Page 503 of Rosetti Family New York
"Miss Rosetti," one of them says, his tone so condescending it makes my teeth clench behind my bright smile, "we understand this might be overwhelming for someone your age. These authentication questions require serious investigation."
Someone your age.As if twenty-three is barely out of diapers. I've seen more violence in the past month than these men have seen in their entire careers of pushing paper. Fire flashes through my veins. I maintain my bright expression, nodding like the compliant daughter they expect to see, even as I think about Van. Something fierce unfurls in my chest. Whatever battles he's facing right now, I won't be the weak link that makes things worse for him.
"Of course, I completely understand your concerns," I say sweetly, watching them exchange glances. They're expecting me to fold under pressure, to crumble like the spoiled girl who used to run away when things got difficult. The little girl who solved problems by running rather than fighting, who avoided confrontation instead of meeting it head-on.
But I'm not that person anymore. I've learned things about power, about family, about what it means to carry the Rosetti name. These men expect weakness, expect me to take their condescending treatment and disappear quietly until the scandal passes.
They have no idea who they're actually dealing with.
"Excuse me for just one moment," I say, my smile never wavering as I reach for my phone with steady fingers. "I need to make a quick call."
The diamond bracelet Van bought me catches the morning light as I dial Marco's number, and I think about how he taught me that beautiful things can be weapons too. When Marco answers, I let my voice carry that particular mix of sweetness and strength that I've been practicing.
"Hi, Marco. This is Carmela Rosetti. Yes, that Rosetti family." The words roll off my tongue like a blade being unsheathed for the first time, and I discover I enjoy the way it feels. The power that flows through me makes my pulse race and my skin flush warm. "I'm having a small issue with some regulatory officials who seem confused about proper procedure."
I can practically feel the shift in the room's atmosphere, like the air itself has grown heavier. The bureaucrat who was so condescending moments ago straightens slightly, his hand actually trembling as he reaches for his pen. The shift in his expression from patronizing to cautious is intoxicating, sending a thrill through my body that's almost sexual.
Is this how Van feels when he sees me submit? This heady rush of control?
"They seem to think I should disappear quietly, like a good little girl who doesn't understand how these things work," I continue into the phone, my tone conversational, honey-sweet. "But you know what? I've been learning so much lately about proper procedures."
My joyful nature makes the underlying threats sound like friendly suggestions, honey-wrapped warnings that are somehow more effective than shouting. I watch these men'sfaces change and feel something dark and satisfied settle in my chest.
I catch my reflection in Henderson's office window—still smiling brightly, but there's something different in my eyes. Something that reminds me of Dom when he's closing a deal. When did I learn to smile like a Rosetti?
"They seem to think the Torrinos can target family business interests without consequences," I add softly.
Twenty minutes later, both officials are gone, their investigation suddenly requiring "further review of procedural compliance." Mr.Henderson looks shaken but relieved, and I'm discovering that I like the taste of fear when it's directed at people who threaten what's mine.
I sit at my desk, pulse still racing from the encounter. The girl who ran from her family's power is gone. In her place sits someone who just wielded the Rosetti name like a blade and discovered she likes the way it cuts. Van doesn't know about today's victory yet. He's probably drowning in his own crisis, thinking he needs to protect me. He has no idea his sunshine just learned how to burn.
I grab my keys. It's time for a reunion.
21 - Van
I'm staring at medical journals at 2 AM because sleep means nightmares, and nightmares mean seeing Carmela's face twisted in pain instead of Valdez's. The apartment buzzer cuts through my pathetic attempt at distraction, urgent, desperate. Not the controlled rhythm of a planned visit.
My first thought is Carmela. Ice floods my veins because in this life, late-night visitors mean someone I care about is in danger.
Carmela. I'm at the bedroom door in three strides, relief flooding through me when I see her still asleep, untouched by whatever horror waits outside. Only then do I pull up the security feed on my phone, and my blood turns to ice for a different reason.
The gallery assistant lies crumpled against my doorstep, her bright pink hair now dark with spreading stains. Blood pools beneath her head like spilled wine on concrete, and her left arm bends at an angle that makes my surgeon's training scream warnings. She's not moving.
The metallic taste of fear coats my tongue as I'm down eight flights of stairs and through the lobby in under ninety seconds, my bare feet hitting cold concrete. I drop to my knees beside her, the gritty pavement cutting into my shins. Emma's blood smells like copper pennies mixed with the sharp scent of adrenaline-sweat.
Pulse, weak but present. Breathing, shallow, labored. Head trauma, possible internal bleeding, definitely a broken arm.
"Emma." I touch her shoulder carefully, checking for spinal damage. "Can you hear me?"
Her eyes flutter open, unfocused and glassy. "Van?" The word comes out slurred, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. "They… they said to tell you… message for the Rosettis."
Guilt tears through me like shrapnel, hot and jagged, reminding me that everyone I touch ends up bleeding. This is the second time this innocent woman has paid for my connection to this family. The second time someone who shouldn't be involved got hurt because I exist in their world. Emma, sweet, laughing Emma from the gallery, bleeding on my doorstep because someone wanted to send Carmela a message through me.
The Torrinos are escalating, and now they're using people who should be safe.
The thought of Carmela crumpled on anyone's doorstep, bleeding because of me, sends violence coursing through my veins like poison. I need her in my arms, need to feel her pulse against my throat, need to remind myself she's safe and no one will ever use her to send me messages.
I try to lift Emma, and that's when the flashback hits.
