Elena Moretti POV:
The smile on my face froze.
The freezing sea breeze whipped across the deck, biting into my bare shoulders, but it couldn't compare to the sudden ice in my veins.
I reached out and took the heavy satellite phone from the assistant's trembling hand. I pressed it to my ear. I listened to the mechanical, emotionless voice of the Chicago doctor officially declaring my father's time of death.
I waited for the grief. I waited for the tears, or the anger, or the regret.
Nothing came. My chest was completely hollow. I felt absolutely nothing but a dull, empty numbness.
Dante snatched the phone from my fingers. He pressed the end button, cutting off the doctor's voice. He wrapped his heavy cashmere coat around me and pulled me into his chest, trying to use his own body heat to melt the frost in my eyes.
Three days later, the sky over Chicago was a bruised, suffocating gray.
A massive mafia funeral was held at the private family cemetery on the outskirts of the city.
I stood by the open grave, wearing a tailored black mourning dress. A single white rose was pinned to my chest. My face was a blank canvas as I watched the polished mahogany casket slowly lower into the muddy earth.
A freezing drizzle began to fall. Dante stood at my right side, holding a large black umbrella over my head, blocking out the rain and the wind.
Standing across the grave from me were my Chicago uncles. The old men who had run the Outfit alongside my father. Their eyes weren't sad. They were darting around, gleaming with greedy calculation.
My eldest uncle cleared his throat. He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his dry eyes. "Elena, my dear," he said smoothly. "This is a tragedy. But the Outfit must survive. I will step in and take over your father's mess."
The second uncle immediately nodded, crossing his arms. "Exactly. You are a married woman now. A Moretti. You have no right to interfere in Chicago's business."
I didn't answer them. I slowly bent down. I scooped up a handful of wet, freezing mud. I held it over the edge of the grave and let it drop. It hit the wooden lid of the casket with a heavy, hollow thud.
The sound made the temperature in the cemetery drop another ten degrees.
The uncles exchanged a dark look. They subtly nodded to their men. Dozens of Chicago soldiers reached inside their jackets, gripping the handles of their guns, ready to force me out.
Before a single weapon could be drawn, the tree line surrounding the cemetery exploded with movement.
Hundreds of New York soldiers in black tactical gear stepped out of the woods. They moved with terrifying, silent precision. A second later, dozens of red laser sights cut through the rainy gloom. The red dots danced across the foreheads and chests of my uncles and their men.
Nobody moved. The Chicago guards froze, their hands still inside their coats.
I finally turned my head. I looked through the rain at the men who had once looked down on me. I looked at them the way a boot looks at an ant.
I unclasped my black leather clutch. I pulled out a thick file and threw it directly into my eldest uncle's face. The papers scattered into the mud.
"Look at the signatures," I said, my voice cutting through the rain like a blade. "That is the list of your core captains. They pledged their loyalty to New York six months ago."
The eldest uncle stared at the papers in the mud. He saw the names. His face drained of blood. His knees gave out, and he collapsed into the dirty puddle, realizing his entire army had already been bought.
The second uncle panicked. He yanked his gun from his holster, aiming wildly in my direction.
A suppressed gunshot cracked from the trees.
A sniper bullet ripped through the second uncle's wrist. The gun flew from his hand, landing in the grass. He screamed, clutching his bleeding, shattered arm, dropping to his knees.
I walked slowly around the grave. I stopped right in front of him. I looked down at his agonizing face.
"Chicago belongs to Moretti now," I declared, my voice echoing off the tombstones.
I turned to my men. "Strip them of all their assets. Put them on a cargo ship to South America. Drop them in the slums. If they ever set foot in America again, shoot them on sight."
The remaining Chicago bosses didn't hesitate. They dropped to their knees in the wet grass, bowing their heads, offering their absolute submission to the daughter they had once thrown away.
The funeral ended abruptly. I walked to the edge of the cemetery and slid into the back of a bulletproof Rolls-Royce. Dante got in beside me. He took a dry towel and gently dried the damp ends of my hair.
The convoy pulled away. I looked out the tinted window. The streets of Chicago looked gray, broken, and dead. The old era was being erased.
I leaned my head back against the leather seat and closed my eyes. The heavy chains that had bound me to my abusive, toxic family were finally gone. I felt a bizarre, weightless relief.
Dante took my cold hand and pressed it to his lips. "Do you want me to blow up the basement? The one they locked you in?"
I opened my eyes. My vision was crystal clear. "No. I have another way to make this city remember me."
The convoy turned down a narrow street. Up ahead, a pile-up of cars in the snow had caused a massive traffic jam. The driver hit the brakes. The Rolls-Royce glided to a smooth stop at a red light.
I sighed, bored. I turned my head to look out the window.
On the corner stood a filthy, crumbling winter shelter. The walls were covered in gang graffiti. It smelled of despair even through the glass.
A group of street thugs were laughing. They were packing rocks into the center of their snowballs. They pulled their arms back and hurled them toward a dark, shivering figure huddled in the corner of the alley.
I narrowed my eyes at the shivering figure hit by the snowball: "What is that?"
