Page 502 of Rosetti Family New York
You have competence they fear. They want you questioning yourself instead of protecting her.
Something in his expression—the recognition of one damaged soldier acknowledging another—tells me he understands exactly how institutional betrayal feels. How it makes you doubt your own worth even when you know you're being systematically destroyed. But also how having someone worth protecting changes the stakes completely.
Dante opens his notebook to a new section, this one filled with contact names, legal references, and what looks like a comprehensive battle plan. The scope of information makes my breath catch—this isn't just family connections, it's an entire network of power deployed to protect what I can't lose.
Rosetti family resources,he writes, underlining the word 'family' twice.Legal teams in three states, regulatory contacts at medical board, media influence for counter-narrative.
He slides additional papers across my desk—contact information for attorneys I recognize from high-profile medical defense cases, regulatory officials whose names carry weight, media contacts who could shift public narrative in hours rather than months.
Dante nods, writing quickly.Individual doctor fighting alone loses. Family member with resources wins. Rules change when you have institutional power backing institutional power.
The revelation strikes me: I've been thinking like the abandoned military surgeon, expecting to fight this battle alone and lose like I always do when institutions turn against me. But I'm not alone anymore, and more importantly, she's not alone. The Rosettis don't just have money—they have the kind of coordinatedinfluence that can neutralize regulatory attacks before they gain momentum.
Watching Dante coordinate this level of institutional warfare reminds me why smart people fear the Rosetti name. They don't just break legs—they break entire systems, entire lives, with surgical precision that makes my medical training look amateur. And she belongs to this power, carries this protection in her blood.
Already making calls,Dante writes.Medical board inquiry will find procedural irregularities in complaint filings. Insurance carrier will discover previous relationship between complainants and Torrino business interests.
I look up from the papers to find Dante watching me with something approaching approval. He writes one final note:Family protects family.
The words carry weight I'm still learning to accept, but more than that—they mean she's protected by more than just my surgical skills and military training. This isn't charity or debt management—it's the kind of institutional support that can preserve everything we're building together.
After Dante leaves, I sit alone in my office, his assessment and contact lists spread across my desk like military intelligence briefings. As I process how quickly my professional life nearly crumbled, how close I came to losing everything again, one truth crystallizes: she has become the only stable anchor in a world determined to destroy everything I build.
The obsession I've been fighting intensifies rather than diminishes. She's not just the woman I protect or the debt I'm paying—she's the only thing in my life that regulatory boards can't investigate, that corrupt officials can't destroy with manila folders and sterile proceedings. Every memory of her submitted and trusting beneath me becomes more precious as everything else turns uncertain.
Part of me wants to handle the Torrinos the way I handled threats in Afghanistan—direct, permanent, final. But Dante's strategic approach will destroy them more thoroughly than any violence I could orchestrate, and more importantly, it will keep her safe while doing it.
I will not lose her. The thought crystallizes into something approaching violence as I grab the papers Dante left me, shoving them into my jacket pocket. They can strip away my surgical privileges, investigate my credentials, destroy my medical career piece by piece.
But she's mine in ways that transcend institutional approval. And I need to get to her now, need to feel her solid and real in my arms while everything else burns around us. Need to remind myself what I'm really fighting for while lawyers and regulatory boards play their games.
I'm already reaching for my keys, my phone, anything that will get me to her faster. The obsession that's been building since she chose us—since I watched her trust me completely while binding her wrists—demands immediate action. Not planning, not processing, not waiting for institutional solutions.
I need to see her. Touch her. Claim her again in ways that have nothing to do with medical licenses or hospital privileges. She's what matters, she's what's mine, and right now that's the only certainty I can hold onto.
20 - Carmela
My hands shake so violently I nearly drop my phone, coffee forgotten as my contact at the authentication board's words destroy everything I've built. The morning light streaming through the gallery windows suddenly feels harsh against my skin as panic rises in my throat.
"Carmela, we need to talk." His voice carries a tension that makes my pulse race with dread. "There are questions being raised about the Monet you authenticated last month."
The coffee cup sits abandoned on my desk as he explains, growing cold while my world crumbles. Three separate collectors have received anonymous tips questioning pieces I've worked on. My professional authentication is being systematically undermined, each suggestion planted like poison in exactly the right ears. The gallery owner's phone has been ringing all morning with concerned clients, regulatory officials asking probing questions, whispers spreading through the art community that maybe Carmela Rosetti isn't as qualified as everyone assumed.
This isn't random. This is coordinated, professional sabotage targeting my reputation. The kind of attack that destroys careers permanently, turning my name from an asset into a liability that no gallery would risk employing.
But then I remember the lessons I've been learning about family power, about the resources available to those who know howto wield them. Van's voice echoes in my mind:You're stronger than you think.
The Torrino strategy is to isolate me, make me feel helpless and alone. But I'm not just Carmela the gallery assistant anymore. I'm Carmela Rosetti, and that name carries weight for a reason.
The panic starts to crystallize into something harder, sharper. They think I'm still the running princess. They have no idea who I've become.
Part of me wonders if Van truly understands what being involved with my family means. I still don't know if he fully grasps the extent of our business activities. But right now, that uncertainty feels less important than using every weapon at my disposal.
"Carmela." Mr.Henderson's voice is carefully neutral when he calls me into his office an hour later, but I can see the strain around his eyes. "I think it might be best if you took some leave until these investigations resolve themselves."
Behind him stand two men in cheap suits with government badges. The kind of suits that scream 'government salary' so loudly even I feel bad for them. Regulatory officials who clearly expect to intimidate the young woman playing at being an art expert.
My pulse quickens, but not with fear anymore. With something that feels dangerously like anticipation.
