ELENA
I doubt I've been given the luxury of properly mourning my husband. But I suppose this is the life I signed up for the day I said, "I do."
Dante handed in his resignation this morning. And now, the Mafia elders have summoned me. I've heard countless things about them—whispers of power, control, and consequences.
It's time to face the life that's chosen me, head-on.
I step into the grand, dimly lit hall. Gilded chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a muted glow over the dark wood and the faint scent of cigar smoke lingering in the air. At the center of the room stretches a long table beneath the soft lights. Seven men sit at it—old, hardened figures with silver hair and sharp eyes that have seen too much.
I stand at the far end of the table, my gaze sweeping over their faces—stone-carved expressions, eyes glinting with quiet judgment.
"Sit," one of them says. His voice is low and gravelly, the weight of authority pressed into a single word.
I sit, crossing my legs and resting my hands in my lap, tension coiling beneath my calm exterior.
An elder at the head of the table leans forward, knuckles resting on the polished wood. He's thin, his face lined with the weight of decades in this life. His dark eyes pin me in place.
"Your husband left a void," he says. "A dangerous void."
"I'm aware," I reply evenly.
Another elder, heavier, with a scar running from his temple to his jaw, scoffs. He taps a thick cigar against the edge of an ashtray. "Awareness isn't enough," he says. "The family needs a head. A Don."
My jaw tightens. "And you think I'm incapable of leading?"
The silence that follows feels sharp. A shift of glances. The scarred elder chuckles, but there's no warmth in it.
A third elder, silver-haired and dressed in a sharp black suit, speaks next. "We respect what Lorenzo built. He was a strong man—a capable Don. But tradition stands." His gaze darkens. "No woman has ever held that seat."
My heart hammers, but my expression remains steady. "Tradition," I repeat, my voice cutting through the air like glass.
"The other families will see it as weakness," the first elder says. "A woman at the helm would invite challenges. Instability."
"I've handled instability before," I shoot back.
The scarred elder's lip curls. "Handling it isn't the same as commanding it."
I swallow the sharp retort rising to my tongue and stand slowly. My hands rest on the table's edge as I lean forward. "And who do you suggest takes his place?"
The room chills. The silver-haired elder leans back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Dante Morreti."
My breath catches. "Dante?"
From the shadows at the back of the room, Dante steps into the light. His eyes meet mine with cool indifference.
"He's the logical choice," the elder continues. "Blood ties. Strength. Experience."
My nails dig into the polished wood. "Lorenzo wouldn't have wanted—"
"It's not about what Lorenzo wanted," the first elder cuts in, his gaze sharp as glass. "It's about survival."
A slow, creeping tension fills the room. They're watching me. Testing me.
"You expect me to hand over everything my husband built?"
The scarred elder's eyes gleam. "We expect you to step aside. For the good of the family."
My throat tightens, but I lift my chin, meeting their gaze without flinching. "And if I refuse?"
The silver-haired elder's smile is thin and dangerous. "Then you force our hand."
My pulse thuds in my ears, the weight of centuries of tradition pressing down on my chest. I meet their gaze, steady despite the storm churning inside me.
"We'll see," I say quietly.
As I turn to leave, I pause when I reach Dante.
"If this is part of your plan—to claim my late husband's empire—" I lift my chin. "You'll have to go through me first."
He holds my gaze, unreadable.
I snort softly and walk away without looking back.