Chapter 48
T he room is silent as the video plays, the footage crystal clear. It’s my mother, walking through the front door of the Caputo estate. I watch her with a sense of detachment, almost as if I’m watching someone else.
“Pause here for me, babe?” I ask Luca, who halts the video on a close-up image of my mother’s face.
“See her expression here? Like she’s constantly smelling dog shit?” I point from the screen to my mother, wearing the same scowl then as she is now. “Yup, exactly like that. Same person.”
I nod to Luca, and he lets the footage continue as she strolls into the house without hesitation.
I turn to the room. “So, what happened just before this was an EMP,” I explain, pausing to glance at their wide-eyed faces. “An EMP is basically an electric bomb. It was set off, and it disabled the entire security system for about thirty seconds—just long enough for her hacker to take over the system without anyone knowing.”
The screen splits, showing a side-by-side view of my mother entering the house and the footage from the security room. Everything looks normal. The security team is watching a looped playback, completely unaware that a killer is walking through the door.
Tension builds in the room. Subtle gasps and whispers ripple among the guests, while others remain silent, their attention glued to the screen.
My mother walks through the estate, heading toward my father’s room. There is no hesitation, no remorse. She glances to the side, ensuring the coast is clear, then takes a deep breath and moves forward.
We watch closely as she reaches my father’s door. She’s wearing gloves—gloves that conceal any trace that a woman, presumed dead for two decades, was in the room the night her husband died.
The camera zooms in, and my breath catches as she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a syringe. With careful, practiced movements, she injects something into my father’s foot, between his toes.
“Foot fetish,” I whisper under my breath. A few chuckles ripple from the gathered guests. My continued jabs are chipping away at her composure, and I love it.
The room falls silent again as the footage continues. The scene unfolds with all the heavy weight of history. My mother sits on the bed next to my father, her tone calm, almost soothing. It’s as if she’s about to tell him a bedtime story, revealing everything he didn’t know—everything hidden in the shadows.
My father looks at her, his face a mixture of disbelief and confusion. His gaze lingers on the woman before him—a woman who looks so much like his wife but is older, harder. He clutches his chest, trying to make sense of this impossible moment. His heart is betraying him.
“You’re not... no,” he whispers, his voice strained.
She doesn’t rush to comfort him. Instead, she takes a slow, deliberate breath, letting the poison do its work. His body begins to spasm, his face contorting in pain as the venom spreads. He grits his teeth, fighting to stay conscious, but it’s too much. His body jerks violently. His heart is failing, and the horror on his face mirrors the truth sinking in.
“I never wanted to marry you, Salvatore,” she says, her voice low and detached. “I never wanted a child either. But I wasn’t given a choice.”
The room remains still, every guest listening intently. Even though I’m here, the chill I feel has nothing to do with the air conditioning.
“When my father lost the war, he handed everything the Romanos’ built over to your father—me included. I became your reward for a job well done.” Her eyes flicker with contempt. “You wanted a wife. You wanted a child. But I never wanted you. And I never wanted her.”
She looks toward the camera, as if addressing me directly. Her gaze is cold, devoid of love or warmth. For the first time, I feel the full force of her disgust, but I smirk. I’ve waited years for this truth to come out.
“I hated you,” she continues in the recording, her voice a deadly whisper. “I hated what you put inside me. I hated everything about this life.”
My father’s body spasms again, but his eyes remain locked on hers, his breaths ragged. He tries to speak, but the venom’s grip holds him silent.
“You never figured it out, did you?” she asks, her tone almost amused. “All these years, and you really thought I was dead and never realized who your secret adversary was.”
She pauses, letting the words sink in. “I faked my death. ‘Lost at sea.’ It’s laughable, isn’t it? Too ridiculous to be true. I was certain everyone would think you killed me, especially since I worked so hard to make it look like you were beating me. But instead, they declared me dead, and I had to adapt.”
I shake my head, feeling a sick twist in my stomach. She’s telling the truth, and somehow, I’ve always known it. But hearing it from her lips is something else entirely.
“I went after what you loved most,” she says, her voice sharp, “your empire. Your treasure.” She tilts her head, speaking of me now—the daughter she never wanted. “I rebuilt the Sicilian empire in secret, right under your nose, and I worked to kill the spawn you made me give birth to. Your precious little treasure.”
My father’s eyes are barely open now, his breaths shallow, his face ashen. “Soon, I’ll have the Italians, stolen from you before your body will be cold in your grave.”
He’s heard enough. His body convulses one last time before going still.
The video ends, the final frame showing my mother’s face frozen in a venomous smile. The silence that follows is thick—suffocating. Stella, realizing the game is up, tries to lunge at me in a rage, but instead, her body spasms violently. She collapses to the floor in a heap.
I don’t flinch. I don’t blink. I watch her contorted body with detached indifference. Several guards rush to her but none go near her, unsure what is happening to her.
“Oops,” I murmur, a faint smirk tugging at my lips. “I forgot. We have another video to play.”
The second video begins, showing Stella sneaking into the wine cellar weeks earlier, injecting poison into the bottles of my father’s favorite port—the same wine she drank today.
The room watches the second video in horrified silence. Stella, cloaked in shadows, moves with deliberate precision, the small vial in her hand catching the dim light. The needle pierces the cork of each bottle, injecting its deadly contents with methodical ease.
“She planned everything,” I say, addressing the room. My voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent of disgust as I explain the scene unfolding on-screen. “She poisoned these bottles, knowing my father’s fondness for this particular port. What she didn’t know was that he’d given it up months ago. High cholesterol. Doctor’s orders.”
Murmurs ripple through the guests. Several glance at their own glasses of wine, unease etched on their faces.
“But she couldn’t be patient, could she?” I continue, turning my gaze back to Stella’s spasming body. “When this plan didn’t work, she returned with something stronger, something more direct.”
The video shifts to show Stella a week earlier, sneaking through the same wine cellar where we now sit. The irony is almost poetic.
“And yet,” I say, taking a deliberate sip of my wine, “her arrogance was her undoing. She never anticipated that her own poison would be her end.”
Her body spasms revolt of the poison. Her body jerks violently, veins bulging and turning black as if something sinister is moving beneath her skin. Her skin takes on an unnatural, sickly purple hue, and I watch as the blood vessels in her eyes burst, turning them a deep, terrifying red. She foams at the mouth, her face twisted in agony.
“Enjoying your wine, Mother?” I ask, my tone sharp and unyielding.
The Bratva family leader stands, concerned they might have been poisoned too. The tension crackles in the air, and I hold up a hand, a smug calmness filling me as I reassure them.
“No worries,” I say, my voice steady and smooth as I pick up her glass. “This wine was special. Only for my mother today.”
Their faces twist into expressions of doubt and unease as the blood-curdling scene continues. Stella’s body hemorrhages, blood thick and dark like tar, pouring from her mouth and eyes. I don’t flinch. I watch as her agony drags on, and I feel nothing but cold detachment. The woman who haunted my every step, the woman who poisoned everything I loved, is dying before my eyes. For real this time.
The seconds feel like hours. I can hear the blood sloshing around, her body convulsing violently, but I don’t feel anything.
And then—finally, after what feels like an eternity—her body falls still. She dies.
I stare at her, emotionless. The room is silent, save for the soft rustle of clothing as the others shift uneasily.
The doors around the cellar open. My father’s guards and Enzo’s file into the room. Each of them holding a gun to the head of Stella’s guards, who raise their hands in resignation.
When we first arrived at the villa, the guards were instructed to enter the house through a rear exit and wait here. We didn’t want a gunfight outside when my mother arrived.
Enough have died this week and I’m done with the bloodshed.
For now.
“Well, that was gross.” I say, taking Enzo’s hand and hopping off the table. I had been watching my mother’s death so intently, I hadn’t even realized he walked over here.
“You okay, angel?” He whispers as we head back to my seat.
“Yeah.” My heart skips a beat at his concern for me but he’s not alone. Jax and Luca also carry looks of worry, communicating questions with their eyes. I give them a wink and take my seat again.
“Mr. Thomas, you brought my mother’s will as requested?” I take another drink of wine. The fellow heads of families settle back to their seats. Some clearly frazzled, one downs his glass of wine and pours another. Poor Johnny Boy Moretti looks white as a sheet and hangs against the wall still.
He did pick a poor seat because now there is a corpse oozing black tar next to his chair and I can understand that would be a bit unsettling.
“I–I did, Ms. Caputo.” Giuseppe exchanges one set of papers for another underneath. “Though I admit I was confused why you would want to see it. All the matters would be taken care of with your father’s will.”
“Well, I think we both know why now.”
He opens the will, and the same formal, precise language fills the room as he begins to read. “I, Stella Romano Caputo, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath all of my assets, properties, and any interests to my beloved husband, Salvatore Caputo, to be transferred upon my death. In the event of his passing, these assets and properties shall pass to my daughter, Delaney Caputo.”
Francesca smirks, clearly catching on before the others. The ripple of realization spreads as the implications settle over the room.
I lean back in my chair, allowing the silence to work in my favor. “So, to clarify,” I say, my voice carrying, “since my mother faked her death, she couldn’t have amended her will. And now that she’s... indisputably deceased, I inherit not only my father’s Italian empire but my mother’s rebuilt Sicilian empire as well.”
Giuseppe nods, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That is correct, Ms. Caputo.”
The weight of the moment presses down on the room. Two empires—one built by Salvatore Caputo, the other rebuilt in secret by Stella Romano—are now mine. The gathered families shift uneasily, each calculating what this means for their own power and alliances.
Our guards lower their weapons. The Sicilian muscle that have just landed under my jurisdiction now, look on in wide-eyed confusion.
Enzo stands, his cousin follows, raising their glasses in a toast. “To the new queen of Chicago,” he says, his voice smooth and confident.
The other heads of families hesitate, their eyes darting to one another. But one by one, they rise, lifting their glasses, their movements deliberate, acknowledging my ascension.
“To Delaney Caputo,” Francesca says, locking eyes with me. Her piercing gaze is a recognition, and a promise all at once. Of what, I’ll have to wait and find out.
“To Delaney Caputo,” the room echoes.
I raise my own glass, a cold smile on my lips. As the glasses clink and the weight of my new title settles over me, I know this is only the beginning. The world of power, betrayal, and bloodshed I’ve stepped into won’t wait for me to find my footing.
But I’m ready. I’ve been preparing for this moment my entire life—even if I didn’t know it.