Page 142 of Rosetti Family New York
The air is thick with tension, and I see it written on every face, every crouched figure. Rosetti and Dushku alike are frozen in place, waiting to see who gets erased. I’ve always been the obedient daughter, the predictable variable. No one expects the twist. I’m used to being underestimated. Especially by him.
And now I’m rewriting his script.
I step forward slowly. My boots crunch over shattered tiles and broken chairs. I have an Albanian gun in my hands, plucked from a dead man at my feet, and I raise it. Not fast, not slow, just deliberate. The Albanians tense, weapons twitching toward me.
“What are you doing?” Baba asks, voice low.
“What you taught me,” I say. “Surviving.”
I raise the gun and aim it straight at him.
Dom doesn’t move.
Rafe mutters something low.
The world holds its breath.
“Tell your men to stand down,” I say.
“Think about what you’re doing, vajzë,” he says, voice suddenly soft. His voice lowers, almost gentle now, like he thinks he can still coax me into obedience. “These people—they’re not your family.”
“They protected me,” I say.
“They used you.” His voice sharpens, and he takes a careful step forward, one hand out in that familiar, condescending gesture of supposed love. I hold my ground, unmoved. “I raised you,” he says, every word weighted with the chains he put on me years ago. “Fed you. Taught you everything you know.”
“You taught me how to obey,” I snap. “How to disappear. How to lie.”
“And it kept you alive,” he says, sharper now. “Do you think the Rosettis will let you live once they’ve squeezed everything from you? You’re a weapon to them, just like you were to me.”
I say nothing, letting him feel my silent defiance like a slap in the face.
“You point that gun at me,” he says, “and there’s no going back. You stop being my daughter.”
“Good,” I whisper. “Because you stopped being my father a long time ago.”
He stares at me, the realization that he’s losing control hitting him. Cold anger flickers in his eyes, the fury of a man who isn’t used to losing.
“Come with me, Besiana. We leave now. You can fix this. We start again—no more spying. No more blood. You’ll have your family. You’ll be safe.”
“Safe?” I laugh, bitter and raw. “You don’t keep people safe, Baba. You keep them silent.”
He doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t have to.
We’ve both seen the results of his silence—the bodies, the blood, the betrayals. He expects me to fall back into line, to bend to his will like I always have. But there’s no coming back from this. I’m done playing his game.
“Call. Them. Off.”
My hand doesn’t shake. My voice doesn’t crack.
Baba blinks, then laughs.Laughs.
“You won’t shoot me, Besiana,” he says.
Does he think this is a bluff? Has he ever seen me bluff?
“Not your heart maybe,” I say. “But your kneecaps? Your shoulder? You taught me to be ruthless, Baba. Don’t be surprised that I learned my lessons.”
Something changes in his eyes—just for a second. Not fear. But realization.
