Page 344 of Rosetti Family New York
"Timeline?" I ask, though my voice sounds far away to me, muffled by the protective anger swelling inside me.
"The brunch starts at eleven," Matteo replies. "Invitation-only, around sixty guests. Carmela's been organizing it for months, showcasing emerging Italian artists, a legitimate cultural event perfect for our public image."
"What about security?"
"Two guards, maybe three. Just the usual security for a cultural event, not for a battlefield."
His words reflect a blunt truth: enough protection for regular threats, but not nearly enough if Chase brings in professional killers disguised as random attendees.
Mara's breathing changes next to me, a sign that she's quickly considering all the possible scenarios. When she speaks, her voice is confident, like she's seen this play out before.
"He will strike during the brunch," she states firmly, dismissing speculation. "Witnesses with phones, maximum impact. Most damage to the Rosetti name."
The radiator clicks steadily, counting down to violence that could ruin everything I've worked to protect.
"After the speeches," I realize, the pieces fitting together with a sinking feeling. "Public display of violence."
"Or during the drink service," she adds, her voice filled with grim certainty from knowing how these predators operate. "She only needs to be separated from the crowd for seconds, enough time for professionals to take her out and make a show of it."
The phone crackles as Matteo takes in this tactical analysis, turning a family crisis into a plan in the city's hidden corners. "Dom doesn't trust the intel behind this specific threat," he finally says. "He thinks Chase is still targeting business,not playing mind games. Standard security won't cover these tactics."
"Then we'll handle it ourselves," I decide, clarity cutting through. "Unofficial protection, a tactical response outside the family’s usual methods."
"We?" Mara asks, surprised, but there's a hint of relief in her voice. "You want me to help protect your sister?"
"I need you with me when we face whatever trap Chase has set," I admit, my voice rougher than intended, realizing that tackling this alone would be foolish pride. "Your knowledge of how he operates, your grasp of these tactics. I need your expertise."
Her smile in the phone's dim light is sharp like broken glass, both beautiful and dangerous, and it belongs to me. "Good."
My heart races at the certainty in her voice, the way she takes on my battles with the same intensity as I've embraced her. After everything, the Callahans, the family betrayal, the tough choices that have shaped us, she still chooses to stand with me.
"It's not your fight," I remind her, even as I hold her hand tightly, showing how much I need her with me.
"Yes it is," she replies, her voice strong. "Your fights are my fights."
The ticking of the radiator no longer feels like a countdown but a steady rhythm, like the heartbeat of a city that raises survivors in its hidden corners.
"Matteo," I say into the phone, "we'll be there."
29
Mara
The champagne tastes like tonic water. I stand next to Emilio in the Tribeca gallery, surrounded by New York's cultural elite, who sip Dom Pérignon while discussing Renaissance influences they'll never truly grasp. Afternoon light streams through the tall windows, casting exclusive art in golden shades that should feel warm but instead seem fragile, ready to shatter at the first hint of trouble.
Carmela moves gracefully among the art pieces, glowing in her green silk dress. She looks every bit the sophisticated gallery supporter, talking about chiaroscuro with collectors who see beauty as an investment. At twenty-three, she seems untouchable, shielded by wealth and status. She has no idea that danger has followed the guests and small talk into her safe space.
"Forty-seven guests confirmed," I whisper to Emilio, my voice just audible over the polite conversation. "Two security guards are visible, but they're focused on art theft, not assassination. Standard gallery rules." My trained eyes take in the room. There are many exits—main entrance, a service corridor by the champagne, an emergency door near the restrooms, and aloading dock for the expensive paintings. Too many ways in and out, making it hard to secure a place meant for openness.
"Chase's people could be anyone," I add, scanning faces that blend into New York's art scene. "Collectors, journalists, service staff. Perfect cover for a surprise attack." Emilio's hand lightly touches my back, his thumb moving in a way that looks affectionate but actually positions me to quickly reach the nearest exit. His touch feels hot through the fabric, affecting me even as my mind calculates threats and escape routes.
"Carmela's been here since the setup," he notes, his voice tense and controlled. "Minimal protection, maximum exposure. If Chase wanted to send a message about targeting what we care about most, this is it."
The knowledge chills me. This is a calculated psychological attack meant to break the Rosetti family emotionally rather than through direct conflict. It's personal warfare, Chase's specialty, honed over years of taking down rivals by destroying what they love.
I remember the bride in Paris who died in her new husband's arms, wedding music still playing, red spreading across her white dress.
"There," Emilio says quietly, focusing intently. "Northeast corner. Three men who aren't looking at the art."
