Page 276 of Rosetti Family New York
At sixty-two, Chase Callahan remains formidable. Not just dangerous, but brilliant in the way that builds criminal empires and destroys anyone foolish enough to cross him. The kind of man who views betrayal as a personal insult requiring permanent correction.
The man I just betrayed by warning his enemies.
I settle into the chair across from him, noting how he's positioned himself with his back to the wall, and clear sightlines to all exits. Old habits from a lifetime of making enemies. Today, I might be one of them.
"You look nervous," he observes, though his tone carries clinical assessment rather than concern. "Guilty conscience, perhaps?"
The direct attack makes my stomach clench, but I've survived three years in his organization by never showing weakness. "Should I have a guilty conscience?"
"You tell me." His smile is winter-cold, beautiful and terrible. "Pier 17 was quite the massacre last night. Three Rosetti guards dead, Leonardo in the hospital. Almost as planned."
My hands remain steady as I reach for the espresso he's ordered for me, though my heart pounds frantically. "I'm glad the operation succeeded."
"Are you?" His voice drops to barely above a whisper, but the menace in it makes my skin prickle. "Because someone warned them. Not enough to prevent casualties, but enough to limit them. Curious, don't you think?"
The coffee tastes like ash. He knows. The question is how much, and what he plans to do about it.
"Internal leaks are always a concern," I say carefully. "Perhaps increased security protocols—"
"Cut the shit, Mara." The crude language from his cultured mouth hits like a slap. "We both know you sent that warning. The question is why."
No point in denial when he has proof. I meet his gaze directly, drawing on years of training to project the calm I don't feel. "Impulse. A moment of weakness I regret."
"Weakness." He tests the word, leaning back in his chair with predatory patience. "For a man you claim meant nothing to you. How... illuminating."
Heat floods my cheeks despite my efforts at control. Three years of careful distance and professional detachment, and one moment of desperate concern has exposed everything I've tried to hide.
"Emilio Rosetti was a mistake," I say quietly. "A complication that won't happen again."
"Won't it?" Chase pulls out a photograph, sliding it across the marble table. "Because I have a theory about your 'mistake,' and I think it's time we put it to the test."
The photo shows Connor Callahan—Chase's nephew, thirty-something, handsome in the dangerous way that attracts women who should know better. I've worked with him in European operations and know his competence and his complete lack of conscience.
"I don't understand," I manage, though dread builds in my stomach.
"Tomorrow night. Bautiste's VIP section. You and Connor will be having a romantic evening together." Chase's voice carries satisfaction that makes my blood run cold. "Very public, very visible, very... intimate."
The full scope of his plan crystallizes with sickening clarity. Not punishment for my betrayal, but weaponizing it. Using my exposed feelings as bait to draw Emilio out.
"You want me to date Connor?" The question emerges strangled.
"I want you to be seen dating Connor. In places where certain surveillance networks will notice. Where certain algorithms will flag the activity." His smile widens with cruel amusement. "Where Emilio Rosetti will realize that the woman who warned him about Pier 17 is now romantically involved with his enemy."
"That's..." I struggle for words, for some way to refuse that won't result in my immediate elimination. "That's psychological warfare."
"That's justice." The grief that flashes across his features is real, devastating. "Dale is dead, Miss Vale. My son is dead because the Rosettis decided his life was acceptable collateral damage. If you think I won't use every weapon available to destroy them, you've severely underestimated my commitment to revenge."
Dale Callahan. Twenty-five years old, more interested in art galleries than family business. Dead because Rafaele Rosetti pulled a trigger, escalating their war.
"I'm sorry about Dale," I say, and mean it. "But using me as bait—"
"Is exactly what you deserve after your little warning stunt." His tone turns arctic. "You exposed divided loyalties, Mara. Proved that your feelings for Emilio Rosetti compromise your judgment. Now those feelings become useful."
"I don't have feelings for him," I lie, though my voice wavers with the effort. "Whatever connection existed, it's gone now."
"Is it?" He leans forward, studying my face with the intensity that's made him legendary in negotiations. "Because you're trembling. And not from the cold."
I force my hands to stillness, drawing on years of training to school my features into neutrality. But inside, panic builds like a storm. Three years of running from what I felt for Emilio, and now I'm being forced to use those feelings as weapons.
