Chapter 71
The Romano boardroom is a hunting ground dressed as a sanctuary: mahogany walls so dark they eat the light, antique credenzas groaning beneath the weight of silver and crystal, a Persian rug so dense it seems to hush even the boldest footsteps. The table is a beast—twelve feet of hand-carved intimidation, every inch lacquered to reflect the scowls and glances of the men arrayed along its edge. Bell sits at the head, posture impeccable, a glass of water at her right hand and a stack of color-coded files at her left.
Dante occupies the seat closest to her, his body language a masterclass in contained threat: suit perfectly fitted, cufflinks gleaming, hands folded in a way that promises both reason and retribution. He does not look at her, not even once, but she can feel his focus—a heat against her left cheek, a shield raised in anticipation of the first strike.
Luca takes the opposite flank, draped over his chair with a boneless charm that belies the knifepoint of his attention. He’s the only man in the room who dares to grin; his eyes are alive with the prospect of trouble, his every movement an invitation to underestimate him. He taps a fountain pen against the table, the rhythmic click echoing louder than any word spoken so far.
The rest of the table is old money, older grudges, and faces lined by decades of midnight meetings and cold funerals. They sit in clusters, each with their own subtle signals—rings tapped on glass, fingers steepled in private code, the occasional muttered aside in dialect so thick even Dante would struggle to follow. At the far end, Salvatore Ricci dominates his end of the table like a vulture at the crown of a dead tree. His hair is pure white, his suit pinstriped so tight it threatens to suffocate him, and his hands—long, bony, spotted with age—drum the table in silent condemnation.
Bell surveys the room, counting the seconds before someone makes her legitimacy the topic of the hour.
She doesn’t have to wait long.
Salvatore clears his throat, the sound a calculated rasp. “We appreciate your initiative, Belladonna. But this matter of restructuring—redistributing the southside territories—has some of us wondering if you understand what you’re asking.” He lets the insult hang, then adds, “There’s history here. Men have died to draw those lines.”
Bell feels the pressure at her temples, the headache blooming just behind her eyes. She rests her hands on the cool wood, fingers splayed to ground herself. “That’s precisely why we need new lines, Salvatore. Too many ghosts in the old ones.”
There’s a ripple—a few snorts, the hint of a smile from the Castellano lieutenant to her left.
Dante cuts in, his tone glacial. “Every major move in the last decade has favored our rivals. The Bianchi crew picked up two waterfront blocks in the last year alone. If we don’t adapt, we’re the ones who become ghosts.”
Ricci’s lip curls, a surgeon’s disdain. “The Bianchis are sloppy. Let them overextend. We keep our heads down, wait for them to stumble, then move in.”
Luca breaks the tension with a lazy drawl. “I don’t know, Sal. Seems to me, every time someone bets on the Bianchis to trip over themselves, they end up getting their pocket picked instead.” He leans forward, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. “Remember that poker game at the old Blue Parrot? You had Frankie two-fingers watching your hand, and they still cleaned you out.”
A ripple of laughter, edged and nervous. Ricci’s cheeks flush, but he’s a pro—he turns the embarrassment into a smile, waving Luca’s comment away with practiced nonchalance. “That was a different game, different stakes.”
Bell uses the opening. “The stakes now are survival. We’re not just talking territory—we’re talking legitimacy. If the feds see us losing ground, they’ll come at us with both barrels. I’m not willing to go down in history as the generation that let it all rot out from under us.”
A murmur of assent from one of the mid-rankers. Bell notes it—Angelo Cifarelli, more fence-sitter than true loyalist, but every little crack in the wall matters.
Salvatore tries a new angle. “You talk like you’re the only one who cares about the family’s future. Some of us have been defending this name since you were in pigtails.”
Dante’s voice is silk-wrapped steel. “And some of you are still fighting the last war, when we’re one move away from losing the next.”
Bell’s fingers grip the table so hard she feels the grooves in her skin. She sees the path forward—logic, numbers, a relentless march through the PowerPoint of her own mind—but the old guard doesn’t trust math. They trust pain, history, and the certainty that no woman has ever led them to anything but disaster.
She stands, slow and deliberate. The room falls silent, all eyes on her.
“If anyone here believes this family is better off without me at the helm, say so now. I’d rather lose a seat at this table than preside over its last meeting.”
She scans the faces. No one meets her gaze, not even Ricci. She sees the calculation behind their eyes—the risk, the shifting odds, the possibility that maybe she is the best chance they’ve got.
Dante stands, not as support but as affirmation. “We move forward, or we die standing still.” He glances at Ricci. “Your call, Salvatore.”
The old man folds, the movement small but unmistakable. “You have my support, Belladonna. For now.”
Bell sits, blood roaring in her ears, and shuffles the files in front of her. She outlines the new territory assignments, careful to include every voice in the discussion, even the ones who would rather see her dead than in power. She sees Dante’s hand hover near hers, a brief, invisible pat of reassurance. Luca, for his part, cocks an eyebrow and flashes her a wolfish grin, as if to say, You’re killing it, boss.
The rest of the meeting is procedural—contracts, shipments, the usual litany of cash flow and crew politics. But the mood has shifted. Bell feels it: a grudging acceptance, a sense that maybe, just maybe, she’s more than a placeholder for the next male heir. She lets herself breathe, relax into the high-backed chair, and even manages a real smile when Luca cracks wise about Salvatore’s poker face getting him killed someday.
As the meeting adjourns, the capos file out in small knots, whispering among themselves. Bell lingers at the head of the table, Dante and Luca flanking her like matching sentries.
Luca is first to break the silence. “You want me to start taking odds on when Salvatore tries to ice you? I’m giving him two weeks, tops.”
Dante ignores the joke, his attention fixed on her. “You did well. They’ll fall in line.”
Bell knows he’s right, but also knows that every victory is just an invitation to the next challenge. She glances at the empty chair where Ricci sat, then at the windows—outside, the city is a gray smudge, the horizon blurred by rain.
“They don’t have to like me,” she says, more to herself than to the brothers. “They just have to believe I’ll win.”
Dante’s lips curve, the barest hint of pride. “That’s how legends start.”
She gathers her files, stands, and walks out of the boardroom flanked by her brothers. The old guard may never fully accept her, but for now, the family is hers to command.
In the corridor, a portrait of Giovanni Romano—her grandfather—watches from its place of honor, eyes painted to follow every movement. Bell meets the gaze, straightens her shoulders, and keeps walking.
There’s work to do, and she’s the only one who can finish it.