Chapter 20
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 how to 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.
"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's faces 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.