Page 457 of Rosetti Family New York
My carefully built world cracks, but I'm still smiling because that's what I do—I smile when things fall apart. It's wildly inappropriate and probably concerning, but there it is.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I whisper, but my voice shakes and we both know I've already lost.
He smiles then, slow and knowing. "Sure you don't, sweetheart. Sure you don't."
After he leaves—without buying anything, naturally—I throw myself into work with desperate enthusiasm. If I stay busy enough, maybe I can forget those eyes and the way they stripped away every carefully constructed lie. Maybe I can forget how my pulse raced, which I'm attributing entirely to fear and not at all to the way his voice made my stomach flutter.
"You're humming," Emma observes, looking up from inventory sheets. "Must have been some customer."
I am humming. Some cheerful tune that bubbles up despite the anxiety churning in my stomach. "Just happy to be here," I say, arranging a display with renewed focus.
This is my life. This ordinary, wonderful life where I'm Lara the gallery assistant. Not Carmela Rosetti with all that comes with that name.
The afternoon passes in a blur of actual customers—a couple arguing over a sculpture, a young woman crying over a painting of dancers, an older man asking intelligent questions about brushwork. Normal people doing normal things.
This is what I chose. This is what freedom looks like.
The parking garage echoes with my heels on concrete, each step bouncing off oil-stained walls. I'm mentally cataloging the day's sales, humming that same cheerful tune, when shadows separate from behind the pillars.
Four men, moving in coordination that makes my blood freeze. At their center stands a younger man with dark hair and cruel eyes.
"Carmela Rosetti," he says, and my name in his mouth sounds like a threat. "I'm Vinny Torrino. We need to talk."
Torrino. I've heard that name whispered in my father's study. Ancient enemies. Blood feuds.
The soldiers spread out, cutting off exits with practiced efficiency. Professional. Methodical.
My escape, my freedom, my new life—gone in an instant. Was it always an illusion?
"I think you have me confused with someone else," I try, keeping my voice bright even as my heart hammers.
"Cut the shit. You think daddy's little girl can just disappear into Chicago without consequences?" Vinny's smile is all teeth. "The Torrino family has plans for you."
Terror rises, but something else rises with it—a core of steel I didn't know existed. "My family will—"
"They have no idea where you really are, do they? Poor little Carmela, all alone."
The concrete walls feel like they're closing in. Every shadow could hide another threat. This is what the real world looks like—not gallery openings but concrete and fear and men who see me as leverage.
The first soldier drops without a sound, crumpling like his strings were cut. Before I can process what happened, a shadow moves and the second man follows.
The man from the gallery emerges from behind a pillar, and my body's response is immediate and confusing. This isn't the careful observer from earlier—this is something else entirely. He moves like the Bernini sculptures I studied, all controlled power and terrible beauty.
My pulse races—from fear, obviously. It has nothing to do with the absolute authority in his movements.
"Get behind the car," he orders, not even looking at me. "Keep your head down. This is going to get messy."
I scramble toward the nearest vehicle, my heels slipping as chaos erupts. He doesn't fight like in movies—no wasted motion, no dramatic poses. Just brutal efficiency that reminds me of a dance, if dances involved breaking bones.
This is absolutely not the time to notice how his jacket stretches across his shoulders when he moves like that. Hi, yes, I'm being kidnapped and I'm critiquing outfit choices. Very normal. Very stable.
A strike to the throat cuts off a scream. A blow to the temple sends a man into concrete. Movements too quick to follow, like watching a master artist work—every gesture purposeful, nothing wasted.
I press against the car, hands shaking as I watch. This is what real power looks like—not wealth or influence, but devastating competence. The way he flows through violence awakens something unexpected in me. Something that feels suspiciously like the Rosetti blood I've been running from.
I should be horrified. The Carmela who got excited about marshmallow cereal should be screaming. Instead, I'm mesmerized, and that realization is almost as frightening as the violence itself.
Vinny tries to circle around, pulling a gun, but Van moves like he anticipated it. Disarm, strike, and Vinny's on his knees gasping while Van calmly checks him for weapons.
