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."