Elena Moretti POV:
The morning sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Long Island estate's sunroom.
I sat on the plush white sofa, staring at the manicured gardens. I placed my hands on the armrests and pushed myself up. I hated feeling weak. I hated being treated like glass.
Heavy footsteps approached from behind. Dante walked in, holding a mug of warm milk. He saw me standing and immediately crossed the room, placing his large hand on my shoulder.
"Sit down, Elena," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. He gently but firmly pushed me back onto the cushions.
I scoffed, glaring up at him. "I am pregnant, Dante. I am not paralyzed."
I snatched the mug of milk from his hand.
Dante didn't get angry. Instead, a soft, indulgent smile touched his lips. He reached out and stroked my hair, tucking a loose strand behind my ear. He pulled his hand back, tapped the earpiece in his ear, and spoke to his head of security. "Triple the perimeter guards. No one enters the estate without my direct clearance."
He leaned down, kissed my forehead, and reached into my blazer pocket. He pulled out my custom micro-pistol and slipped it into his own jacket. "I'm going to the casino. Rest."
I listened to the deep roar of his sports car engine fading down the driveway.
As soon as the sound vanished, I sat up straight. The softness in my eyes disappeared, replaced by sharp, calculating ice.
I reached under the heavy glass coffee table and pulled out a hidden, encrypted laptop. I flipped it open. The screen flared to life, displaying a multi-way encrypted video conference. Four Wall Street executives in sharp suits sat stiffly on the other end.
I activated my voice scrambler.
"Report," I ordered. My voice came through their speakers as a deep, metallic distortion.
"We are ready to move on the Atlantic City target," the lead executive said nervously.
I pulled up the financial blueprints of the rival casino. In Chicago, I was stripped of everything because I lacked capital. I had learned my lesson. Violence was loud, but money was an invisible blade.
"Their supply chain is over-leveraged," I said coldly. "Short their main holding company. Dump the dummy shares into the market to trigger a panic sell-off, then buy the debt for pennies."
Within thirty minutes, the digital numbers on my screen plummeted in red, then spiked in green. I had just gutted a rival family without firing a single bullet. The casino belonged to me.
The screen went black. The sunroom doors opened.
Ezra, my chief legal counsel, walked in carrying a leather briefcase. He set a cup of decaffeinated herbal tea on the table and handed me a thick stack of documents.
"The Atlantic City acquisition is complete," Ezra said smoothly. "There is also a minor real estate attachment included in the portfolio."
I flipped open the file. It was a zoning map of a Chicago slum.
"We need to clear this specific block to build the new East Coast logistics center," Ezra explained, pointing a manicured finger at a cluster of red squares.
My eyes scanned the map. My gaze stopped for half a second on a rundown apartment building marked for immediate demolition.
I felt absolutely nothing.
I picked up my silver fountain pen and signed my name at the bottom of the clearance order with elegant, sweeping strokes.
Ezra smiled, taking the file back. "Your business instincts are flawless."
"Trash that blocks the empire's expansion should be cleaned up," I said simply, taking a sip of my tea.
***
Matteo Vitiello POV:
The filthy Chicago apartment smelled of mildew and stale urine.
I sat on the broken floorboards, using a torn, dirty rag to dry Luca's wet hair. He was shivering, clutching his dirty teddy bear to his chest.
Suddenly, the rotting wooden door was violently kicked open. The hinges snapped.
Two men in sharp suits stepped into the cramped room, followed by three uniformed Chicago police officers.
One of the suits sneered at the squalor. He pulled a thick piece of paper from his jacket and threw it directly into my face.
I grabbed the paper, my anger flaring. I tried to push myself up on my prosthetic leg to fight back. Before I could even stand, a cop lunged forward, slamming his heavy nightstick into my chest. He grabbed my throat and pinned me brutally against the peeling wallpaper.
The paper fluttered to the floor.
My eyes locked onto the top of the page. Stamped in glowing gold foil was the crest of the Moretti Commercial Group.
All the air left my lungs. The absolute terror of that logo paralyzed me. She found me. She knew where I was hiding.
"You have twenty-four hours to get your garbage out of here," the suit said coldly. "The bulldozers arrive tomorrow morning."
The cop released my throat and stepped back.
I slid down the wall, hitting the floor hard. I reached out with trembling fingers and picked up the eviction notice. I squeezed it so tightly my knuckles turned white.
I looked at the golden logo, my throat burning. I let out a broken, miserable laugh.
"You won't even leave me a final piece of dignity, Elena."
