Page 426 of Rosetti Family New York
"How many are left?" I ask.
"Seven confirmed. They're scattered across the city, probably waiting for word that never came." Rafe follows my gaze to the vehicle. "She needs to be there when we take them. Needs to show them she's not just Chase's heir, she's their new reality."
"She needs time to process."
"She needs to claim what's hers before someone else does." His voice is gentle but firm. "In this world, power vacuums get filled fast and bloody. The Callahans fold into our operations now, but only if she steps up to run their wing."
I know he's right. Chase's death doesn't eliminate his empire, it just makes it available for conquest. And if Isabella doesn't take control, someone else will. Someone who won't give a shit about her rules or her conscience.
The protective instinct roars through me. I want to carry her away from all of this, hide her somewhere safe until she can smile again. But that's not what she needs.
Isabella doesn't need me to protect her from this life. She needs me to trust her to navigate it. She needs me to stand beside her while she claims what's hers, not in front of her trying to shield her from the consequences.
"Where's the meeting?" I ask.
"Callahan's penthouse. Neutral ground, and it sends a message."
I nod, pocketing the coin. "Give me five minutes."
I walk to the SUV and slide into the passenger seat. Isabella doesn't acknowledge me, doesn't turn her head. She's staring straight ahead at nothing, her hands folded in her lap like she's in church.
"Hey," I say softly.
Nothing.
"We need to go to Chase's place. The lieutenants are waiting."
Her laugh is hollow, bitter. "Of course they are. The vultures always circle fastest after death."
"You don't have to do this tonight."
"Yes, I do." She finally looks at me, and her green eyes are arctic. "Chase's empire doesn't dissolve just because he's dead. Someone has to take control."
"Someone. Not necessarily you."
"It was built on my parents' blood." Her voice is steady, final. "It belongs to me."
The drive to Manhattan takes twenty minutes through empty streets. Isabella sits motionless beside me, but I can feel her changing with each mile. The broken woman who called herself toxic is being carefully packed away, replaced by something harder. Something that can stare down armed criminals and make them beg for mercy.
"You need to know who you're dealing with," I say quietly, not wanting to break her concentration but knowing she needs intel. "Pinkerson runs weapons. Gray hair, thinks he's smarter than everyone. He'll test you with procedure bullshit."
She nods, listening.
"The young guy with the attitude problem is Martinez. Runs numbers for the docks. He's never been told no by a woman. Make an example of him and the others fall in line."
"And the others?"
"Lafayette you've met—shipping manifests, union connections. Volkov has the scarred hands, handles Eastern European imports. He's the one who'll push back hardest on moral restrictions." I glance at her profile. "Rodriguez does book-making, mostly harmless. The rest are middle management."
"What do I need to shut down?"
"The trafficking pipelines. Chase used family pressure on civilians. Those are your two biggest moral problems." I pause. "They'll argue revenue loss. Don't let them."
She absorbs this information like she's studying artifacts for an exhibition. Clinical. Focused.
I watch her from the corner of my eye as we cross the Queensboro Bridge. She's using the reflection in the window to check her appearance, smoothing her hair back with steady hands. The trembling is gone. The hollow look in her eyes is being replaced by something sharp and calculating.
By the time we reach the penthouse, she's transformed completely. Her spine is straight, her chin lifted, her hands perfectly still. She looks like a queen about to hold court.
