My ex-husband Giacomo and my brother's widow, Zoya, are the reason I went to prison.

Seven years. Gone.

I crunched leaves on the way to Carlo's grave and—of course—they're there. Together. Right in front of his headstone.

"Jessica?" His voice shook. Fake surprise.

He wiped his eye like that meant something. "I've been looking for you for seven years. I thought you... were gone.

"Where have you been all these years? Why didn't you ever contact me?"

I said nothing.

He kept going. "You're still mad about what happened? I had my reasons."

'Reasons?'

I looked at him. Almost laughed.

He and Carlo's woman killed Carlo. Framed me, kicked me out, and sent me to prison.

He took half my life. And now he's talking about reasons—standing at Carlo's grave.

But seven years of torment burned everything down.

Love. Hate. All of it.

My fingers brushed Carlo's headstone. Ice-cold.

I fixed the white chrysanthemums.

Then Zoya's heel slammed down in front of the grave.

Mud splashed the petals. Ugly. On purpose.

"Well, well. Still alive after all these years?"

She latched onto Giacomo's arm, smiling sharp enough to cut.

'Carlo. This is the woman you died protecting.'

I smirked. "Of course I came back. Had to see how you two vultures are picking over my brother."

The word hit.

Hard.

"Jessica," Giacomo snapped. "We had no choice back then. It's been years. Let it go."

"No choice?"

I stared him down, fingers digging into the stone, scraping it raw.

Moldy bread. Electric shocks. The stink of the cell.

It all rushed back and crushed my chest.

"Don't bother with her," Zoya sneered. "She's a stray fresh out of prison. Carlo's dead. The Rossi Family's ours now—"

Her eyes dropped to my neck. "—including that sad little cross."

She shoved Giacomo aside and stepped closer. Her heel crushed the petals into the dirt.

I touched the cross. Carlo's gift. Eighteen years old.

Something snapped.

"Touch it and I'll kill you," I said. "Carlo saved you. Married you. Gave you everything. And this is how you pay him back? "

I leaned in. "He must've been blind."

Zoya flushed. Then drained. Her chin still up. "He chose that. No one forced him. He was stupid. Played saint. He died. That's on him."

"What did you say?"

I lunged. Ready to tear her apart.

Giacomo cut in front of her. Stone-faced. "Enough. Zoya's right. Carlo's death was an accident. Let it go. It's better for everyone."

"Accident?" I laughed. Cracked. "A knife in his chest. Your fingerprints on the handle. That an accident too?"

It was a bluff. Enzo was still digging. Nothing locked in.

But Giacomo flinched. His pupils shrank.

He stepped back and grabbed Zoya's hand.

She freaked—then doubled down. "Balle! Carlo died in a shootout! Giacomo had nothing to do with it! Say one more word and I'll have you killed!"

She spun toward the black sedan. "Throw this lunatic in the ocean!"

Two soldati rushed me. Their hands on guns. Eyes cold.

Giacomo didn't move. Didn't speak. Just turned away.

Whatever guilt he had? Gone. Buried under power.

Then—

"Stop."

Cold. Sharp.

The soldati froze.

A man stepped out from behind the camphor tree. Black suit. Sunglasses. Two more flanking him.

The air dropped.

"She's to be the Don's wife of the Corleone Family," he said. "You really want to touch her?"

"Corleone Family?"

Zoya drained white. All that swagger—gone. She grabbed Giacomo like she was falling.

"Y-You're with Enzo Corleone?"

He didn't answer her. Just looked at me. Small nod.

"Ms. Rossi. The Don sent us. Are you alright?"

I nodded.

Then I looked at Giacomo—gray, stiff—and Zoya, still coming apart.

For the first time, my hate had weight.

'Carlo. Look. Someone's standing with me now. I'm done being stepped on.'

Giacomo swallowed. Smoothed his voice. "This is a misunderstanding. We just wanted to talk."

"Talk?"

The man laughed. Cold. Took one step forward.

The soldati backed off.

"Before or after you tried to dump her in the ocean? You don't touch anyone under Corleone protection."

Zoya tried to speak. Giacomo yanked her back hard. He shot me a wary look.

"We're leaving," he muttered.

They bolted from the cemetery. Zoya stumbled, heels slipping, barely upright.

The man handed me a tissue.

"Ms. Rossi," he said low, "do you want us to handle them?"

"No."

I knelt. Gathered the crushed petals. Pressed them back into the dirt.

"Not yet."

The wind moved through the trees. Brushed my hand.

Like Carlo.

I leaned in close to the stone. "Wait a little longer. I'll dig it all up. I'll get you justice."

The man stayed near. Respectful. Quiet. "The Don says whatever you need, the Corleone Family stands with you."

I stood and closed my fist around the cross at my chest.

I'd never felt this steady.

'Giacomo, Zoya, what you took from the Rossi Family—I'm taking back.'

'With interest.'

The wind cut through my collar. Straight to the bone.

I thought about that night. Seven years back.

Third week married to Giacomo. He said he and Carlo were hitting the docks. "Family business."

Then the gunshots came through the phone.

My heart dropped. I didn't tell anyone. I just went.

"Giacomo!"

I yelled it as I rounded the last container—then stopped cold.

Carlo was on his knees. Back to me.

His black coat was wrecked. Soaked through.

Blood ran down the hem and bled into the concrete.

And Giacomo—my husband—was standing there right in front of Carlo. Combat knife in his hand.

I knew that knife.

His favorite. He showed it off after the wedding. His name carved into the blade.

That blade was buried in Carlo's chest.

"Carlo!"

I screamed and lunged—then my arm got yanked back hard.

Zoya.

No panic. None.

Just that cold look. Almost smug.

"Don't take another step, Jessica." Her voice was flat. "It won't do you any good."

She had a folded paper in her left hand. Calm as hell, she walked over, crouched, and slid it into Carlo's suit pocket.

Carlo heard me.

He turned his head, slow. Like it hurt.

Blood at the corner of his mouth.

His eyes locked on Giacomo.

Shock. Betrayal. Still trying to understand.

"Giacomo... why?"

Barely a breath.

Giacomo didn't answer.

He ripped the knife out. Blood sprayed everywhere. Across his white shirt. A grotesque bloom.

He turned to me.

Whatever warmth he had was gone.

This was something else. Mean. Empty.

He walked toward me. Slow. Deliberate.

"Why are you here?"

Cold voice.

His hand snapped around my throat.

Air gone.

My head forced back.

I didn't recognize his eyes.

They were flat. Distant. Like I was nothing.

"Who told you to come?"

"Giacomo... let go... Carlo..."

I clawed at his wrist.

Did nothing.

"Carlo?"

He laughed.

His eyes flicked to the body.

"He got in the way. Me and Zoya."

No shame.

"He deserved it. The Rossi Family was always mine."

Zoya stepped in. Handed him a document.

I saw it.

Weapons record.

My signature at the bottom.

Perfectly forged. Even the little hook at the end.

"And you too, Jessica." Giacomo took the paper.

With his other hand, he pulled out the seal.

Our seal.

He grabbed my hand and slammed it down. He pressed hard. Right over another page. [Confession statement.]

Red ink bloomed across the paper. Like blood. I couldn't look away.

"Carlo worked with enemies. You helped him cook the books. Now he's dead, and you're scared and..." Giacomo leaned in, voice low, cold, "Turn yourself in? Nah. You get 'arrested.' That way it plays real."

That's when it hit.

All of it.

He married me to get close to Carlo. To take over the Rossi Family.

Zoya stayed to help him from the inside.

They planned everything—Carlo dead, me gone, Giacomo running the family.

"You'll rot in hell," I spat.

Pure rage.

My tears hit his hand, mixed with salt in the air.

Giacomo laughed. Let go of my throat. Grabbed my arm instead.

He dragged me toward the black car by the port.

I looked back.

Zoya was on her knees beside Carlo.

She was closing his eyes.

Slow. Gentle.

That softness froze me colder than anything else.

"Remember this, Jessica." Giacomo shoved me into the car.

The door half shut. His voice slid in anyway.

"From today on, you're the traitor who killed her own brother. You don't clear your name. Ever. Everything the Rossi Family had? It's mine. Me and Zoya."

The door slammed.

The car pulled away.

The sea wind stayed behind.

Dark swallowed the inside.

I curled up in the seat. My throat burned where he'd grabbed me.

Carlo's blood was still on my hands. I could feel it.

I bit my lip till I tasted iron.

One thought. Just one.

'I survive. I avenge Carlo. They pay.'

Later, I heard the story Giacomo sold.

That I killed Carlo over the inheritance.

That I forged the deal, tried to bury it.

That Giacomo caught me red-handed—and I turned myself in to hide in prison, scared of the Family's punishment.

He paid off part of the Family. Threatened the rest.

Nobody said a word for me.

Nobody except Enzo. Carlo's friend. My friend. Don of the Corleone Family.

Even from a cell, he kept me breathing.

Every hit Zoya ordered—stopped.

***

The world outside the window snapped back into focus. Memory gone. My hands still shaking.

From the front seat, Paolo—Enzo's underboss—passed back a gold-embossed invite. Heavy. Loud without saying a word.

[Chicago Mafia Summit.]

Bottom corner, fine print: [Rossi Don, Giacomo, and partner Zoya cordially invite you...]

Paolo's voice was low and steady. "Don says every major Family will be there. Biggest stage you'll get. Giacomo wants it to lock his crown." A beat. "You can use it to crack it."

That was when I knew—Chicago was about to feel a storm.

And it starts tomorrow.

The chandelier cut the room in half. Light on black suits. Sharp. Cold.

Cigars burned thick. Champagne floated sour. Every Family stood tight, whispering deals that sounded like threats.

Under Giacomo, the Rossi Family had been bleeding for two years. This summit was his play—alliances, territory, cleanup.

What he didn't plan on was me walking in like this.

Enzo's hand stayed firm on my waist. Grounded. Unmoving. He guided me forward.

I wore a silver gown. It flashed when I moved. Black sash tight at my waist.

The diamond on my left hand lit up the room.

Our footsteps owned the ballroom.

Talks cut off. Heads turned—shock, curiosity, caution.

I looked at the Rossi table.

Giacomo clocked me and broke inside. His grip on his wine glass tightened until his knuckles went white.

Zoya sat up too straight. Eyes blown wide. Like she'd seen a ghost.

Enzo guided me to the main table.

He lifted his champagne, gave it a lazy swirl, then looked out at the room.

He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to.

"Let me introduce my fiancée—Jessica."

Silence slammed the room.

Zoya couldn't hold back.

"Jessica?" Sharp. Mean. "Which Jessica? Don't tell me it's THAT Jessica Rossi—the one who sold out her family and murdered her own brother seven years ago before rotting in prison."

She sneered. "Don Corleone, you really standing next to someone that dirty? You trying to drag the Corleone name down with her?"

Whispers rolled through the crowd. Quiet. Ugly.

A few looks came my way—thin, sharp, already decided.

I didn't blink. I stepped up and met Zoya straight on. Voice calm. Clear.

"Zoya, before you run your mouth, try a mirror. A stain's bad—but not as dirty as stealing your dead husband's inheritance and pinning it on his sister with your lover."

Her face went red fast. She jumped up. "Lies! Carlo was killed by outsiders! You confessed yourself!"

"Confessed?" I laughed. Cold. "I confessed to something you and Giacomo cooked up. You slipped a fake record with my name into Carlo's pocket. Stamped our seal on a fake confession. Ring a bell?"

I held her stare. "Or you thought seven years would erase it."

Giacomo slammed the table. Wine jumped.

He shot up, voice sharp. Desperate.

"Jessica, watch your mouth. You're with the Corleones now—stay outta Rossi business. I run the Rossi Family. You don't get a say."

"Rossi business?" I stepped closer. Real close. Let everyone feel it. "Carlo's death. My seven years inside. You stealing my Family. That's all Rossi business."

I looked past him—straight to the other bosses. The ones who watched Carlo grow up. The ones who knew better.

"This life's got rules. We talk honor. You don't kill your Don to take his chair. That's disgrace. You don't frame your own wife. That's worse." I didn't blink. "Giacomo put a blade in Carlo's chest.

"He sent me to prison with his own hands. He and Zoya took the Family together."

I let it hang.

"I'll find the proof. And when I do, you'll all see the truth."

"Don't you dare!"

Giacomo shook with it. Rage took over. He lunged—

Enzo stepped in. Blocked him cold.

His stare didn't blink. Pure ice. "You'd lay a hand on her?"

He pulled me in by the waist. Solid.

His eyes swept the room before he spoke, and the temperature dropped.

"What happens to my fiancée is Corleone business now. From today on, anyone who touches her—anyone who comes for her—is coming for me. For the Corleone Family."

The words sank fast.

Dead silence.

The bosses traded looks. Nobody spoke. Nobody stupid.

Everyone knew Corleone muscle. Everyone knew what crossing Enzo meant—and Giacomo wasn't worth it.

Giacomo's fists balled up. That was all he had.

Zoya went pale, swayed, barely made it back into her chair.

Their perfect little power play?

It just turned into my declaration of war.

Enzo looked at me. Just for a second, his eyes went soft.

"Let's go."

I turned with him, headed for the exit.

Passing the Rossi table, I glanced back at Giacomo and Zoya. My lips moved. No sound.

'The game's begun.'

The doors shut behind us. Cut off the stares.

Enzo squeezed my hand. I felt the strength. "He won't drop this," he said. "You embarrassed him tonight. That sticks.

"He'll move fast. Rossi loyalists first. Salvatore Rizzo tops the list—three generations on your books. Lucky we reached him first.

"Salvatore said ten a.m., old bookstore, south end," Enzo went on, eyes sharp. "He's got proof Giacomo sold weapons to the Valentinos."

A pause.

"He wants to hand it to YOU."