Chapter 25 Matteo
Matteo
The warehouse smells like death and gunpowder.
I stand in the aftermath, watching my men catalog the carnage while Isabella sits silent in the SUV.
The rain has stopped, leaving everything slick and gleaming under the security lights.
Chase Callahan bleeds out in a back hallway, six bullets in his chest, and the woman I love is somewhere I can't reach.
She barely spoke after she pulled that trigger.
Found her on that concrete barrier by the river, hollow-eyed and shaking, covered in blood and convinced she was poison.
When I tried to tell her she was free, when I told her I loved her, she pulled back like my words burned her.
Told me not to say that to her. Called herself toxic.
Put distance between us like I was the enemy.
She hasn't looked at me since. Hasn't let me close enough to matter.
I flip my coin once, fast and sharp. The sound echoes in the empty boardroom. "Rafe."
"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.
But I saw her twenty minutes ago, shaking and convinced she was poison. I know what it costs her to look this composed. The battle-torn, blood-soaked clothing only adds to her authority.
"Ready?" I ask as we step out of the elevator.
She meets my eyes, and for just a heartbeat, I see the woman who pulled away from me by the river. Then the mask slides back into place.
"I was born ready," she says, and her voice carries the same deadly calm that made grown men flinch in the warehouse.
Christ. She's magnificent. Isabella stares out the window while I flip my coin and resist every urge to reach for her. She's locked down tight, all sharp edges and controlled breathing. Beautiful and untouchable and completely focused on what comes next.
I've never been more attracted to her in my life.
Chase's penthouse sits on the top floor of a glass tower overlooking Central Park.
It's cold perfection. Black marble and steel, modern art that probably cost millions, windows that stretch from floor to ceiling.
A massive mahogany conference table dominates the boardroom, polished to mirror brightness.
Behind it, Chase's chair—high-backed leather that looks more like a throne than office furniture.
Isabella walks through it like she was born there.
Seven men wait in the boardroom. I recognize most of them.
Callahan soldiers who've been running different pieces of the operation.
Weapons. Shipping. Money laundering. They look nervous, which is smart.
Their boss is dead, their future uncertain, and the woman who killed him just walked into their sanctuary.
They stand when she enters. Old habits.
"Gentlemen." Isabella's voice carries perfectly in the silent room. She doesn't sit at the head of the table, doesn't take Chase's chair. Instead, she stands at the far end, hands clasped behind her back, looking like a judge about to render verdict.
I position myself to her right and slightly behind. Close enough to act if needed. Far enough back to make it clear this is her show.
From here, I can see what they can't. The slight tremor in her fingers before she clasps them together. The way she swallows once, twice, steadying herself. The muscle that jumps in her jaw when Pinkerson shifts forward like he might speak.
She's fucking terrified. And she's magnificent.
"You know why you're here," she continues. "Chase is dead. The Callahan organization will be folded into Rosetti operations, with me heading your wing."
"With respect, Miss Callahan," says a gray-haired man I recognize as Pinkerson, Chase's weapons contact. "There are procedures. Protocols."
My hands clench into fists. The condescending tone, the way he emphasizes "Miss" like her gender makes her weak. Every instinct screams at me to put him through the fucking wall. Show him exactly what happens when someone disrespects what's mine.
But Isabella doesn't need me to fight her battles. She needs me to let her win them.
I watch Isabella's pulse jump at her throat. She's fighting every instinct to apologize, to defer, to be the good girl who never makes waves. But her voice stays level, deadly calm.
"The only protocol that matters is survival." She doesn't need volume to sound lethal. "You have a choice. Swear loyalty to the Rosetti family and continue profiting from arrangements that have made you all very wealthy. Or leave. Tonight."
"And if we choose option three?" This from a younger man, maybe thirty, with the look of someone who's never been told no.
The smart-ass smirk on his face makes my blood boil. My coin flips faster between my fingers, the only outlet for the violence building in my chest. One word from Isabella and I'd break every bone in his fucking face. Make him understand that challenging her is the last mistake he'll ever make.
But she doesn't need my protection. She needs my restraint.
Isabella's breathing hitches slightly. I catch it, but these idiots are too busy calculating odds to notice. She tilts her head with predatory grace.
"I'm sorry?"
"If we decide we don't recognize your claim. If we take our business elsewhere."
My jaw clenches so hard I taste blood. The disrespect. The casual dismissal of everything she's sacrificed to be here. Every cell in my body screams to end this conversation the way we end all conversations with people who threaten family.
With violence.
But Isabella's fight isn't mine to win.
The silence stretches. I can feel the tension in the room ratchet higher, see hands moving closer to concealed weapons. Isabella's knuckles are white where she grips her own wrist behind her back, but her face remains arctic calm.
Christ, she's beautiful when she's scared and dangerous.
"You think I'm Chase's ghost?" Isabella asks, and something in her tone makes my blood quicken. Makes my cock twitch with pride and want. "I'm not. I'm what comes after him."