Page 343 of Rosetti Family New York
"Address," I say, my mind made up.
Matteo gives me an address that sounds like it's in another universe—industrial Queens, far from the luxury I've known. A place where Rosetti privilege means nothing, and survival depends on being adaptable.
"One more thing," he says as I get ready to leave. "This doesn't fix things between us. Helping you doesn't mean I agree with your choices or forgive what you've done to the family. It justmeans I prefer a brother who's alive and wrong to one who's dead and right."
I smile. That's not exactly a grand reconciliation, but it's a recognition that family ties are deeper than business disagreements.
"Thank you," I say, already heading toward the woman who trusts me with her life.
"Thank me by keeping her alive long enough to prove she's worth the chaos you've created." His expression softens slightly. "And Emilio? Next time you pick a woman over family business, maybe give your twin a heads up first. Saves everyone the drama of kill orders."
28
Emilio
The cramped apartment in Queens stands in stark contrast to Manhattan's skyscrapers, just three floors up from a bodega that's always open, where the air is filled with the scent of cumin and car exhaust. Sophia's pricey candles try but fail to mask the smells of cooking oil and years of history embedded in the walls.
Mara sleeps snuggled against me on the futon. Even here, in this refuge Matteo secured through favors and old debts, she's stunning. The silk pajamas I got her yesterday hug her curves. Her scent blends with the city's aroma: jasmine and salt mixed with curry spices and far-off exhaust.
My hand rests on her hip, thumb gently tracing circles over the silk as I watch shadows beyond our makeshift bed. We hear every sound through the walls—neighbors arguing in Spanish, footsteps on creaky stairs, the constant hum of a city that never sleeps. This isn't the safe haven I intended for her, but it's kept us safe for three days while my family searches more obvious places.
It's been three days since the Plaza, since Mara chose me over her mission and abandoned Chase's assassination to save my life. We've been hiding as the repercussions ripple through both our worlds.
The burner phone vibrates on the coffee table, its blue light harsh against the worn furniture. It's 6:42 AM, as shown by the cracked screen, a time when only urgent matters or execution orders come in. I carefully pull away from Mara's warmth, moving gently to avoid waking the woman who has finally found some peace.
Matteo's voice breaks through the electronic static, urgent and chilling despite the apartment's heat. "Callahan's on the move," he says quickly. "It's an emergency. Carmela's in immediate danger."
The cramped room makes our whispers feel both close and risky, echoing off the thin walls.
"More details," I whisper, sinking into the shadows where the apartment's acoustics swallow our words.
"Reports came in an hour ago. Chase isn't just defending anymore, he's planning something for this morning. A complete game changer."
A chill runs through me, but before I can reply, Mara shifts on the futon. Her body senses the change in my breathing, the slight tension in my muscles, waking her instincts even in sleep. Her eyes snap open, alert despite her tiredness, and she sits up gracefully, the silk whispering against the worn fabric.
The sound of Matteo speaking draws her attention to the phone, and I see her mind switch from rest to assessing the situation. She processes the threat with the same skill she used for gallery events and charity galas.
"Put it on speaker," she says quietly, her voice still husky from sleep but already focused.
I do as she asks, and Matteo's voice fills our small space with words that could change everything we know about the conflict we're caught in.
"Chase is targeting Carmela," he says quickly. "Gallery brunch in SoHo this morning. In four hours, surrounded by civilians and only a standard security detail."
My sister, twenty-three years old and untouched by the events that have shaped us, sips mimosas and chats about Renaissance art while professional killers mingle with art lovers unfamiliar with real violence.
Mara stiffens next to me, a look of recognition crossing her face. Her pupils widen as she processes the information, and I hear her sharp breath, signaling professional insight rather than civilian fear.
"Psychological warfare," she says quietly, the term sending chills down my spine. "I've seen him do this before."
"What?" Matteo's voice crackles over the speaker, sounding confused even through the static.
"Paris, two years ago. Chase took out a rival by targeting the man's daughter at her wedding," Mara explains with a detached tone, recounting the professional brutality she's witnessed. "Not the rival, that would have been business. The daughter, surrounded by three hundred innocent guests who saw what happens when you cross a Callahan."
The meaning hangs heavy in the air. This isn't a chance attack, but calculated psychological warfare meant to crush opponents by hitting them where it hurts emotionally, not physically.
"He calls it 'intimate warfare,'" Mara continues, her voice firming as she recalls tactical details. "You target what they love most, in public. Create trauma that goes beyond business, make it personal. Show them that opposing him puts everyone they care about in danger."
My hands clench into tight fists, the knuckles cracking in the heavy silence, echoing off the flimsy walls.
