Elena Vitiello POV:
The antique grandfather clock in the hallway chimed eight times. I stood in the center of my massive walk-in closet, staring at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. I analyzed the woman looking back at me, checking for any cracks in the armor.
My fingers trailed along the endless racks of clothing. I walked past the row of soft, pastel dresses. Luca used to tell me I looked approachable in those colors. He liked it when I looked soft. I grabbed the entire row of hangers and shoved them violently to the back of the closet.
I moved to the section I reserved for funerals and family trials. I pulled out a Tom Ford haute couture gown. It was crafted from heavy black velvet, featuring a plunging V-neckline and long, tight sleeves. In our world, black was the color of mourning, but it was also the color of absolute, undisputed power.
I stripped off my sweater and stepped into the gown. The cold velvet clung to my skin, heavy and restrictive. It felt exactly like a suit of armor.
I sat at my vanity and pulled my long hair back, twisting it into a severe, tight chignon at the base of my neck. I erased the natural color of my lips with a layer of dark, blood-red lipstick. The bright color against my pale skin stripped away the last traces of the forgiving girl I used to be.
I opened my jewelry box and ignored the diamonds. I picked up a heavy gold signet ring embedded with a flat, polished black onyx. The Vitiello family crest was carved deep into the stone. I slid it onto my right index finger. It was heavy. It was a weapon.
I walked out of the estate through the main doors. The damp night air hit my face. A black armored Maybach was idling at the bottom of the stone steps.
For the first time in ten years, Luca was not standing by the rear door waiting for me.
Instead, a stranger in a dark suit stepped forward from the shadows. He was one of the family's elite shadow guards. He kept his head bowed respectfully as he pulled the heavy door open for me.
I slid into the leather backseat. The interior of the car was dead silent. There was no soft jazz playing on the radio, no casual banter from the driver's seat. There was only the low, vibrating roar of the V12 engine. I stared out the tinted window as the gates of the estate closed behind us.
Thirty minutes later, the Maybach pulled up to the curb in front of the Cosa Nostra social club in downtown Chicago.
The valet rushed forward, his hands literally trembling as he opened my door. He kept his eyes glued to the pavement, terrified of making eye contact with the Underboss's daughter.
I stepped onto the sidewalk. I walked up to the heavy brass doors of the club and pushed them open.
A wall of sound and heat hit me instantly. The loud chatter of mobsters, the clinking of whiskey glasses, and the thick, suffocating smell of expensive Cuban cigars filled the air.
The moment the brass doors clicked shut behind me, the noise near the entrance died. The silence rippled outward like a wave, creating a bizarre, three-second pause in the entire room.
Dozens of eyes locked onto me. I felt the weight of their stares. Some looked with fear, some with respect, and some with a hidden, venomous joy.
In the corner booth, a group of affiliated family heirs held their whiskey glasses, their eyes darting to the empty space behind my shoulders. They were looking for my dogs.
A blond man from a lower-tier family leaned over to his friend, his voice carrying over the music. "Looks like the princess finally lost her leashes."
His friend snickered, hiding his mouth behind his glass. "I heard Luca and Matteo are busy playing house with that civilian girl, Sofia. Totally whipped."
I heard every word. My expression did not change by a single millimeter. I did not slow my pace. I kept my chin parallel to the floor, my spine straight, the red soles of my Louboutins clicking rhythmically against the hardwood. I walked past them like they were invisible dust.
I headed straight for the center of the room, to the large oval table under the crystal chandelier. It was the highest-stakes Texas Hold'em table in the club, reserved exclusively for Capos and inner-circle members.
Two older Capos saw me approaching. They stopped their conversation and offered me slow, respectful nods, acknowledging the Vitiello blood in my veins.
I pulled out a heavy leather chair and sat down gracefully. I reached into my clutch, pulled out a solid black casino chip worth one hundred thousand dollars, and tossed it onto the green felt. It landed with a heavy, authoritative clack.
The dealer, a professional who had seen men shot over less, swallowed hard. He quickly shuffled the deck and slid two cards face down in front of me. The surrounding crowd shifted closer, holding their breath, waiting for the game to start.
Before I could touch my cards, the heavy brass doors of the club slammed open with a massive, echoing crash.
Everyone's head snapped toward the entrance.
A wave of cheap, synthetic vanilla perfume cut through the cigar smoke. Sofia walked through the doors. She was clinging tightly to Luca's arm, practically hanging off his bicep. Matteo walked half a step behind them, scanning the room like a loyal bodyguard.
I sat at the table. I did not turn my head. I did not even blink. I kept my eyes focused entirely on the intricate pattern on the back of my playing cards.
A loud murmur erupted from the crowd. The whispers turned into a buzzing hive. The usurper had just walked into the queen's court.
The dealer wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. He looked at me, his hands shaking slightly, waiting for my command.
I reached out, my finger resting on the edge of my cards.
"Call."
