Chapter 22 Chapter 22

Chapter 22 Chapter 22
Elara’s POV. 

The blood on the marble was gone, but the pain still throbbed in my lower abdomen with every step. I was a walking hollow, and a medical miracle stitched together by the surgeons. 

I was staring at the scar in the mirror when Dante entered. He held a thick black envelope with a gold embossed seal.

"The Rossis don't know when to stop," Dante said, his voice flat.

I picked it up. The Rossi family crest, a lion entwined with a serpent stared back at me. I opened it and read the paper.

"The Rossi Foundation cordially invites you to the Widow’s Ball in honor of Isabella Rossi.’

I raised an eyebrow, the absurdity of the words confusing me.

"Widow? Isabella isn't a widow. She isn't even married."

Dante walked to the decanter on the sideboard and poured a double whiskey. 

"Political theatre. In their world, being discarded by a Moretti is a social death. They’re framing her as the grieving, abandoned martyr."

I read the rest of the card. It was a charity gala for victims of organized crime violence. I let out a soft, jagged laugh. 

"That’s bold. A mafia family hosting a gala for victims of the mafia. The irony is staggering."

"That’s Vittorio Rossi," Dante replied, downing the whiskey in one go. "Bold and insane. He doesn't play by the rules because he owns the press that writes them."

I sat down slowly, the incision in my gut pulling. "Tell me about him. Truly. Not the redacted version."

Dante sat opposite me, the glass still gripped in his hand. "Vittorio is not just another mob boss, Elara. He’s old-money royalty. While my father was still cracking skulls in Brooklyn, Vittorio was building shipping empires across Europe and Asia. He’s the architect of the modern Syndicate. Unlike Isabella, Vittorio doesn’t scream or give empty threats. He wins rooms by making everyone feel like they’re the most important person in the world right before he cuts their throat."

"So Isabella learned her manipulation from him," I mused.

Dante nodded. "She was a cheap imitation. Vittorio is the original. He doesn’t use a hammer; he uses a scalpel. He’s much worse than her because you never see him coming."

The door burst open before I could respond. Lorenzo stood there, his face pale, holding a tablet. 

“Who asked you….” 

Lorenzo cut him off. "You two need to see this. The narrative just shifted."

He tapped the screen to play a video. A reporter stood in front of the federal courthouse, the wind whipping her hair.

"Tonight, Vittorio Rossi arrives in New York to advocate for the wrongful imprisonment of his niece, Isabella Rossi. Sources close to the family suggest the charges were fabricated as part of a domestic dispute with the Moretti estate..."

Behind the reporter, a footage played of Isabella being escorted to prison. She wasn't the screaming woman from the library; she looked pale, dignified, and broken. 

"He’s creating sympathy," I muttered.

"He’s building a jury," Lorenzo corrected. "He’s turning the entire city against us before the trial even starts."

Dante stood up, looked at the black envelope on the table and then at me. 

"You’re not going."

I didn't even hesitate. I looked him dead in the eye. "Yes I am."

"Absolutely not," Dante snapped. "You can barely walk ten feet without clutching your side. It’s a shark tank, Elara."

"If I hide, he wins," I said, my voice cold. "If the 'abused' wife stays behind locked doors, the city believes Isabella’s story. I have to be there."

Lorenzo sighed, leaning against the doorframe. "She’s right, Dante. If she’s a no-show, Vittorio paints her as a prisoner. If she shows up, he has no ground to stand on."

Dante glared at him. "Don’t encourage her. She nearly died some minutes ago."

"I’m going, Dante," I said, standing up. The pain flared, but I didn't let it show on my face. "I'm not a secret you get to keep. I'm the mother of the heir. It’s time I acted like it."

The evening was quiet.

I chose a white silk simple, high-necked, and flowing dress. I wanted to look like a vision of purity and resilience. A visual message to every crime boss in that room: I am the future, and Isabella is the past.

The maid, a young girl who usually kept her head down, whispered as she pinned my hair. "You look like a queen, Mrs. Moretti."

I looked at my reflection. "I am."

"The most beautiful one in the room," she replied.

When we arrived at the Grand Metropolitan Opera Hall, flashbulbs went off, the press was being held back by a line of uniformed officers.

"Mr. Moretti, did you falsely imprison Isabella Rossi?"

"Mrs. Moretti, are the pregnancy rumors true? Is the baby safe?"

Dante’s hand was a vice around my waist, guiding me forward. His jaw was so tight I thought his teeth might crack. I kept walking, my head held high, every step an act of defiance against the pain in my abdomen.

Inside, orchestral music swelled, but it couldn't drown out the tension. Every investor, every politician, every family was studying me.

"Congratulations," Lorenzo leaned toward me as we reached our table.

"For what?" I asked, my eyes scanning the crowd.

"You’ve officially become the most talked-about woman in organized crime," he said with a grim smile. "Every man in this room is trying to figure out if you're the power behind the throne or just the target on it."

"That’s not the career path I envisioned when I started med school," I muttered.

The music stopped abruptly. The heavy double doors at the far end of the hall swung open.

Vittorio Rossi entered.

He was an old man, but he carried himself exquisitely well. His hair was snow-white, perfectly coiffed, and his suit was a masterclass in Italian tailoring. 

The crowd parted like the Red Sea as he made his way toward us. He finally reached Dante. 

"Dante. It’s been a long time."

Dante’s voice was cold. "Not long enough, Vittorio."

Vittorio chuckled softly, then he turned to me. His gaze sharpened instantly. 

"And this must be the famous Mrs. Moretti," he said.

I held his gaze. "Elara."

"A beautiful name," he murmured. "Strong and celestial."

He moved to the stage, the room quieting as he tapped the microphone. He raised a crystal glass filled with red wine.

"Tonight we honor my niece Isabella," Vittorio began, "A woman who dedicated her life to strengthening alliances between families. A woman of loyalty."

Claps erupted in the hall.

"Yet tonight she sits behind bars," Vittorio continued, his eyes drifting toward our table. "Accused by those who should have trusted her. Betrayed by the very system she sought to build."

Dante’s hand tightened on his glass so hard the stem looked ready to snap.

"But the young often misunderstand loyalty," Vittorio said, his gaze fixed directly on me. "They mistake power for right. They mistake a temporary victory for a permanent reign."

I remained perfectly still, my face held a look of indifference.

"Say the word and we leave," Dante whispered in my ear.

"No," I said.

"He’s baiting us, Elara. He’s trying to provoke a scene."

"Good," I replied. "Let him try."

Dante studied me for a second, a flicker of something, admiration, maybe crossing his features. "You’re enjoying this."

I shrugged slightly, "I enjoy watching old men underestimate women. It’s a classic mistake."

The music started again, Vittorio stepped down from the stage and approached our table. He ignored Dante entirely, gesturing toward the dance floor.

"May I?" he asked, looking at me.

Dante immediately stood up. "No."

"It’s just a dance, Dante," I said, surprising both of them. I stood up, and took Vittorio’s hand. 

"You are much stronger than Isabella described," Vittorio said, his voice quiet, intended only for my ears.

"She never liked competition," I replied.

He laughed."Oh, my dear... you are not competition."

He paused, spinning me slowly as the music dipped.

"You are an opportunity."

I raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you call a woman you're trying to frame?"

"I am a businessman, Elara. Isabella was emotional. She let her pride get in the way of the bottom line. You, however... you have something much more valuable than pride."

As the dance drew to an end, the music fading into the high rafters of the hall, Vittorio stopped. He lifted my hands to his lips, but he didn't kiss it immediately. 

He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear.

"You are carrying the most powerful child in New York," he whispered, his eyes flicking toward Dante, who was watching us.

Then, his voice dropped.

"And power always changes hands. You are the crown I will take from him. Whether you are wearing it or whether I have to cut it from your head is entirely up to you."

He kissed the back of my hand, his eyes locked onto mine, and as he pulled away.