Chapter 17
ONE MONTH LATER
Present
Upper East Side, New York City
I OPENED MY EYES TO a hundred-million-dollar view of New York, feeling the morning summer sun warm my skin against the satin bed sheets.
Took a deep breath. Made my bed. Washed my face.
Brushed me teeth. Had my coffee in the salon, in my robe by the window, like I did every morning.
Went over emails and stocks. Got dressed in my armor – a Dolce dress and Louboutin heels.
Took the private elevator to the lobby, stepped through the doors opened for me and got into the Hammer Limousine already waiting for me in front of the DeMone Residential Building, and made my way to the DeMone Tower, my family’s business headquarters.
The same routine and rituals I practiced every morning.
But today, something felt different.
Like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Like something big was going to happen.
My world was off its axis.
I was scared it was going to be another attack on the Cosa Nostra. Maybe my family this time.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime that echoed through the marble hallway.
My heels clicked against the polished floor, the sound sharp, deliberate, slicing through the silence that seemed heavier than usual.
The DeMone Tower always smelled like power – espresso, leather, and the faintest trace of imported cigars – but today there was something else in the air. Something metallic. Something tense.
As I reached the double doors of the boardroom, I caught my reflection in the black glass – composed, untouchable, every line of my Dolce dress smooth, my lipstick immaculate. Armor, as always. But beneath the surface, my pulse was steady only because I willed it to be.
The guards opened the doors.
The first thing I noticed was the light – or lack of it.
The room was darker than it ever was for a morning meeting.
Usually, the panoramic view of the city flooded the space with gold, but the blinds were half-drawn, muting everything to shades of gray and gunmetal.
My father, Enzo DeMone, sat at the head of the table like a king on his throne – back straight, eyes unreadable, the weight of empires in his silence.
Gìovanni sat to his right, calm and collected, his gaze locked on a document but his jaw tight. Tony was across from him, fingers drumming against the table, his usual restlessness turned to something sharper – avoidance. He wouldn’t even look at me.
Something was wrong.
I closed the door behind me, the click sounding final. “Morning,” I said, my voice steady, though the air itself felt like it might shatter.
No one answered.
I took a step forward, my heels soft against the rug. “Did someone die, or are we just skipping pleasantries today?”
That earned me a brief glance from Gìo, then nothing. My father exhaled, long and slow, before setting his pen down.
“Sit, Francesca.”
I didn’t. “What’s going on?”
His eyes met mine then – dark, fathomless, ancient. “The other Bosses voted against you becoming Underboss.”
The words didn’t register at first. It was like hearing the crash of glass from another room. Distant. Unreal. “What?” My voice caught in my throat. “When? Why?”
“Last night.” Gìo’s tone was controlled, but I caught the faint tremor of anger beneath it. “We found out this morning.”
I blinked hard, not believing what I was hearing.
“We can’t let that happen.” Gìo said, the edge of steel returning to his voice. “But the council made it clear – they need reassurance. An alliance. Something that shows unity beyond New York.”
My gaze snapped to my father. “Okay,” I said, the word shaking once before I steadied it. “So what do we do now? I’ll do anything.”
For a moment, the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall.
“There is no easy way to say this. Cara…” My father’s eyes softened – just barely. The kind that came before a blow. “You will need to marry Matteo Di’Ablo.”
The air went dead.
Somewhere outside, a siren wailed across the city. Inside, I couldn’t breathe.
I laughed, short and dry. “No.”
“Francesca…”
The room seemed to close in around me. The walls, the shadows, the silence between us – it all pressed against my skin, sharp and suffocating.
I turned to him, the tremor in my chest hidden behind a glare. “How can you even ask that of me? Marry a stranger? Who is not even Italian?”
“Cara,” He began, his tone measured, practiced, “I need you to be tactical – ”
“No.” My voice cracked through the air, brittle as glass. “I will not do it. You cannot force me.”
“I will not force you.”
“I will kill him and every single fucking member of the Outfit before I will accept for you to marry me off.”
“I know you will,” he said softly, as if he could feel my pain.
“Then this conversation is over.” I stood, pushing back my chair so hard it scraped against the marble. “I will find another way to get them to accept me.”
“East Coast and Chicago have pulled out,” he said, the words slicing through my defiance like a blade. “We have until the end of the month.”
“Excuse me?” I froze for a moment before scoffing and shaking my head with a humorless laugh. “Fucking Ferraros… That fucking rat family…”
“They are middle-aged, rich men,” Gìo said, his voice calm, detached, like he was reading a report instead of dismantling my future. “They won’t work under the thumb of a woman.”
“Even though we know most of them pay hookers to tie them up and piss in their mouth,” Tony muttered without looking up from his phone, his voice lazy, cruel.
Gìo’s eyes narrowed. “You wanna join in with something constructive?”
Tony’s bored gaze flicked upward, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Say when and I’ll pull the trigger.”
My pulse kicked. “Guess I’ll be killing the new Dons after all.” I turned to Tony, fire rushing back into my veins. “C’mon, Tony. Gìo, we’re taking your jet.”
Tony’s chair screeched back as he stood, slipping his phone into his jacket pocket, a glint of excitement lighting his eyes.
“That’s not going to work!” Gìo’s voice boomed through the air, the calm breaking for the first time.
“How do you know?!”
“Because I already tried that!” he shouted, slamming his hand on the table. His composure cracked open, and what poured out was pure, cold as gunmetal fury. “Who do you think took out the Heads of Boston and Philly? We did them a fucking favor! Sit down. Both of you.”
The words hung in the air, gunmetal and smoke.
For a moment, none of us moved.
I could feel my heart beating in my throat, feel the tremor in my hands that I refused to let show. Slowly, I sat back down, the room colder now, the weight of what he’d just said settling like ash around us. Tony did the same.
Dad ran his hand down his face. “That was you? I told you not to fucking touch them. Especially old Ferraro!” Chicago. “If we start killing each other, where’s the fucking Omerta loyalty?”
Gìo’s fist hit the table. “Ferraro owed me loyalty in supporting my takeover, until he switched. So I fucking switched up too.”
A chill ran down my spine as Gìo’s voice boomed through the room. Even Tony put his phone away and sat up straighter. We rarely ever saw him like this anymore. But with his takeover as Boss of all Bosses and me as Underboss… It was making everyone tense.
“Alright. Well, it’s done now.” Dad wasn’t mad Gìo raised his voice.
If I wasn’t wrong, he looked proud. Same as when I took charge despite being told not to, or Tony killed someone in a meeting for even breathing disrespect towards our family.
He liked to pretend he was mad at us when we acted out like this and shut bullshit down with a single fist or bullet. But deep down, I knew he loved it.
He loved seeing us like this. Strong. Ruthless. United. Loyal.
We had the DeMone blood running in our veins. And we sure as fuck would act like it.
Gìo turned to me. “I know you’re angry. I’m angry too.
I want to stab them in the throat just as much as you do.
But if we kill the new bosses, then the next run-ups will take over, and so on.
With the same old, racist, misogynistic views and beliefs.
And then everyone will know it was us who killed Marcello Costa, Gianni Vega and Anthony Ferraro.
And we’ll have a war with both the Italian and Italian-American Mafias for betrayal and treason.
We need another angle. One they won’t see coming. ”
“Don’t,” I warned.
“You get married. I get married too. Strictly business. We take over as Boss and Underboss across America. We run every motherfucking Italian gang in the US. Get them all in line. Then you divorce Di’Ablo after a year and no one will have the balls to tell you what to do.”
I looked out the window for a moment, still unsure how this was going to make sense.
Matteo was not Italian, and notoriously known for destroying anyone in his path.
I had no idea how he would do with the Cosa Nostra thinking they could take him.
Instead of a takeover, this could very easily turn into a bloodbath.
“We ran it by the Bosses.”
My head snapped up to my father. “And?”
“They will all vote for you to become the Underboss across all of US if you marry Matteo.”
I blinked. “Even though he’s–”
“Not Italian?” Tony snickered. “Kind of the selling point. They want into the drug business.”
I frowned. This could get out of hand. Fast.
“Matteo will handle their… Expectations.” Gìo assured me.
“What’s in it for him?”
“Matteo?” Gìo raised a brow; shrugged. “Money. Power.”
“But he already has that.”
“No one ever has enough of that, Francesca.” My father spoke with that philosophical tone he used only when discussing the slow decline of the world.
Still, I frowned. That didn’t sound like Matteo. At all.
It was so different from what I’d heard him say over that week in Hawaii last month.
Unless of course, he’d lied to me.