Page 427 of Rosetti Family New York
But I saw her twenty minutes ago, shaking and convinced she was poison. I know what it costs her to look this composed. The battle-torn, blood-soaked clothing only adds to her authority.
"Ready?" I ask as we step out of the elevator.
She meets my eyes, and for just a heartbeat, I see the woman who pulled away from me by the river. Then the mask slides back into place.
"I was born ready," she says, and her voice carries the same deadly calm that made grown men flinch in the warehouse.
Christ. She's magnificent. Isabella stares out the window while I flip my coin and resist every urge to reach for her. She's locked down tight, all sharp edges and controlled breathing. Beautiful and untouchable and completely focused on what comes next.
I've never been more attracted to her in my life.
Chase's penthouse sits on the top floor of a glass tower overlooking Central Park. It's cold perfection. Black marble and steel, modern art that probably cost millions, windows that stretch from floor to ceiling. A massive mahogany conference table dominates the boardroom, polished to mirror brightness. Behind it, Chase's chair—high-backed leather that looks more like a throne than office furniture.
Isabella walks through it like she was born there.
Seven men wait in the boardroom. I recognize most of them. Callahan soldiers who've been running different pieces of the operation. Weapons. Shipping. Money laundering. They look nervous, which is smart. Their boss is dead, their future uncertain, and the woman who killed him just walked into their sanctuary.
They stand when she enters. Old habits.
"Gentlemen." Isabella's voice carries perfectly in the silent room. She doesn't sit at the head of the table, doesn't take Chase's chair. Instead, she stands at the far end, hands clasped behind her back, looking like a judge about to render verdict.
I position myself to her right and slightly behind. Close enough to act if needed. Far enough back to make it clear this is her show.
From here, I can see what they can't. The slight tremor in her fingers before she clasps them together. The way she swallows once, twice, steadying herself. The muscle that jumps in her jaw when Pinkerson shifts forward like he might speak.
She's fucking terrified. And she's magnificent.
"You know why you're here," she continues. "Chase is dead. The Callahan organization will be folded into Rosetti operations, with me heading your wing."
"With respect, Miss Callahan," says a gray-haired man I recognize as Pinkerson, Chase's weapons contact. "There are procedures. Protocols."
My hands clench into fists. The condescending tone, the way he emphasizes "Miss" like her gender makes her weak. Every instinct screams at me to put him through the fucking wall. Show him exactly what happens when someone disrespects what's mine.
But Isabella doesn't need me to fight her battles. She needs me to let her win them.
I watch Isabella's pulse jump at her throat. She's fighting every instinct to apologize, to defer, to be the good girl who never makes waves. But her voice stays level, deadly calm.
"The only protocol that matters is survival." She doesn't need volume to sound lethal. "You have a choice. Swear loyalty to the Rosetti family and continue profiting from arrangements that have made you all very wealthy. Or leave. Tonight."
"And if we choose option three?" This from a younger man, maybe thirty, with the look of someone who's never been told no.
The smart-ass smirk on his face makes my blood boil. My coin flips faster between my fingers, the only outlet for the violence building in my chest. One word from Isabella and I'd break every bone in his fucking face. Make him understand that challenging her is the last mistake he'll ever make.
But she doesn't need my protection. She needs my restraint.
Isabella's breathing hitches slightly. I catch it, but these idiots are too busy calculating odds to notice. She tilts her head with predatory grace.
"I'm sorry?"
"If we decide we don't recognize your claim. If we take our business elsewhere."
My jaw clenches so hard I taste blood. The disrespect. The casual dismissal of everything she's sacrificed to be here. Every cell in my body screams to end this conversation the way we end all conversations with people who threaten family.
With violence.
But Isabella's fight isn't mine to win.
The silence stretches. I can feel the tension in the room ratchet higher, see hands moving closer to concealed weapons. Isabella's knuckles are white where she grips her own wrist behind her back, but her face remains arctic calm.
