When The Mafia Queen Fights Back

The bells of St. Patrick's Cathedral rang out.

It was the anniversary of old man Rossi's death. It was also the day Marco was meant to be made Don.

I pushed open the heavy oak doors just as the organ music stopped.

Hundreds of eyes shot to me. Then they darted away, turning into hushed, knowing whispers.

I didn't have to guess what they were looking at.

In the front row, in the seat of honor, my so-called mother-in-law, Maria, was holding Sofia's arm tightly.

And Sofia was wearing a white designer suit—the color meant for the wife.

The real gut punch? The ruby brooch pinned to her lapel. It was his grandmother's. The symbol of the Rossi matriarch.

I stood at the end of the long aisle. I wasn't angry. It was almost funny.

This was never a secret.

This was a party. A "Let's all laugh at Isabella" party, and the whole family was in on it.

My heels clicked on the stone floor as I walked toward them.

"Isabella, you're late," Maria said, her voice cold. She instinctively moved to shield Sofia. "This is an important day. Don't bring your sour face in front of our guests."

Sofia stood behind her, a hand resting protectively on her stomach, her eyes challenging me. "Bella, don't be mad at Maria. I wasn't feeling well, so she let me stand here to get some air."

"Get some air?"

I stopped right in front of them. My eyes fell to the brooch on Sofia’s chest.

"Wearing my brooch, standing in my place, and carrying my husband's bastard. Yeah, Sofia. I'm surprised you can breathe at all."

The air was sucked out of the room. A few of the old-timers nearby gasped.

"What are you talking about!" Maria shrieked like a cornered rat. "What bastard! That's the Rossi family's first grandson! A precious heir!"

"Ma!"

Marco rushed down from the altar, his face a mask of fury.

He grabbed his hysterical mother, his eyes darting nervously at the guests.

"Isabella, whatever this is, we'll talk at home! This is my father's memorial. Do you have to disturb the dead?"

"You're the one disturbing him, Marco."

I pulled my arm away from his grasp and pointed at Sofia's small bump. My voice wasn't loud, but it was clear enough for everyone in the front rows to hear.

"Parading your mistress and your bastard in front of your own father's coffin. Is that what you call respect?"

"Enough!"

Maria threw off Marco’s hand, all pretense gone. She glared at me, spitting her words.

"Since it's out in the open, I'm done pretending! Isabella, you should have been gone long ago! Sofia is carrying a boy, the hope of the Rossi family! What do you have besides your dirty money?"

Marco didn't stop her.

He just stood there, adjusting his tie. The panic was gone, replaced by a kind of ugly, cornered-animal resolve.

He figured the secret was out, this was his turf, and he didn't have to play nice anymore.

"Mom's right."

Marco looked up at me, his eyes cold as a stranger's.

"Isabella, I was going to give you some dignity. But if you want to air our dirty laundry in a church, fine. Let's put our cards on the table."

He walked over to Sofia and wrapped his arm around her waist in front of everyone.

Sofia leaned into him, a triumphant smirk on her face.

"The Brooklyn docks, the Queens casinos—all the territory I built with my own two hands—are now Rossi territory. You can keep your art galleries and your charity balls."

He looked at me like he was doing me a favor.

"Sign the papers, and I'll forget about this little scene you made. We go our separate ways."

"Go our separate ways?"

I repeated his words, then I started to laugh.

The sound echoed in the huge, silent church. It was sharp. Ugly.

"Marco, do you really think you 'built' any of that turf?"

I looked at his smug face and felt nothing but disbelief.

Without a Vettori pass, his shipments wouldn't make it past the docks.

Without the network my father left me, his casinos would have been shut down on day one.

And he really thought he did it all himself.

"What's so funny?" Marco snapped, his face red with anger.

"I'm the fucking king here!" Marco roared. "This is Rossi territory!"

"King?"

My smile vanished. My eyes went dead cold.

I pulled my phone from my purse. In front of the guests, in front of Marco and his pathetic mother, in front of the little tramp with the triumphant smirk... I dialed a number.

The church was dead silent. My calm voice, however, echoed to the vaulted ceiling.

I stared right into Marco's face as it turned to stone, letting him and everyone else hear every single word.

"Enzo," my voice was pure ice, ringing through the silent church. "The order stands. Liquidate everything tied to the Rossi and Gallo names. Burn it all to the ground."