The Billionaire CEO's Revenge Twenty Years Later

The day my mother hemorrhaged in labor with her second child.

My father, a Don whose holdings ran past a hundred million, pulled every doctor off her bed to tend to his mistress's migraine. All because the woman whined, "Her crying is giving me a headache."

That night, my mother and my unborn baby brother both died horribly, and the mistress schemed to have me cast out of the family.

In the twenty years that followed.

On the charity of my mother's closest confidante and my own willingness to work myself half to death, I became who I am now—Don Marchetti, the woman at the head of a syndicate worth ten billion.

It was the season the Family weighed which associates would be brought up into the ranks, and my consigliere handed me five files.

He pointed to the girl on the first page, full of praise.

"Don Marchetti, this one's named Bianca Falcone. Her performance is excellent—nearly every capo who watched her gave her a perfect mark."

I opened Bianca Falcone's profile, and my eyes stopped on the line listing her bloodline.

Those two names, I wouldn't forget even if I were burned to ash.

A long moment passed before I told my consigliere to bring all five associates in.

The papers welcoming them into the Family were handed out one by one.

When it came to the last of them, I lifted my head, met her smug, victory-assured eyes, and calmly slid the letter of exile across the table.

"Bianca Falcone, you didn't make the cut."

——

The air in the room seemed to freeze in an instant.

The other four associates stood clutching their papers, at a loss, instinctively glancing toward Bianca.

My consigliere went still too. Standing at my side, he set his pen down and folded his hands, then shot me a careful look.

"Don Marchetti…"

I acted as if I hadn't noticed, my gaze calm as I studied the girl in front of me.

She looked a great deal like her mother.

The same beauty, the same cleverness, that same air of superiority she'd been born into.

Of everyone in the room, Bianca alone wasn't rattled.

She only blinked, startled for a second, then quickly composed herself.

Then, unhurried, she opened the folder she'd carried in and laid its contents flat across the table.

"Don Marchetti, I've worked inside your operation three months and handled four jobs, two of them clean and on my own. Every contact I touched stayed loyal. One hundred percent."

Her tone was neither meek nor arrogant, every point laid out clearly.

"I also took top marks the last two times the capos reviewed our cohort, and my numbers are the highest of anyone who came up beside me."

When she'd finished, she paused and raised her eyes to me.

"With results like these, I'm first among everyone who started when I did. If you're casting me out, you at least owe me a reason."

As she said it, her chin tilted up slightly, no hurt in her eyes—only the restrained calm of someone who'd been insulted.

It was a confidence that ran all the way to the bone.

The kind of pride and self-assurance that only comes from being pampered since childhood, raised in a happy, perfect family.

I leaned back against my chair and looked at her, and only after a long while did I speak.

"There's no reason."

Bianca's face stiffened.

"This is my Family. I want you gone, and it's that simple."

A crack finally appeared in Bianca's composure.

Her expression shifted, but she recovered fast and let out a cold laugh.

"Don Marchetti, this is nothing but spite from someone with power over me."

She snapped the folder shut, her tone turning icy in a heartbeat.

"If I were to take this to the right ears, I imagine it would do some damage to your name across the territory."

I smiled.

"I'm not bullying you."

I looked at her without blinking, not a trace of expression on my face.

"If you think this is spite, then perhaps the problem is yours. After all, the truly capable never feel they're being targeted. Only the guilty do."

The moment those words left my mouth, Bianca's face changed completely.

I'd finally gotten under her skin.

Just then my consigliere leaned in close, lowering his voice next to my ear.

"Don Marchetti, why not reconsider? The girl's work these three months really was outstanding, and our people looked into her blood—her father is the Falcone, the old Don himself—"