossi family line would be dead."

"She's not selfish, she's 'noble'," Marco's voice was dripping with sarcasm. "She thinks this life is too bloody. Doesn't want to bring a child into this 'world of sin.' Ha. Just a little saint spoiled by her old man."

"Exactly," Sofia added, her voice full of cheap superiority. "What kind of a woman denies the man she loves a child? An heir to carry on his name? She's purely selfish."

I leaned against the cold wall. My heart felt like it was being ripped in two.

Selfish?

I closed my eyes. The nightmare flashed in my mind.

I was ten. I saw my cousin—he was only three—kidnapped in a family war. They sent his head back to the estate in a box. With his favorite teddy bear, soaked in blood. That image is burned into my mind.

I swore I would never let my child live with that kind of fear.

When Marco proposed, he swore before God: "Bella, you're my whole world. If this is your fear, then I don't need an heir. As long as I have you, I have everything."

All bullshit.

The man who swore to protect me from my deepest fears was now laughing about my trauma with my best friend. Rubbing salt in the wound.

"So what's the plan?" Matteo asked. "You're the Godfather after tomorrow. You gonna kick her to the curb and make an honest woman out of Sofia?"

I held my breath.

"No," Marco's answer was sharp. Final.

After a beat, he continued. "Her old man is dead, but those Vettori dinosaurs still listen to her. I have the streets, but I still need the Vettori machine in the courts and city hall. That's generations of influence. I can't just toss it aside."

His voice was cold, calculating. The warmth was completely gone.

"As long as we're married, I have a legitimate claim to all of the Vettori family's resources. As for Sofia..."

"I don't care about a title," Sofia cut in, her voice syrupy sweet. "As long as I have your heart, and as long as our son inherits everything. Besides..."

She paused, then let out a soft laugh.

"Sleeping with you right under that bitch's nose... watching her run around for you like an idiot, asking me if I'm okay... It's better than being the wife."

Boom.

The last thread of hope inside me snapped.

So that's what it was.

My five years of devotion was just a free circus act for them.

I was the last fool in the entire New York underworld to know the truth.

Even in the car on the way here, a part of me hoped he just made a stupid mistake.

God, I was an idiot.

I took off the headphones, wrapped the cord neatly, and put them back in my purse.

The sharp, tearing pain didn't last long.

It was replaced by a cold I'd never felt before. The kind of clarity you get when your blood turns to ice.

A Vettori can die. But we are never, ever humiliated.

You want my resources? You want my power? You even want my life?

Fine. You can have it.

But you can't afford the price.

I turned and walked silently to the elevator.

The cold night air hit my face as I walked out of the club, drying the tears that never fell.

I took out my phone and dialed a number I hadn't used in years.

It was for my father's Consigliere, his advisor. A number only to be used if the Vettori family was on the line.

He answered on the first ring. An old, but powerful voice. "Miss Isabella."

"Uncle Enzo," I said, my voice ice cold as I stared out at the city lights. "I'm invoking my father's contingency plan. I want you to strip him of everything. By sunrise, I want Marco Rossi back on the streets with nothing but the clothes on his back."

There was a pause on the other end. Then, a tone I hadn't heard since my father's funeral—the sound of steel. "Understood. Any other orders?"

I got into my car. A cruel smile touched my lips.

"And one more thing. Get the Capos to the estate. It's time for a family meeting."